Gay Joe: www.trueacceptance.com.
Me: I am sure some ex-girlfriends of mine use that service.
Gay Joe: I am going to make a profile: "Tranny suffering from post-coital Pseudobulbar palsy with anger management issues seeking same in Denver."
Me: Wow. That would be awesome if you found someone.
Gay Joe: Ha! "You have 228 new messages."
Me: That site would have been a dream come true for me in college since I tended to veer towards messed up chicks back then. They had daddy issues; either he touched them too much or did not touch them enough. I essentially dated strippers before they hit the pole, Joey. Before they completely died on the inside.
Gay Joe: It is a good idea to date them before said inner-death; it is something I like to call "pre-hookering." In my tribe, that is pretty much everyone by age 18, so I had it easy.
Me: Pun intended.
Gay Joe: Exactly.

Labels: gay joe, im convos, strippers, whores

Before my wife, the only time I lit candles was when I was sitting closest to the cake at a birthday party. She exposed me to a world of scented lotions, methods for doing laundry that did not include sorting clothing into two piles; "whites" and "everything else" and of course, candles. Now I have candles everywhere. I never knew one needed scented candles for bathrooms, offices, living rooms, family rooms, spare bedrooms and laundry rooms. Every odor issue in our house is solved by lighting a candle. "God you stink, Matty. We should light a candle!" Maybe I could take a shower? My wife has corrupted me. I now find myself debating the aromatic pleasures in the Yankee Candle area at Bed, Bath & Beyond. Do I want Pumpkin Pie or Clean Cotton? Cucumber Melon or Beach Walk? Finally, there is a candle company that appeals to my male sensibilities; Hot Wicks. They carry scents that smell of urinal cakes, campfires and strippers. Hot Wicks describes the stripper scent as, "the perfume counter at your local department store times a thousand ... then add some glitter." I think a more accurate description is "bitter desperation mixed with the hint of ass sweat, stale bourbon and broken dreams."

Labels: l-i-v-i-n, pop culture, strippers, the greens, wife

There are degrees of physical attractiveness in this world. While Jessica Biel is "Girl Next Door" hot and Diane Lane is "Cougar" hot, this specimen is the classic example of "Fucked Up" hot. Cute yet embattled face, rock hard abs, horrible tattoos and a penchant for living on the wrong side of the law. Did daddy not hug you enough, fucked-up hot girl? Or did he hug you too much? Does the weed and the booze numb you enough to emotionally handle collecting all the dollar bills from the stage at the end of your dance? Do your three illegitimate children live with your mom or are they being raised by television in a trailer park somewhere? The world may never know what drives you, fucked-up hot girl, but we will keep trying to learn through future arrests and tribal yin-yang tattoos.

Labels: chicks, pop culture, strippers, whores

A stripper's secret for success is dropping eggs. I know it turns me on when a single mother with no other skills other than her amazing rack is supporting herself and children is ovulating. I can totally sense it, too. When Destiny is most fertile I am prepared to rip off additional ones from my wad of twenty to illustrate this point. On the flip side, a stripper who is menstruating makes an average of $40 less per night. I can sense that in a dancing lady, as well. My powers of scent are that honed. I can pick up a stripper's crotch musk while she is riding the crimson wave in a room full of cigarette and cigar smoke, bourbon and Drakkar Noir. Or maybe I just caught the string of an errant feminine product hanging out the side of her panties.

Labels: sex, strippers

Twenty-five strippers and their respective mug shots. These dancing ladies of the evening were busted for all manner of illegal activities including cocaine peddling, prostitution, lewdness, exposure of sexual organs and the improper solicitation of alcohol sales. I respect the attitude of dancer number three, I appreciate the lifeless cocaine-addled eyes on dancers number six and fifteen and I am certain dancer number twenty one is smuggling plums. After browsing through this gallery, I think I would pay most of these women to keep their clothes on rather than take them off.

Labels: crime, drugs, liquor, sex, strippers

Today marks the third decade that I have been alive. If you forgot to get me something please refer to my Amazon Wish List or throw me a dollar bill as if I were a skank stripper named Midnight working the day shift at a seedy club in North Denver who is two months pregnant and has three sex partners tattooed on her arm. People of note who share my birthday:

• Victoria Silvstedt (Playboy playmate)
  
• Debbye Turner (Miss America 1990)
  
• Trisha Yearwood (Country Singer)
  
• Joan Lunden (Cohost, Good Morning America 1980-1997)
  
• Jeremy Irons (Actor)
  
• A tattooed, red-headed ordained minister that resides in Los Angeles.

People of unworthy of sharing my birthday:

• Jimmy Fallon (Alleged Comedian)
  
• Matthew Perry(Alleged Actor)

Labels: birthday, music, pop culture, strippers

As my Dad used say when I over celebrated any minor sporting success, "Act like you have been there before." I think these words of wisdom definitely apply to this situation. A good rule of thumb at a strip club:

Strip clubs have two rules. Do not touch the dancers, and when "Cherry Pie" fades out and "Pour Some Sugar On Me" starts up, your lap dance is over.

Labels: dad, strippers, tomfoolery

• Nothing good comes from patronizing a strip club in the middle of the day (except maybe $60 dollar hand release from a broke single mom who sees your cock as a means to an end). If you do not believe me in this matter click here.
• This is why I taught my sisters how to spit out the window of a moving car.
• I get crazy competitive on the putt-putt course. I will talk tremendous amounts of smack, gloat over good shots and try to humiliate my opponent with superior putting. Thankfully, I draw the line at body-slamming children.

Labels: link goodness, sports, strippers

Me: I am going to post this.
Monica: Yikes. Anna Nicole is a train wreck. That is almost too bad to post. The Joe Namath fall from grace, now that was funny. Posting this would be like kicking a three-legged dog or getting footage of Courtney Love stoned and flashing her junk. Been there, done that.
Me: Good point. But the posting well is dry. I would apply this same logic if I ever needed a slump buster and was forced to pick up trash like her at a strip club. Inner monologue would go something like this: "Sure, she is a disaster. I mean she works at a strip club, a place where drug addicts, perverts and sex abuse victims work and hang out. But damn, I am in a serious dry spell here. I will just give her a handful of painkillers. Maybe then she will not cry after sex. Much."
Monica: Fair enough. I just do not understand the allure is all. Of course, I do not have a penis either.
Me: Sometimes it is just as simple as "Hey, look at those fun bags!"

Labels: drugs, im convos, mons, pop culture, strippers

Me: I was at Cheerleaders one night and a stripper was doing her routine in some little panties, twirling around the pole and shit, then she stopped, looked at me and screamed "Matty!" It was a girl I went to high school with. I was so drunk I did not even recognize her. I think her stage name was Glass Tyger or something. Not Tiger with an "I" but Tiger with a "Y."
Kaye: Fucking strippers. I hate all of their stage names. Glass Tyger. What a dumb ass name.
Me: I love stripper stage names. They make me happy. I asked her why she did not go for something like Sindy and spelling it with an "S" because you can take out the "DY" and then its just "SIN." Plus that goes with the Motley Crue song "Same Ol' Situation." Then again, I was always partial to the stage name Erotica.
Kaye: How about Electric?
Me: That is good. There is always an animal in there, too. And a spice.
Kaye: Yeah. Like Cinnamon or Cheetah or something.
Me: If I were stripping I would call myself the Bald Eagle and come out in a bird head-dress, squawk all obnoxious and flap my arms up and down like a dickhead.
Kaye: Ha!
Me: Your stripper stage name could be Raven. That would be a good.
Kaye: Because I am dark haired. Like a raven.
Me: Then have a bunch of babies out of wedlock and squirt breast milk out of your nipples at customers when you are lactating.
Kaye: Okay, that is enough.

Labels: im convos, kaye, strippers

Friday. I work until three in the afternoon until I notice that myself, Neal and Brandon seem to be the only people left in the office. I give myself the rest of the day off. At home, I order Chinese food, drain four Newcastles and paint the fucking walls. My sort of lady calls me on her way home from the final Bronco Pre-Season game. Talk gets serious.* We hang out anyway, agreeing to avoid relationship conversation for the evening.

Saturday. My sort of lady wakes up early because she has stuff to do. I leave her house and walk home and we agree to meet up later as I need her to help me purchase new bedding and towels. She is the shopping queen and I hate shopping (read: I am willing to pay $80 for a set of sheets at one store as opposed to shopping at many stores and finding the same sheets for $40.) I paint the fucking walls. In between painting the fucking walls, my sort of lady takes me to numerous linens and bedding stores. I purchase new linens and bedding. My sort of lady and I head downtown to meet friends for birthday drinks. We consume numerous whiskeys, vodka tonics and eat $9 steaks. The birthday girl informs us she wants to go to the Diamond Cabaret. We comply with her request where my sort of lady and I consume many beers and I smoke a $10 cigar that tastes like filthy assholes. We stuff dollar bills into stripper's panties.

Sunday. My sort of lady wakes up early again. After she leaves and I spend twenty minutes staring out my bedroom window at the rain as I told the boys I play hockey with that I would meet them for practice at an outdoor rink at nine o'clock. I roll over and go back to bed. My brother-in-law picks me up and we proceed to our fantasy football draft. I have been competing in the same fantasy football league for ten years. Every year, we sit in the same basement, tell the same jokes, drink assorted Coors products and draft fourth string NFL players thinking we got a "sleeper." I get home and paint the fucking walls half drunk.

Monday. I sleep in. I work out. I buy groceries. I eat a pork chop for dinner. My sort of lady and I rent a movie. Talk gets serious* again. We laugh at ourselves and go to bed.

* My sort of lady and I are currently "hanging out." The relationship dynamic has progressed into something neither one of us expected. I like my sort of lady. My sort of lady likes me. I am interested in pursuing things further. Taking risks, especially when it comes to matters of the heart, is something I am willing to do. I figure it is best to try it and realize it does not work, then not try it at all. Relationship situations are like combat; you either get out of your foxhole alive and return home the conquering hero grateful for every day thereafter or you wind up getting shredded by machine gun bullets, laying on a field of battle with your intestines in your hands being comforted by a fat soldier named Murph telling him things like "I am so cold" and "I wanna go home now" before you die. Thankfully, my sort of lady does not use war analogies like me to describe her feelings.

Labels: bro-in-law, denver, drinking, feelings, hockey, l-i-v-i-n, sg crew, sports, strippers, weekend that was, wife

I have bore witness to some wicked drunks on the Jagermeister and I, too, have succumbed to the unadulterated madness that dwells within the green bottle. One hazy night long ago my brother-in-law bought me seven Jager Bombs while we hung out at the worst strip club in Denver. The night concluded when a patron actually took a swing at one of the strippers. While she was still dancing. Behold the rage that is a seventeen year-old girl after succumbing to the Hunt-Master. When I was seventeen, most girls got their buzz on with wine coolers or some other fruity ghetto swill. The times they are a' changin'.

Labels: bro-in-law, denver, drinking, glory days, rage, strippers

Friday was the Colorado Rockies home opener, and attendance is an annual tradition amongst my circle of degenerates, er, friends. Once a year, we brave the concrete jungles of lower downtown Denver and binge drink like it was a Kennedy mixer. In the fuzzy haze that was Colorado Rockies Opening Day 2003, here is a list of events that may or may not have occurred:

• I consumed six beers and a hamburger before the game began. During the game I consumed three beers, one foot long hot dog, a bag of peanuts and a tub of nachos.
• At one point in the game, the intoxicated gentleman sitting in front of me (who was rocking a rat tail) got up and hollered, "Fuck you Walker! You fucking suck!" to right fielder Larry Walker. Larry Walker has a career .316 batting average and has won seven Gold Gloves.
• It was discovered by Nels and I during Colorado Rockies Opening Day 2002 that Hooters does not serve hard liquor. That fact, however, did not stop us from attempting to order a Jack and Coke at Hooters this year.
• I can throw a baseball 60 miles per hour while heavily intoxicated.
• Magnetic schedules make excellent missiles to hurl at the opposing team's outfielders.
• An ex-stripper showed half of the bar her breast implants during post Colorado Rockies Opening Day 2003 revelries at Swankys. We happened to be sitting next to her at the bar when this occurred. One member of our party claims to have been instrumental in talking her into the flash.
• Within our immediate group two fights almost broke out. Reason for fight number one: One party comments on how amazing it was to supposedly talk an ex-stripper out of her shirt. Another party (me) comments on how easy it is to talk any ex-stripper out of her shirt. Reason for fight number two: One party comments half-jokingly that Nebraska would lose to Colorado State in football if they played this year, thus desecrating Nebraska football and its entire history and tradition. Another party, who happens to be a Nebraska fan, was heard yelling, "Don't judge Big Red, motherfucker." Unfortunately, one party of our group was involved in both potential skirmishes.

Labels: bro-in-law, colorado, denver, drinking, gluttony, nels, opening day, sports, strippers

On Sunday, I am off to Las Vegas with She Who Will Not Be Named and I will not return until September 18. I will not be posting until that day. I will be drinking heavily, shooting craps, stuffing money into strippers panties and eating fish at the Rio's all you can eat buffet while you will be slaving away in some godforsaken hellhole carving out a meager wage to support your smack habit. I shall return from my vacation like the Prodigal Son, more raw, sharp and refreshed than ever before.

Labels: drinking, she who, strippers, travels, vegas