If your shoes aren’t made of Lucite, stay the fuck out of my strip clubs.
All strip clubs are my strip clubs. I’m like that drunk guy in Braveheart.
It’s my island.
There should be a sign in front of every strip club that reads, â€śYour shoes must be this tall to ride this pole.â€?
A disturbing trend caught on a few years ago with women who were especially desperate for attention. It went something like this.
Guys like it when girls go to strip clubs.
I suppose it was started by the same people who started, â€śbitchy equals feistyâ€?, â€śopinionated equals strong-willedâ€?, and, â€śmen like women who constantly call them on shit that doesn’t matter or even exist.â€?
We don’t. Shut the fuck up.
Women in strip clubs remind me of another trend that sickens me to my man ass: women using the men’s room because the line for the women’s shit-shack is too long.
We know the lines are too fucking long. You don’t need to squeal and squawk about it every time a guy walks up and looks disgusted by the line full of ladies loitering outside the men’s room. We already know that’s why you’re there. The disgust remains.
Men built the fucking restrooms in the first place. If we didn’t want the ladies’ line to be so long, we would have slapped like a hundred toilets in that motherfucker. They would be stacked on top of each other. Problem solved. But without a line for the ladies’ room, bar floosies would be free to guzzle as much booze as they wanted without a care in the world.
Women not drinking while they’re waiting in line to go to the bathroom makes the world a classier place.
Women ruin strip clubs like your dad ruins your 7th grade poker night. All of a sudden, the blue chips that were worth ten cents aren’t worth dick and the person at the table who gives the least amount of a fuck is the one getting the best hands.
The second a stripper sees another woman, she instantly forgets why she got into stripping. She forgets about the Benjamin’s — or the Washington’s, I should say.
There is nothing more important to a woman than attention. This is especially true for strippers. Strippers love attention so much, they would choose it over the imaginary, non-abusive childhood they wish they had. Strippers flock to women in strip clubs like moths to a burning wallet, but make no mistake, that good time you’re not having because of it is being shared by all. The guy who brought the poseur is nothing but embarrassed by her sudden attack of chronic and stoner-like giggling.
What’s so goddamn funny about a g-string?
Men don’t go to women’s stupid strip clubs and bring up gun ownership or the merits of a death penalty to distract The Help. We don’t ruin women’s good times. We let them do that for themselves.