Monday, August 10, 2009

Crazy Stripper Story 8/09

No funny title, no social commentary. Just some good old fashioned debauchery on a mundane Monday...

Sometimes I wonder, "can I ever just have a normal fu**kin weekend?" Yea right. If my weekends were normal no one would read this blog, and all you finicky motherfu*kas would denounce me just as quick as Tiger tried to do his black heritage. Cablanasaisn coon. LOL.

At the risk of sounding like a complete degenerate, and having you all think all I do is frequent strip clubs, I am about to bless you (no homo) with another stripper story. Luckily for me, my Boys and I had a sober, designated driver for our drunken revelry and hence were able to verify the nights details, which were about as hazy as this picture taken at the beginning of the night.

Yes my coons, I am wearing an I love showrocka hoody. So what? Ok... Maybe i'm a Little vain. Unlike some of my friends, however, who only think this blog is funny when it involves stories about them, I can admit to there being a lot of ego involved in the businesses of sexual storytelling. Luckily for my friends, and you all in the blogsphere, this story does just enough ego padding, detail evading and debaucherous chronicling of hogwash tomfoolery to keep my boys, their girlfriends and casual readers all happy. If a bag of day old d**ks covered in a creme bluet of semen sufflet. LOL.

Showrocka presents: "Crazy Stripper Story 8/09"

Now I'll be the first to admit that I would much rather live my crazy life in secrecy and blog about my crazy misogynistic conspiracy theories. Unfortunately, you all seem to like living vicariously through me, and hence, I gotta give my coons what they want! (ok c4, this just isn't working! I'm going back to using the N-word). Neeeyyyuukkka!! Ok... Now I feel better. Back to the story hoes...

Me and my fellow faceguy K-man pride ourselves in our ability to be both monsters and whisperers. What this means, in regular nigga terms, is that sometimes you have speak softly and sweet talk hoes, while other times you have to chris brown the pu**y and man handle these chickenheads ( not like Kobe though...nobody wants to catch a case.) Needless to say, Saturday started like any other whispering night at our favorite, twat smelling hangout affectionately known as "the Dusty."

Upon walking past a heavyset man who looked like a complete jackass in a fatigued overall fishing suit, we paid our cover and got ready for a night of massive erections. LOL. Most mf'ers have 'Work Wives' and associates, we have 'stripper girlfriends' complete with funny names. Queen bee, dances with pole, anorexia, etc. Don't judge me. LOL.

Once inside, carrying around 40 beers for 3 people, we began chatting it up with our favorite hotties. You know how hard it is to have a serious convo with someone who's pheromones are oozing from her naked body? Not hard at all when you know you could theoretically rent the bottom half of her body for less than the price of a full tank of gas. I know it sounds f**ked up, but ummmmm... I'll take 40 on pump # brunette. LOL. I'm just kidding, I actually almost left the house of a million STDs early upon seeing the fat heiffer who gave me mental Chlamydia. K-man, on the other hand thought it was a better idea to sit and smoke a viginia super slim cigarette he bummed off one of the strippers.

Gayest shit ever. No homo.

Knowing that we had arrived at the club with four people, and were down to about 3, we assumed that a friend who shall not be named was off getting some groupie love. We were correct.

About 15 minutes later we see our friend slide out of the back room with the look of a man who just paid for blue balls. Don't worry, what happened next was well worth the price of not leaving with your co*k stuck to your leg with semen and stripper slob.

Friend: "you won't believe what happened?!!"

Apparently during a routine lap dance, said stripper ( aka "I have herpes outbreak bumps on my face and give guys mental Lyme Disease) whipped out my boy's bird ( fratboy slang for di*k) and started strokin like Clerence Carter (or Michael Phelps), no homo. Next thing you know, her boyfriend, the meathead , tattooed faced bouncer, is shining a mag-light in his face screaming "put it away"! LMAO.

How can you date a stripper and then have the nerve to stop her from getting money! Haha . He walked in on his girl on her knees, pumpin my boys co*k like the top of a keg! Watch out for the foam! LOL. I think he shoulda just squirted all his love potion in the dude's face for trying to be a strip club Nazi, and head of the pop off police. No homo.

Had this been the extent of the story it would've been funny. What happened next, however, is what made it hilarious. After leaving the strip club we hit a local Wawa about 15-20 minutes away to grab some latenight grub. Aside from being stone drunk and watching my boy try to order 46 dollars worth of Wawa Macaroni & cheese, I am the first to notice a familiar face at the cash register. Who did I see, might you ask? guessed it. Meat head bouncer man!
After a few awkward side glances, I put down the Barbecue Rib Potato chips and snapped this candid pic of the wanna be Iron sheik, UFC reject Mr. Clean. (See the him in the backround?) Exit stage left.

Skeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrt. Enter bouncer burning rubber in minvan with pigfaced, herpes bump girlfriend passed out, riding shotgun. As the breaks slam and window rolls down I'm expecting to hear a "never come into my club again" but the terrorist threat that followed was much better scripted.

Meat Head: "Take a picture of my licence plate..go ahead...I'll Shoot you in the fucking head."

Needless to say we were stunned as we all stood open jawed (no homo), amidst the smell of burnt tires and break dust. We have received out first legitimate death threat as a result of our drunken revelry. We have reached a celebratory debauchery was to follow , however, as we legitimately feared for our lives. Why, might you ask? Well you see my friends, we ended up on the highway DIRECTLY BEHIND Crystal Ball Head's & the Notorious Ms. P.I.G's van. No we weren't following them, but I'm sure they thought we were....

They began to slow down, but us, being the street savvy Ivy leaguers we are, refused to pass them and or make any sudden moves. Yea we migh've went out like some punk bi*ches, but can't shoot us if we're behind you. This being said, we escaped unscathed and lived to tell the tale to our stripper friends who responded with the following montage:

Yea I hate that guy, fu*k him. He is always hating on the girls, breaking up everyones lapdances except his girlfriend's so she can get more money. He used to be like a regular customer before he started working here. He also has a bad knee, so all you have to do is crack him in the left knee and he'll go down like a baby. I told him I'd do it next time he fu*ks with me. Then when his stripper girlfriend comes running over, I'll slit her fu*king throat!! I've already talked to my lawyer and have my temporary insanity defense planned.

LMAO. I love my Life.

Live, Love, Lavacious Lounges

-- Post From My iPhone (You should get one you cheap bastard.)


Carl said...

Can I just say that I never meant for us to start casually saying "my coon" instead of "my nigga." coon is there so that we can save nigga by only using it positively, and coon is for when we mean I'll towards another, because they deserve it.

And that bouncer is a loser of epic proportions.

Anonymous said...

"Story is right...but i feel u need to put that place into context. It is not a normal strip club. It is like a brothel / about to go bankrupt dive bar that should still be stuck in a western ghost town where they used to hunt for gold." S.Jones via G-Chat

Anonymous said...

Funniest thing about today's Blog: the not so subliminal yet quickly passed over reference to BBQ Rib flavored chips. Elegant yet Coonish. LMAO. --S.M. Lefleur via Text