Those of you who’ve dutifully checked my recently unupdated blog have suffered enough, and deserve some sort of an awkward oasis to quench your thirst for ridiculous things I have said to girls.
It’s time to write about the time I went to a strip club and got a lap dance.
“Oh geez, what do I do? How does this even work?”
“Well, the first thing you need to do is to take everything out of your front pockets and put it in your back pockets.”
I was out with some acquaintences on a bachelor party. It was maybe two summers ago. As bachelor parties go, this one was entirely unsuccessful in its intended purpose because the bachelor, a coworker with a cubicle contiguous to mine, didn’t show up. (We didn’t see or hear of him too much after that, until he was arrested later in the year for attempting to kill his then-estranged wife. Three times. That we knew of.)