The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of...

We begin at Opie's, Alan wants to watch a little Family Guy so let's fire up the DVR. Can't, no remote. Appearently the buttons on the box aren't sufficient enough to operate it's single most important function. Shit. We give up after about 15 minutes of searching, the little guy is nowhere to be found. I have my own theory, but I keep it to myself, I don't think "slipped into Narnia" will be well received. No remote, means no television, which means we need something to do. Off to King's.

Musgrove Lake is a good time normally, but not this day. Today, Opie manages to break fun. After a labored climb to the top the ladder, he jumps onto the rope, which bends the pole to a point that allows his ass to hit the ground, the wooden disc is then crushed under the weight of his enormous buttox. SNAP! And fun ceases.

Later, we find ourselves at the Ionia Walmart and then le Hut de Pizza. Both are relitively uneventful and I'm sure will be covered elsewhere in the blog.

Sometime during our trip home Alan gets titties in his head and requests a pitstop at Shirley's Backroom. The car declines, I don't have any money, Jeff doesn't like girls, and Opie said something but I forget. Anyway, after some pestering, and Alan's irresistable offer to pay for cover, Opie and I agree, and Jeff decides to humor us and wait in the car. Alan's so happy, he might cry. In fact, I submit that he's never been happier, at least I have never seen him happier. Understand that I've seen Alan through 18 Christmases, 18 birthdays, through graduation, proms, placing at the wrestling state finals, through the good times with his lady friends, and I have not one time seen him even half has happy, he was absolutely elated. He kept repeating, "I am so happy," as his eyes welled up holding back his tears of joy.

So we enter, ahhhhh... Shirley's Backroom, breath it in, it always goes does down... well it's a little rank, kinda smells of lubrication. Anyway, everyone's ID is checked immediately upon entering the fine establishment and we are given the rules. A set of rules more strict I have never heard, while I don't remember them verbatim, I can now recall, "... no touching the dancers, and no touching yourself..." Clearly this is meant to ensure the dancers are able to keep their dignity.

We paw around the extremely hardcore porn whilst we await Mr. Hilard's arrival. A cornucopia of sexually explicit material, the likes of which I have never confronted. Toys, DVDs, video tapes, greeting cards, party favors, now I'm so happy I could cry. Alan reviews some homosexual pornography, but ultimately elects not to make any purchases. He is saving his money for the dancing ladies.

Hillard arrives, we pay cover, and enter a room where dreams are made real. There's a man and a woman at a table, and a very large television playing very explicit pornography. Looking closer it appears the gentleman (see: john) is engaged in a conversation with one of the hookers, er... uh... dancers. So the... dancer gets up and gets our complimentary drinks, that's right free drinks, that's how we roll. We tell the dancers that we'll save the lapdances and V.I.P. room for another night, tonight we'll have stage dances. They know we're high rollers so they aren't quick to relent, but eventually they understand we came for the dance, and nothing more.

And it begins. Midway through the first dance, the john stands up, puts a $5 bill in his mouth (what the fuck, right?), and approches the stage. I'm thinking maybe he's fumbling for his keys in his pockets... needs both hands, right? Nope! Mr. John puts his head over the stage, the stripper, boobs in hand, snatches (a pun, perhaps?) the bill right from his face. It's tip time appearently, and I'm next. Taking my cues from the obviously seasoned pervert, I too put the tip in my mouth and let the dancer remove it with her (soft) breasts. This continues all the way down the line and soon the dance is over. Not bad for a chick pushin' 50, I say to myself. NEXT! Dancer numbero 2 did some impressive things with her butt cheeks, but it was ulimately the same thing.

We leave after avoiding the second barrage of lapdance and V.I.P. room offers, sorry ladies, we're not paying for handjobs tonight.

Life is good...
-Geoff.

Definitions
John - A man who is a prostitute's customer.