Man it is amazing, a person can’t away with anything now days.

Hey, at least I didn’t use last names. There are probably a million others named Garrick around the world.

If I recall correctly, exaclty eight minutes after entering the establishment herein mentioned–the first and last one I have ever entered I might add–I had a life changing epiphany. For it was at this moment that I realized that I wasn’t the sorriest son-of-a-bitch in the world. In fact, as things go, my life was pretty fucking amazing. What was this epiphany? You might ask? Well my dear friends, it was the realization that myself and the Buckster were the only two bastards in the room that had ever been laid. It is utterly impossible to quantify what such a realization does for one’s confidence.

I would also like to question the validity of the claim that “WE” visited this “fine” establishment on “multiple occassions.” You see folks, I am a drinker, and no, we are not talking about your general run of the mill social imbiber. My ability to tip the old cup is legendary. Although, I must admit that the ever present bastard who goes by the name of time is catching up with me and rendering my feats ever less impressive. Having said that, I am also a rather particular, and for that matter, snobish drinker. I like what I like and that is that. The said establishment, on the other hand, seemed to cater to a less demanding clientelle. They had only a limited selection of spirits, from which, I am sorry to report, my ever present companion Johnny Walker Black Label had been excluded. The beer selection was also less than impressive. Ultimiately, if I recall correctly, I did discover that Rolling Rock–my beer of last resort at that time–was available.

So, after coming to the terms with the fact that my ever present thirst was going to have to reconcile itself to the consumption of the pale ale with funny painted on labels, I garned the attention of the bar tender and verbalized my request. However, while waiting on my order, I witnessed a chain of events that dampened my thirst. First, the bartender was called over to the other side of the bar by one of the “performers.” The aforementioned performer then proceeded to hand the bar tender a rather large and untidy wad of bills, which the bartender then placed into some sort of lock box. What’s wrong with this you might ask? Well, in order to answer this question, it might help if you first take a moment to refelct on the amazing complexity of the human female’s anatomy and the number of orfices it has. It might also help, if you then consider that it is possible to roll a paper bill into a phallic shaped object. Still somewhat confused? Well, I suppose I should proceed with the narrative then. The bar tender, then, without washing her hands, proceeded to reach into the beer cooler and grasp a frosty bottle of Rolling Rock by the neck. She then proceded to try to twist of the lid, because the bottle was slick, her attemtps were ultimately unsuccessful. Ultimately, she found a bottle opener and removed the cap before presenting me with my bottle of beer. A bottle which I was convinced was now home to an unfathomable array of micro organisms.

So, as you can see, my strip club experience was simultaneously uplifting and appalling. Or as Dickens so famously said, “it was the best of times; and the worst of times.”

You know, my old friend, this could very well be one of those topics that could do with some careful editing so to remove the names of innocent parties (i.e. me).