Remember that on Thanksgiving there are a lot of lonely young women out there, lonely young women who would be ever thankful for an emotional 'drumstick' during this holiday season. Some of them are in strip clubs.
I mean, it's Thanksgiving, you're wearing only a g-sting and dancing your professional best, yet all the men have one eye on the football game. Remember: when you are at the strip club today it is the stripper's Thanksgiving, too.
And, yes: the strippers on Thanksgiving have heard all the variations on "stuffing". "Breast Meat," too. Also: "thighs". And that thing about the temperature checker on the turkey popping out like a nipple. It is not their first naked Thanksgiving rodeo.
Bleak: being a stripper at a topless club at Thanksgiving.
Bleaker: being a stripper at an all-nude club on Thanksgiving.
Depressing: being the music DJ at a strip club on Thanksgiving. At least on Christmas there are an assortment of Christmas songs you can play for the strippers to grind to. Thanksgiving, though: no real good Thanksgiving songs. "Free Bird" is just too long a song for a pole dance -- by the end the poor stripper is reduced to playing topless air guitar. So: "Pour Some Sugar On Me." Again.
At the strip club there is always a stripper who took a year of ballet training when she was twelve, and so thinks she is better than everyone else.
If your child is taking ballet classes at age twelve remember that the odds are she is much more likely to end up a stripper rather than a ballet dancer.
And now you have to go to the strip club to share Thanksgiving with her.
And now Mom and Step-Dad are there at the strip club, and so the stripper ho took ballet classes at age twelve is self-conscious and timid, and as a result earns very little tips, so now she can't pay her share of this months rent. Plus, Step-Dad is watching a little too intently.
Anyway, now -- to make rent -- she has to consider giving a blow-job to that creepy guy who always brings her candy.
Sometimes there is never enough Listerine to wash away the taste of this Thanksgiving.
The creepy guy who brings her candy: this is now his best Thanksgiving ever. And now he will bring candy AND flowers every time she works. And leave love notes under the windshield-wiper of her old Volvo in the parking lot. This might even be the First Day of the Rest of His Life.
He has always known there is a Special Connection he shares with the stripper who took ballet lessons at age twelve, and now it has come True. All those weeks and months of secretly following her home to the apartment complex by the airport: he will not need to hide in the bushes any longer.
In fact, maybe he should be there, waiting for her to come home, with some Chinese take-out just for them. And candles. Must remember to bring candles. And not the birthday cake candles that have been in the kitchen drawer for the last seven years: real candles, the kind that smell of cinnamon and strawberries, women like those.
It is time to make Christmas plans. Unless she is Jewish. OK either way.
How did it go so wrong, so quickly? Just this afternoon he was getting a blow-job from his Special Connection Life-Mate, and now: well, now there is Chinese take-out and candles sitting on the roof of his car in the dark and the police are there and everyone at the apartment complex by the airport is standing outside their doors, watching, and it is just a misunderstanding, that's all: she was just TOO surprised, it will all be OK, everything will just be fine, there is no reason to bring jail into this.
I mean, I brought cinnamon candles and her stripper name is Cinnamon: how could that be misunderstood? It is not like I am some stranger: I have seen your vagina. Countless times. I could faithfully draw it from memory.
Indeed, I have drawn it, many times, in my special notebook where I keep track of all of her performances: what song was played, what color panties she wore before she took them off, the times she spent smiling directly at me and the amount of money I tipped, it is all there, in my special notebook.
Do not make me draw a red 'X' through your name in my special notebook. Seriously: don't make me do it.
There: I did it. I drew a red 'X' through your name in my special notebook. You are dead to me: I will never let you go.
Now the bouncers won't even let me into the club: I have even tried disguises, but to no avail. Cinnamon: she thinks she's so special, like taking ballet lessons at age twelve makes her better than everyone else. I have already seen your vagina, it is old news; I will find another. This isn't the only strip club in town.
I am sorry about the red 'X' through your name, I didn't mean it I swear, I was just angry, that's all. I have seen the other vaginas and they are NOT the same, I have seen Lola and Britney and Tiffany and Lexus and countless others, but they do not hold a cinnamon-scented candle to you, my Cinnamon. Remember our Thanksgiving, how Special that was? Please let me back in the club. Please.
Cinnamon, look at what you have made me do: I have woken up, hung-over and covered in my own urine and vomit, again. I have seen that man who goes into your apartment at night: I sincerely hope he is a friend of your room-mate. In fact, I think I will follow HIM and then I will let you know all the bad things he does and you will realize that I am the One who truly cares about you.
Your room-mate's friend is a bad, bad man. I am sure he will tell you that the older woman was his mother, but she is actually his whore, I know it. He cheats on you with an old ugly whore, but now you know the Truth. Don't worry: I slashed one of his tires. For You.
Cinnamon, what do I have to do to get you back? I had your name tattooed on my shoulder and you haven't even seen it. Don't make me hurt your room-mate.
Cinnamon, it was NOT my fault: sure, I pushed your room-mate, but SHE was the one who tripped and fell down the stairs.
I hope you come visit me here in jail, it would mean the World to me. Did I tell you I got raped here in jail? Well: I got raped here in jail. It's OK, though, I just thought about you the entire time and then it was over. I then tried to hang myself with my underwear, but that is a story for another time: I would like to tell it to you in person. Please come visit me.
No visits? I have endured rape and torment for you -- for YOU. Cinnamon: Thanks for Nothing.
http://althouse.blogspot.com/2014/11/i-thought-if-i-held-on-to-that-bird.html
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