Melons, Holly & the Infinite Sadness: Making It Drizzle 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.

Most people will tell you to stay far away from the stage at all costs, since that is where you’ll lose the most money.

I would disagree.

Sometimes, the most entertaining place in the entire club, is right at the front of the pole, where the rest of the degenerates sit. After all, anyone with any kind of money is at a table, anyone with any kind of sense is at the bar, and anyone with any kind of dignity is at home watching How I Met Your Mother. But, if you want to be truly entertained, you’ll grab a beer, plop down at the stage and risk the impending hepatitis. Trust me, it’s worth it.

On this night, I was sitting front and center, watching one of the TVs located in the back of the bar, while two girls danced in front of me. (I can’t think of a more depressing realization for a stripper than to learn that highlights from the baseball game earlier that afternoon require more attention than your oiled up, naked body. Oh well. Next time, get a job with the Marlins and I’ll give you a closer look.) Eventually, they realized their gyrations were lost on me and moved on to more profitable patrons.

One such fellow was a white kid who looked about 19 years old. His hat was crooked, his chain was gaudy and he was as unintentionally funny as a thugged-out white boy could possibly be. I didn’t realize it could actually get better.

He limps over to the stage and proceeds to rap to the girl taking her clothes off. Not his own, cleverly contrived rap song–I would’ve been infinitely more impressed with that display–but the actual song that she was stripping to. Upon closer inspection, I noticed he wasn’t even saying anything; he was simply mouthing the words. Fucking Milli Vanilli thought this was going to get the girl’s panties wet.

At this point, I’m laughing hysterically and can’t possibly fathom how the stripper in front of him is holding in her own urge to cackle in his face. But she’s doing a pretty good job of hiding it, even though you can tell that, if he continues for another 20 seconds, she’ll crack.

Not a minute later, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a stack of bills, wrapped in a large yellow rubber band. Clearly, this dude means business.

He slowly pulls the rubber band off and fans the money out for the girl to see. Her eyes grow wide and she begins to move towards the edge of the stage, closer to Daddy Fat Stacks and his one-way ticket to heroine heaven. And that’s when he does it…

With a swift, upward motion, Joe Cracker launches his fistful of money into the air, making it rain.

Big pimpin’, baby.

And then, almost instantaneously, the stripper and I both notice the exact same thing: George Washington. About nineteen of  him, to be exact.

Our aspiring Eminem apparently came to the club that night fully prepared ball. But by the end of the night, all he managed to do was take his lunch money and make it drizzle. I hope he, at least, saved some of those singles for the bus ride home.

Me? I’m just gonna sit at the stage a little while longer and catch up on SportsCenter.


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