Melons, Holly & the Infinite Sadness: Pigtails Edition


For some reason, I’ve never been a fan of strip clubs. Sure, it’s the one place you can drunkenly grope a stranger and not wind up with a busted nose, but in general, they seem to reek of depression and despair. And that’s just the impression I get from the clientele. Melons, Holly & the Infinite Sadness will be a running feature where I attempt to adequately explain my disdain for the “gentlemen’s club,” by regaling you with horrifying tales and personal anecdotes from my single days. Feel free to send your stories along, as well. One can never read enough stupid stripper stories. Hope you enjoy.

I was standing by the bar with a friend, admiring the pigtails of a girl hanging upside down from the pole on stage. She wasn’t terribly attractive but she wasn’t hideously grotesque, either. There’s just something about pigtails on a woman that makes you subconsciously forget that she’s really only a 5 on a 1-10 scale.

(Smoot’s Advice to Ugly Ladies #457: If you’re not a particularly attractive woman, put your hair up in pigtails before you go out to the bar. That one is good for two to three guaranteed phone numbers.)

A few minutes later, after I had stopped paying attention to the stage, I looked back and she was gone. Probably for the better, since I now had no reason to stand by the bar and continue ordering drinks.

Just as we’re planning our exit, though, Mrs. Pigtails herself walks behind us, casually slides her head between ours and seductively whispers, into our ears, the words that will forever be etched into the depths of my soul:

“My poosey ees ass beeg ass yaw eeear.”

I fucking hate pigtails.


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