Torched Laughter Studio Diary: Day 2 - Stalling and Stripping

I was in a quandry:

Do I go record RIGHT THIS SECOND or do I go see strippers with friends and missus?

Strippers.

Fast forward to `Mathesons.’ A beautifully depraved and tragic environ where garment-removal-technicians don’t dance…but walk the perimeter of the stage over and over and over again. The lights are dim, so are my eyes. I can’t see anything but maybe a form that resembles femalia or a c-section scar.

The Scorpions are playing in the background. I make a point to sing along loudly. This causes aggravation to my present company. I tell them to bugger off. I’m wild and free, like a Radio Disney commercial.

Then along comes a woman who decides to strip to KISS’s `Beth’
BETH?

Immediately I am transported into the film `Buffalo 66.’ I am Vincent Gallo. I see blood everywhere. Fat men having their intestines used as nooses. And the woman of the hour getting her uterus pulled out just at the moment Peter Criss goes AAHAAAAAA so sweetly.

I mime my murderous scenario for my company. They laugh. I laugh. We left.

Went to another place. Big to do. Loud. I keep quiet. When a drunk man outside told me about this tranny offering him a nobber, I say “he/she/it was merely offering a hepatitis cocktail and you should partake. Who cares if your imaginary girlfriend is in Australia?” (For the record, all my imaginary girlfriends were ALWAYS in Seattle.)

He said `you are my new friend.’

We go back inside, part company. He goes searching for his cell phone. Surely it was left in a female cavity. Most likely the one walking with led flashing platforms and a sagging caboose.

I start having issues with one girl named `CC.’ She moves like a Geiger Alien. Everytime she turned around to walk away, I could have sworn she was going to go into a sprint and attack Sigourney Weaver.

I proceed to take my hand, pretend it’s one of those little aliens that clamp onto a face and attack the missus. Thankfully, she appreciates the reference.

As much as I’d like to believe we are decended from apes, when you look at our body mechanics, I can’t help but think there’s a little something else that’s polluting our fetid gene pond. Something that probably has knowledge of Warp Drives, wormholes,  and tunics.

The quietest one in the group gets entangled in the web of an older succubus. Her gold lame wares, unflattering.
If you took cookie dough, pushed it together until a crevice was made, you would get an accurate depiction of this elder maiden’s posterior.
My quiet friend declined her offerings. I chastised him for not indulging this pilsbury mistress of the night.

The night ends rather uneventfully. Head home. Sleep. Regret not working.

I have mentioned `hepatitis’ for 2 consecutive days.

~ by ikonowerk on January 13, 2008.