Oh, dear Lord, help me cope.

If you wish, press play for this post. I happen to think the song fits well here.

I love my job as a deejay at a strip club. I also love the opportunity of finding great material to write about. I shit you not, two weeks will often go by and I'll think to myself, 'Ya know, I should really write a post, but nothing new has happened or someone hasn't fucked-up enough to warrant me putting one together.'

Then I'll start thinking, 'Shit. Maybe I've said everything I could possibly say and the site will be a short-lived joy, much like the load I shot last night.' But then someone usually says something arcane or I'll hear about something aggravating and a fresh post is conceived in my head.

Well, couple nights ago this demimonde started at one of the clubs I work at, and this broad is so fucking stupid I couldn't wait to get home and put all this down. In fact, if I didn't already know it would be a painful study, I would flirt with the idea of suggesting to her that she and I spend some qt (quality time) outside of the club if for nothing more than some unbelievably retarded utterances and actions for me to make fun of at a later date.

Momentarily digressing, I'd like to apologize right from the get-go here to any stripper I might have offended simply by generalizing all of you simply because of what you do every 3 minutes during operation hours. Well, on second thought, I'd rather apologize for likely stating more than 50 times just on my website alone that you're all stupid, dumb, dodo birds because after what I've experienced the past two days, most of you gamines are doing okay because your stage name isn't Stevie.

I mean, it takes a stripper of monumental ignorance to shock me these days, but every once in a while a chick will audition then I'll start working with her for the first time and already know there's no future between us because she's that fucking dumb. The bitch could be a perfect 10 preferring anal then implore I piss in her ass nightly, but if I start suspecting the only way she's going to get any smarter is if she dies and comes back as a turnip, it's best not to risk the impregnation of one such dolt and save the years of agonizing torment that is a child coupled with an adult who shares identical intellect.

Well just after roughly 13 minutes of collective blarney throughout her first two shifts, I could already detect Stevie should have been aborted, swallowed, or at the bare minimum a hand-job in some dark alley in the exchange for weaker drugs. Since none of that happened and her mother did, in fact, give birth and dare I say, raise this female into the adult she is today, I imagine there are many people out there who have crossed paths with Stevie and have since walked away with sour aftertastes, migraines or quite possibly a slight stutter.

Well she fucked up by speaking with me. The only shame is I know she's far too dense to operate a computer so she'll never see this, which pains me because I'm confident she would cry after this, and I'm all about results.

Meet Stevie. This is about as accurate as I could get the chick. For real.

DAY 1

I'd seen this chick while standing inside the deejay booth. She was seated at a table all alone and seemed nervous and scared---naturally since this was her first shift and hadn't known anyone. So being the amicable homosapian I am, I'd walked over to the table, bent down and said,

"You look like a rock chick. Please say it's so."

Stevie looked up at me, smiled, "I love rock. Uhh . . . Three Days Grace, Puddle of Mudd, ya know, anything popular on the radio. Even Tool and Korn. And if you want, I'll dance to---"

Because she was already talking too much, I'd inserted, "Hey, I get it. That's why I get paid the big bucks, baby. You want to hear anything specific, don't hesitate to come up to the booth and request, just so you know how to tip your deejay at the end of the night."

Stevie nodded and spit something up like, "I'll take care of you if you take care of me."

I'd stood up and started walking towards the booth thinking to myself, 'That chick is fine. I bet her hymen broke in the backseat of a Chevy while Poison was on the radio. She looks like a total cock-rock groupie, which is great because that means she doesn't suck Black pipe.'

Wasn't long after her first set Stevie walked up to the deejay booth and started the deterioration of my idea of her simply by opening her cock-sucker. She'd said something like,

"Not a lot of business here tonight. Is this normal?"

"I suppose for this time of the evening I would consider this the norm. Don't worry, you're fine. How long you been dancing?"

"This is my first time. Did I look good on stage?"

Now, I don't recall even looking at her once on stage. Soon as I see a body walking up the steps to the stage after I announce some bitch's name, traditionally I focus upon other shit like my cell phone, cigs and the faint voice in my head that prohibits me from becoming a serial killer: my conscience. So, I lied, "Hell yea. You looked fine as hell. I can't believe this is your first time. What made you start dancing? You can't be more than twenty-five."

And here it came: the fucking bomb.

"Twenty-three. I need money. I'm living with my mother and step-dad and I need to get out of there. I'm sick of the way he treats her. He even hits me and I just can't take it anymore. Few nights ago he slapped me and I left and didn't have anywhere to go."

Needless to say at this point I'm wondering why a perfect stranger admits this type of shit onto another---Also at this point any strip-club veteran suspects good ol' step-daddy is stuffing Stevie with some rented, fatherly love in shaft form. "That sounds pretty rough. So you uhh . . . thought dancing was going to be the golden ticket or something?"

"I just have to get outta there. I can't keep my kids around that anymore."

"Kids? Did you just pluralize that?" I'd asked.

"Yea, I have two kids."

Naturally I'd cocked my head then took my headphones completely off because that deserved some serious attention. "You have two kids, live with your mother and step-dad who beats her and yourself, so now you started stripping so you can acquire funds to get out on your own?"

"Well, I'm trying to save up so I can take my mom outta his house. We need to get away from him bad. It's fucked up, man."

Now, I don't really remember what happened after that. After I'd heard 'two kids and still living with mommy who married an abusing father figure,' I kinda wanted to stop talking to the broad. If I know myself, I probably pretended like I had to get back to deejaying just so I wouldn't have to hear anymore of her clichéd bullshit.

So it's about midnight and every security/bartender has had their sample of her bullshit thus far, so it's widely known within the club that she's a fucking moron. Since it's slow, I'm seated at a table having a beer with the owner and an off-duty bartender and this broad walks up to me and requests a song for her next set. One of the security guys apparently feels like fucking with her and says,

"You can't request songs from the deejay. You need to write it down and put in the box." The security guy proceeds to go into the lobby and grab a box we have for customers to drop their business cards into and bring it back to the table and tell her yet again. "Write your request down and put it in the suggestion box."

We all try to hide our laugh because strippers should know better than to approach a table of men and start talking about some silly bitch shit, but not Stevie. She actually nods and accedes while I try to cover up my face because I still wanna get tipped at the end of the night.

Here's the kicker.

This particular club has what's called 'grand finále.' All it really entails is two songs at the end of the night where all the strippers get on stage and it's basically the last chance for customers to throw money away to a bitch who doesn't give a fuck about them. Well on this particular evening, I'd played Ludacris' "You's A Ho" for the first song.

I didn't find this out until after the lights had come on, but rather than get on stage for the first song of grand finále, Stevie had proceeded to whip out a cocktail napkin and write down what she'd thought of the song, THEN DROP IT IN THE 'SUGGESTION BOX.' Yes, my dear friends, she thought the box was real.

I wish I'd have kept the note to show everyone, but it said something like, "This yous a ho song is degrading to us dancers. We're performers and it pains me to hear such vile words. Just thought you should know."

To fully understand Stevie's mindset, I set off into the wilderness to speak with someone who shares this woman's mental capacity. I found myself drawn to the local petting zoo and explained Stevie's inane behavior to the first creature I felt could identify with her.

I'd explained everything. Afterwards I'd finally said, "Please share with me because I like to understand people and their actions. Tell me, do you think Stevie could really be that fucking stupid?"

Unless one lives in Alabama or Louisiana, "Baaaah," means "yes" (for those not indigenous to the south and the habitant's sexual preferences.)

So then I came home and wanted to get into Stevie's mind even further. I then proceeded to hop on my computer and take an online IQ test, only not throwing my answers out into the open, rather answer the questions as if I were this woman in mortal form. The evidence is clear:

Other dancers were telling me how she was up in the dressing room, admitting how her step-dad beats her. This chick came up to me and told me she liked Pantera, but after I'd played it for her, she'd claimed she just couldn't dance to it. Every time I'd announce her name whether it was "two-songs away" or "come see me in the deejay booth," the bitch would practically sprint for the stage simply because her name was announced. She even had the 'sweats' her second shift, then came in the day after and said she'd taken her heart medication at the proper dosage, so then she was fine to work.

I don't feel like writing out scenes anymore, but the bitch asked to use my cell phone and asked if she should dial 9 first. She'd asked me to play Mindless Self Indulgence's "Never Wanted To Dance" and I'd played her the remix you should be listening to right now, then she came up after her set and told me she'd NEVER heard that song before!

The bitch came up to the booth with fishnet stockings on and asked me if she looked hot. I mean, get fucking real. Holy Mary Mother And Jesus on the cross, the woman ordered a bottled beer, poured it into a glass then ashed her cigarette into it by accident all within 12 seconds. Seemingly she couldn't differentiate an ashtray from a glass of beer!

Holy fuck! Is anyone else wondering what I am?

HOW THE FUCK ARE HER TWO KIDS STILL BREATHING???

This bitch is so stupid a Coke bottle could drop from the sky and she obviously wouldn't start beating other stupid people in her mom's hut, so if that holds true, how the fuck haven't her kids---at the very least---choked on a Lego or something by now when I know damn-well the broad is still ingurgitating Flintstone chewables herself?

Z . . . I hope her kids chew on the grill of a semi going 65 mph. It's really in their best interest. And yours.

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