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Today on null: "When Strippers Attack Jesus"

It's so hard to pinpoint where things went wrong. I told MisterSatan over AIM that my super-pessimist sense was tingling, and the bastard laughed like he'd found an unguarded bit of whipped cream, which is funnier than butter because it's gayer. Or so I've been told.

The beginning is usually the best place to start, so off we hie. I was happily discussing how that damned Japanese kid attacking his classmates with a fucking samurai sword--a fucking sword--was another example of the Japanese improving on an American institution. This time it just happened to be school violence that they were taking to a new level of rad. From the office next door, I heard the promotions guy for the local shocking talk station trying to sell Hot Marketing Girl on the idea of a bikini night at the track. Selling HMG on schlock sex is like selling honey-flavored burgers to Koreans: you'd think it would make them sick, but they just eat the slop up.

Then, I heard him decry one of the station's newest advertisers as a den of horrible debauchery. From his explanations, I now gather that Cowgirls Inc. is a den of 21- and 22-year-old hot girls in slutty clothes looking to go home with a guy with money. The horrah. The horrah. Considering that this station carries Tom Leykis, I was amused to hear the disapproving tone. HMG and I later agreed that this place needed to be checked out--for claims of rampant debauchery are hard to credit in downtown Seattle.

While listening to his lurid accounts, I started noticing an odd smell. I couldn't place it, and I got engrossed in my code anyway, so I forgot all about it. Only later would I find out that the furniture store next door had taken it upon themselves to refinish some furniture indoors. The varnish smell was wafting gently into my office. Only when I couldn't read my Visual Studio output did I wonder why I felt so high.

Fast forward a couple of hours, and I am sitting back in the same office quashing my munchies with the noxious confluence of Chili Cheese Fritos, refried bean dip, and hot nacho cheese. My stomach's reaction was as you might have guessed.

I purchased a song by a lovely British lass named Jem--she was both a voice and an unfortunate taste in stage names. I took the inevitable and tiresomely uncreative ribbing in stride. MisterSatan agrees that the song is rad, by the way.

At seven thirty, I left for my date with a dancer that I met last week. On the drive there, I heard a 7-11 commercial extolling the virtues of one of their food-like products. Among these virtues was the delicious melted "queso cheese." I don't know about you, but I want some fucking cheese cheese.

I picked the stripper up at her apartment and drove to a decent little restaurant. I'd like to say that looking at her when I picked her up, I felt like the luckiest boy around. That feeling only lasted as long as it took to make our orders. Then the conversation got weird. She was still a good conversationalist, but she wanted to talk about nothing other than the labyrinthine steps she was taking to better herself. When she said, "Have you ever been in a twelve-step program? They're really cool even if you don't have a problem because you can learn about yourself," I said, "Check, please."

Alone on the street--I gave her cab fare--I contemplated what to do. I was horny, bored, and primed to do something. I considered the situation and the wad of cash in my front pocket. Cowgirls Inc. was sort of calling to me with its lecherous reputation, but I wasn't dressed for it and didn't want to have to pretend to like the girls. The answer presented itself: back to the nudie bar. This would make two trips in two weeks after not setting foot in one in a few years. In retrospect, this decision was both momentous and sad.

I arrived at the dirtiest, most divey strip club in a particularly...blue collar is the preferred euphemism, I think...neighborhood. I sat down and was assailed by several of the girls. It took a few minutes, but I divested myself of all but the most tenacious of the girls. What followed was an hour of horror as she began to tell me about her son and being homeless and her addiction to "Vikes". Somewhere in her rambling monologue, she came out with, "Have you ever been to the zoo? We really should go to the zoo! Give me your number!" I demurred.

She was called onto stage, and a tiny hellcat that I'd noticed before came over to proposition me. I shrugged and followed her.

I'm not sure how the conversation got there, but soon she was grinding on me and telling me about her church and Jesus. That's right, a stripper was lecturing me about Jesus while giving me a lapdance. Then she told me that she couldn't grind hard because she had a new hood piercing, but she had a special treat for me. I asked her something unrelated, and in a total non sequitur, she told me about her day job as a preschool teacher just before dropping down to bite my cock through my pants and blow her warm breath through the material onto it. I couldn't tell with her head buried in my crotch, but I could have sworn she said something about wanting to feel me jerk as I come. However, visions of parent conferences and the fate of our next generation were blurring through my head. She looked up and saw my "What the fuck is the matter with you" face, and that was pretty much it for the dances.

I hung about for a few minutes trying to figure out if I was still high from earlier or if my night had really gone this way. The tenacious stripper returned, and I bought a dance because I felt sort of sorry for her. As she was dancing on me, I looked right into a friend's eyes. I thought he'd seen me, but I couldn't know. Since we both live respectable lives in Seattle, running into each other in such a place seemed incredible. Plus, he has a longstanding relationship with another of my friends, so possibly he just didn't want to see me. Truthfully, SG has warped my sensibilities so much that I was looking around to see if possibly his prettier half was hanging about.

I saw him go into the bathroom, and I followed him in. That close, he couldn't help but see and acknowledge me. Next thing I know, we're having a relatively serious conversation in the bathroom in a strip club in a redneck outpost of Seattle. I was having a conversation in a strip club bathroom. Suddenly, the surreality of the night finally crashed down, and I bolted.

In the car, I buzzed MisterSatan to explain my day to him, and he was suitably amused. Toward the end of the conversation, he said, "Your luck must be like 100."

To have my plight reduced to a Dungeons and Dragons reference was somehow very fitting.

Tomorrow night, we're having a party at SupremePizzaMan's parent's house. His parents are gone, and the SupremePizzaMan is playing the part of "rebellious teen who has a party". I figure that we should get John Waters there to film this, so we can have the feverish montage of cleaning up before the parents get home the next day.