Man, I've heard some massively fucked up shit this past month. Well, I've seen some massively fucked up shit as well, but my ears often work better than my camcorder, which we'll get to later, but for now, let's stick with the wackness that's entered my ears.
A stripper and I began passing time during some precious minutes while the two of us were collectively doing absolutely nothing at work, largely because everyone is supposedly broke during the holidays, but an even greater reason is because we both work in Milwaukee, which is to 'rich and fabulous' as vomit is to any dog's sustenance.
Paradise, the stripper, begins complaining to me about how she's sick of turkey. She's been eating it for six days straight, at this point, since Thanksgiving 2010. Seems her mother, who Paradise lives with, made far too much to feast upon so leftovers have been reheated to the point where having food in front of her mouth becomes topical at work, even while all the little, black babies in Africa suck sand particles out of their mommy's tit just for a chance to eat boar hooves in adulthood.
Ahh, the starving children in Africa, I know, it's a shame, but let's not get off-topic here.
Now, since I know, and everyone I know, knows Paradise has a black pimp, I caustically throw out, "Hey, baby, why don't you just have your pimp over. I'm sure he won't pass up on a free meal." Naturally I'm sarcastic about this because in my mind, there is no white broad out there who lives with her mother, who also has a black pimp, would possibly have him over for dinner because that's just absurd in my mind.
Well, I fail at predicting any one of my coworker's lifestyles yet again because Paradise proceeds with:
"Oh, he doesn't come over for holiday gatherings. My family gets all weird and bitchy at me so we don't even bother anymore."
Naturally I do somewhat of a double-take and finally look at Paradise in the eyes. "Now, what does that statement even mean? Does it mean that on nights your mother is cooking, and it's not a holiday, your daddy comes over and you three like, sit down at the table and eat-n-shit?"
While seated at the bar within the depressingly slow night shift at the strip club, Paradise solemnly looks me in eyes and says, "Yea. Sometimes. What's wrong with that?"
"What's wrong with that!?" I shout. "You fucking kidding me? You know that's totally fucked up, right? It's like, beyond out of line."
"What? Why is that weird?"
Let's just say that's where the conversation ended because it's so ridiculous to waste time going on. I mean, you, the reader, can see where it eventually ended up. I just can't get over the pimp going over to the whore's house and the mother cooking for the three of them. It's like, wow. I mean, really. WOW!
The mom is completely fucked---that's a given considering what the daughter is doing. I just have to laugh at what the pimp had said the first time Paradise had invited him over. I mean, it had to have been something like this:
So you see, as we proceed with this post, we truly learn that CHICKEN should really go back to Africa, and everything else will follow suit.
Holy fuck.
Strippers are, without a doubt, an unfathomable black hole of amorality Lucifer would leave salt licks out for if the entrance to Hell were glazed in tequila, just so he could secure some cannon fodder for God's wrath. They are the ugliest fucking people I already know I will ever meet in my lifetime. When you see a stripper on stage, don't be mesmerized by her cleavage or shaven butthole. Locally in your district, she's simply equivalent to that of an Al-Queda terrorist in a bikini who dances to some shitty music, and the club she's dancing in is merely a Trojon horse that permits her treasonous methods that lure men into forgetting why they like free pussy to begin with for 3:30 at a crack, so . . .
My tiny heart can't even take it anymore.
However . . .
It's not often a stripper separates herself from the herd in my head. I mean, usually the bitch has to start a Patrón-induced fight or a fire for me to even match a name to her face without having dating or fucked her. How much the individual vulturine tips me will surely assist the mnemenic sludge upside my brow, and tugging my nuts in the deejay booth on any one of her sloshed evenings as an entertainer does wonderment as well.
Similar to how the sun shines on a dog's ass every once in a while, once in a great moon a stripper and I will sort of become chums---without having the exchange of much money or bodily fluids---despite how I believe her lifestyle to be galaxies away from my own; a stripper I respect and overall enjoy her particular company, to be accurate---An anomaly, I know, but similar to that of an eclipse, and exactly like the movie Eclipse, sometimes something fucked up becomes a successful institution and there are probably only seven slants in Japan who could explain why.
And that will bring us to my stripper buddy, Becky; stage name: Dakota.
A year ago, I liked Dakota because she liked rock music, and in this ever-growing populace of nigger-music loving 20-year old strippers, it's fortunate to find a young, white woman volunteering to denude in public who doesn't already have a Black pimp/boyfriend/dealer. Seriously. I don't know what kind of fairy dust the homies are sprinkling on most of suburban youth these days, but these broads are dedicated to giving their money to degenerate Blacks, and I find that overwhelmingly awkward considering I was always told by bartenders that if you buy a kayak, paint it black, that way you know it will never tip.
These days, Dakota still likes rock music, which warms my heart every time I see her pseudonym on the roster because that's two-less chances Alicia Keys and company has to whine about how men have broken their fragile, little African hearts, apparently even after the $50 American million. Dakota's preference is classic rock, of course, considering she is somewhat of a hippie, and I find it pertinent to point out that she's not a junkie because there is a difference between the two nomenclatures.
Dakota smokes weed daily. Hourly, in fact. She's admitted onto me that she's snorted cocaine, smoked methamphetamines, orally ingested LSD . . . in fact, it would be a shorter catalogue of street pharmaceuticals if we just listed what illegal drug she hasn't/doesn't indulge in, and this catalogue would have to be a small booklet outlining heroin. That's it. (Well, opium as well, but you and I don't know anyone prescribing themselves with opiates these days so we'll keep this shit local.)
Now, going with that spool of drug thread, it makes the papers I've absconded with that much more interesting; haven't exactly stolen the papers . . . just forgot to give them back to Dakota.
Naturally I have her permission to use the papers, and no . . . they're not joint papers, you asshole. Ya see . . .
Dakota kinda left the club in the way Jim Morrison would have told Pam he was going on a hike: The bitch just took whatever money she had on her, got in some random car and traveled the states for a few weeks, as only a fucking stripper would think is okay. I couldn't even believe she played a vagabond, and I found it twice as hard to overcome the loss of a rock chick while I deejay'd at the club.
Now, experience, if not common sense, told me that she was going to get into trouble while treating the states like Forrest Gump without running shoes. I mean, I know the girl of twenty years of age. I also know how fucked up she gets. Dakota hasn't a genuine alcohol/drug tolerance, and I'm pretty sure that my $80 combined with this guy Carlos I know, I could enter her into a UFC fight and she just simply wouldn't feel any pain and end up winning a match or two.
The bitch just gets that fucked up, yet not belligerent to what I have seen, but don't take my word for it. Here are the official police transcripts; important parts highlighted for those of you with shorter attention spans.
Note: in these papers, the State of Iowa will define Dakota as "Defendant Graczyk."
Once again, for the sake of your ferret-like attention span, Dakota = Graczyk.
Dude. Man. C'mon now. Is that a fuckin' stripper, or what? Naturally, Dakota, as of right now, has a court date pending. I must give her mass props for being back at the club and truckin' on as if nothing happened. Heh. When she goes to jail, I will most certainly be sending her a postcard or two. Thanks, baby. :)
And the massively fucked up shit that's graced my eyes this month doesn't stop there.
As much as I love Dakota and all her stripper brilliance, we must acknowledge Paradise once again.
Now, the video footage I got up north in 2010 certainly wasn't what it was in '09, which can be seen here, but here's a highlight.
Depending on your browser, you might need to click the "play" button twice.
I wish I could say I was beside myself, but I'm going to work in a couple days and I'll see both of these girls the same way you mother fuckers see your mailman: like it's nothing.
Same way I came in that stripper's mouth while her boyfriend was at work: like it's nothing.
Just like how I'm making it a priority to finally fuck a black chick for my New Year's resolution: like it's nothing.
And then pimp that bitch on my upcoming, ultra-fabulous escort dating site:
Like, it's fuckin' nothing.
It's a completely different "nothing" than some peers of yours offering you a hit of the blunt, which has been happening to me for over a decade.
"Take a hit of this, Zack." "Come on . . . just hit it." "Why won't you hit it? Are you a cop, heh . . . heh."
"Stupid dick. I won't hit it because I'm not in the ninth grade anymore and I got other shit to do besides sit around talking about how the President just isn't making your shit happen. It's nothing . . . retard."
Hugs, not drugs . . . Just say "no." Thank-you, Nancy Reagan . . . Thanks for NOTHING!
One guy to another at a strip club:
"Hey, that chick over there just gave me a lap dance."
"Did she fuck you?"
"No."
"Did she suck you?"
"No."
"Did she jerk it a little and talk about how she wanted it in her ass later?"
"Hell no."
"Well then, did you tell her "Thanks . . . THANKS FOR NOTHING!"
That front page of the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel I remember seeing 2 1/2 years back that proclaimed Obama was gonna change the "face of the USA."
Guess what? Nothing.
"Hey policeman, you remember when you ticketed me for doing 17 miles over the speed limit and gave me a two-hundred dollar fine? Well, my car got stolen last week and I was wondering what's come about that?
"Ehh . . . nothing."
"Zack, why are there red spots on your dick?"
"I swear, it's nothing, baby."
Z. --- Oh, and please don't ask to have another Black chick piss in my mouth just so I can prove I'm not racist. That was so '09.
