The black, Latina, or Asian woman has a different attitude. They take the business seriously. They save their money and work hard for every dollar. They have three kids at home, the power is out, they have a stack of bills, and they aren’t sitting around conjuring up stupid dreams of opening a hair salon.
They approach their customers with a decent attitude. Hey, you’re my man and I’ll take care of you if you pay me right!
During that lap dance, you really believe you are the only man in the world they care about. Even if it’s a fantasy, they sell it. Meanwhile, the white girl pretends she is grinding on you six inches above your crotch and while she stares at her freshly painted nails.
Reward the real working girls and you’ll have the time of your life. Just don’t go too far and try and pull a black girl’s hair during the dance. You’ll pull off her weave, she’ll get all ghetto on you, and you’ll lose your erection in the process.
ANNOYING HOTEL MAIDS
As a comedian, I’m on the road all the time. I have a strange schedule so when I check into a hotel room I always have the same conversation with the front desk.
“Look, just so you know, I’m only in town for two days. I work nights. I sleep in. I don’t want to be bothered at any time during the day. So, I don’t need maid service.”
They always say the same thing.
“Just put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and you won’t have a problem, sir.”
Can you guess what happens?
Nine o’clock in the morning, the phone rings.
“Do you need any service in your room, sir?”
“Don’t I have the Do Not Disturb sign on the door?”
“Ah, yeah but we weren’t sure if you need any maid service?”
“Oh, really? What does your Do Not Disturb sign say? ‘Do Not Disturb’ with a question mark?”
“Well, if you need any towels let us know!”
“I have seventeen towels in my room, unless a dam bursts in my room I won’t need an eighteenth towel. When I’m home, I use the same towel for three weeks straight. I’m okay with the towels!”
“Okay sir, but if you need towels just call the front desk.”
“Oh thanks, I wasn’t sure where to get towels when I stay in a hotel. I thought I might have to do a Google search, find the local Bed Bath & Beyond, and go buy some!”
Hotel maids. Fucking brilliant. What would I do without them?
The Nipple Brush-Off
Pick your favorites. That’s another unwritten rule in the strip club. There are so many girls floating around the club it’s easy to get confused. Maybe one or two turn you on. A few have an attitude you don’t like. At least one woman will spark your interest and that will be your favorite for the night. Spend time figuring out who that is and give her your money. Be warned. A few girls are determined to bug you.
Just an aside here, that’s the great thing about a strip club, inflation never fucks up the prices at a strip club. Milk and bread cost more every year but strippers never raise their prices. You’ll never hear a stripper say, “Can you give me $1.35 this time because Obamacare fucked me over!”
Anyway, it’s sad when the annoying stripper is standing there begging and you are waiting for the hotter girl. You only have so many dollars and you want to save them for the girls you find attractive.
My friends and I had a solution for this that seemed to work. If a mediocre one stops by for some money I would blurt out, “I like your nipples. They look like my grandmothers!”
She’d give me a strange look, “I don’t want to know how you know how your grandmother’s nipples look.”
To make sure she didn’t come back, I’d add, “Because we shower together!”
If that didn’t make her go away, we’d start a bullshit conversation. The trick here is to babble nonsense as loud and intense as possible. All the while, you ignore the stripper that’s bellied up to your table.
“Can you believe the Jets lost?”
“No man, I can’t believe it!”
“Yeah that fucking sucks. What about that Giants game?”
“I didn’t see that, but this weather is insane, how’s it still raining?”
“Yeah, I watched the news and they didn’t say shit about a storm!”
Now, at some point you will hear the stripper’s voice saying, “Hi guys!”
Don’t stop! Block her!
“Holy shit, I thought we were going to have a flood.”
If you hear another, “Hi guys!” Continue ignoring her until she gives up.
“I couldn’t believe that play in the third quarter! Holy shit, what a pass!”
Eventually the dancer will walk away.
Maybe I hurt her ego by ignoring her but I’m waiting for the hot stripper with no dents in her ass as my friend Dave says. Dave appreciates an ass without cellulite.
All of this may seem harsh but feelings get hurt in the strip club. Strippers’ feelings get hurt. Your feelings will get hurt. It’s just part of the game. Accept the dark side of the fantasy, shut the fuck up, and stuff another dollar. Or, rip a single in half and stuff two!
Driving Dancers
Eventually, I went from strip club regular to strip club employee. When the Playpen decided they would be a strip club during the day and rock club at night, I became their main DJ. The job was noon to six, three days a week, and the pay sucked. This was before DJs made eight hundred a night. The most I ever made was seventy-five bucks for a shift.
However, the pay wasn’t the problem I had with this job. The problem was that I developed a serious infatuation with one dancer. That misguided crush led me into an even worse job—strip club driver!
The driver is the guy who schleps the stripper to and from work because she has fifteen points on her driving record, or she has no car, or her piece-of-shit vehicle is always in the shop. Usually, she’s recovering from a DWI or gets too hammered after work and needs someone to take her home. Suffice it to say, the driver is the biggest loser in the whole strip club system.
I was naive and thought being the driver would impress the dancer I liked. I thought she would think of me as a nice guy, get turned on by all the attention I was showing her, and then let me get in her pants. That was nothing but a pathetic fantasy.
When a stripper gets off the stage and gets dressed to go home, they dress like a slob. If you’ve ever seen a stripper come out of the club after her shift then you know it’s a big disappointment. She wears a huge T-shirt down to her knees, her long beautiful hair is in a fucking bun, makeup is off, and all you see are the zits and the bruises she gets from pole dancing. Her hot ass is gone because she’s wearing sweats that are twenty times too big. The hot stripper you saw on stage suddenly morphs into a cranky homeless chick.
When she comes out, she gets in the car with three suitcases full of shit, reeks of cigarettes, and of course wants to go to the fucking diner because she’s starving. She was a nine up on stage but now under the fluorescent lights stuffing her pimpled face with bacon, she’s maybe a four. She sits there spewing her delusions.
“That new girl stole my shoes and my G-string. I’m going to go tell the manager. I can’t believe this shit.”
I’m sitting there listening to this horseshit, meanwhile I had to get up at seven thirty for work and I’m out at three thirty hoping I’ll get laid.
She has five hundred bucks in singles but I’m afraid to ask her for gas money because I don’t want to jinx the insanely remote chance she will give me a blowjob. It was that moment I knew I had hit rock bottom. There was nothing worse than being the strip club driver. When a cranky chick is wearing no makeup, has her hair in a bun, and is eating shitty food the last thing on her mind is later on getting on all fours for you.
Awful Facebook Rule #4: Post a “Feel-Sorry-for-Me” Update
I hope you laughed at my pathetic strip club stories and didn’t feel bad for me.
Yet, today when you look on Facebook half of the posts are pat
hetic pleas for undeserved sympathy. I call these shitty posts feel-sorry-for-me updates. If you’ve heard any of my podcasts, you know I rant about these all the time. One warning, reading some of these examples will make you want to punch the nearest person next to you.
Weight-Loss Amputations
Here’s a pathetic example of the feel-sorry-for-me update. Read this and see if you think she’s fishing for sympathy.
I found the solution to being so horribly overweight. I’m cutting off my legs, yep, that should do it!
I would pay someone to respond with a comment that says, “Great idea. Let me know if you need to borrow my chainsaw!” All her friends ignore this shit because it’s just pathetic. In fact, she had this post up for five days and no one liked it or commented on it because this feel-sorry-for-me shit aggravates people.
I know she’s expecting her friends to write things like: Oh, you look great. You don’t need to lose weight. You’re beautiful. But, here’s my advice. Just write what you mean:
Can someone please tell me I’m not fat, so I can feel better about myself.
Don’t dummy this shit up so that people are worried about you. I’m sure a few people wondered, Is she really going to do this? She needs help!
You could stop eating!
Just a suggestion.
Go on the Internet and do a little research on how to eat healthy. It’s not like you have to go to the library to get this information.
You know what, that’s not a bad idea. Log out of Facebook, get off your ass, and walk to library for some exercise. Just do it before you amputate those beefy legs. Hopefully, she won’t pass an Arby’s on the way to the library. I have a feeling a #7 Special is in her future!
This Mom Makes Me Puke
This is a typical feel-sorry-for-me mom. They’re constantly complaining about all the time they spend being a parent.
I don’t care if I suck at parenting on every level. Cleaning up a giant pile of teenage vomit off the kitchen floor wins me a fucking trophy. The end. You’re welcome for this post.
First of all, you say, You’re welcome for this post. Who exactly is going to thank you for this post? Most people will want to vomit themselves after reading your post. So, you’re reminding everyone, here at the beginning, that you suck as a parent. Why don’t you try to be a better one, then? If you think cleaning up your kid’s vomit earns you a trophy, you really suck as a parent. Most moms know this is part of being a parent.
Did you bitch when you had to wipe your kid’s ass? Imagine how many trophies you deserve for all of that work. It sounds like you really never intended to be a parent. You should have thought about the repercussions before you opened your legs that fateful night.
You’re welcome!
GARY FROM FLORIDA: THE ITALIAN STALLION
Gary from Florida is good with money! He’s owned several businesses and always makes great investments. If you listen to my podcasts, you’ve heard about his wild times owning a liquor store and you know he’s a very successful guy.
Now, I was taught a man pays for dinner when you are on a date. It was drilled into me you shouldn’t be a cheapskate. Give your date the best of everything and you increase your chances of having sex!
Gary has an opposite approach. He keeps the cost of getting laid down to the bare minimum. And, he’s quick to make sure the woman contributes.
One hand washes the other, fella. If you’re good in bed, the woman should pay her fair share of everything else!
Gary from Florida is pragmatic. According to him, you shouldn’t waste time and money on dinner when you’d rather be in bed eating pussy. In fact, Gary has a reliable secret for handling dinner dates that any man can use.
Look here fella, if you want to make a woman cream her panties, invite her over to your house and cook her a real Italian meal. At Walgreens, you can get a bottle of Barolo wine for about $3.98. Pick up two just in case you want to do this twice in one week.
Next, grab a couple cans of SpaghettiOs. Right before your date arrives, open the cans, and heat them up in a fancy skillet. Let them simmer until they’re ready to eat.
Now, I grow my own vegetables and herbs. If you don’t, start a small garden. It saves money! If you don’t have time for that grab some fresh basil at the store. Chop it up and set it aside. Plate the pasta. Dust the SpaghettiOs with Parmesan cheese. Sprinkle on the chopped basil and set the table.
You’re almost there, fella. Now, open the Walgreens wine. If you do it right, the whole process should take about 10 minutes and cost you about $10 bucks. Nothing to it. Follow my rules and you’ll have a dinner that will make any woman beg for the Bonecrusher!
Works every time!
Please Stop Breathing
The common cold is called the common cold because everyone on the planet has had it in their life. Here is an adult woman who wants us to feel sorry for her because she caught it. Why?
I can’t breathe. Ugh, stupid cold. Why don’t you find someone else to drag down and be miserable? More medicine!
Yuck!
I’m sick. Feel bad for me, please. I’m a grown-up but feel bad for me.
Look lady, I apologize. We asked around and couldn’t find anyone else who would take this virus for you. We tried hard but all the conversations went like this:
Hey you want to be miserable and take this cold from this chick?
No, sorry, I have work and kids and other shit I really have to do!
Yeah, I know but she’s really miserable. Could you just take it for her?
No, I don’t want it either, they said.
Dammit, why won’t anyone take this cold for this woman, she’s suffering!
I will take her cold from her as long as she blows me. I know she can’t breathe but that shouldn’t affect her swallowing!
Praying for Continued Pain
For this one a woman posted a picture of a big scar she has on her wrist. The picture is super nasty. Nobody needs to see this shit but she thinks it’s newsworthy.
Cast is off! I’m free! Check out the scar! Surgeons like permanent marker!
Of course, here come the sympathy comments. You ready for them?
Ouch!
Oh no, painful!
You poor girl, what did you do?
Hope it feels better than it looks!
Now, was any of that shit necessary? It’s just mindless drivel.
Someone else commented:
I will pray for continued healing!
You’re not going to pray for continued healing.
Can you imagine a priest approaching this woman who dragged her nine-year-old son with her to church while she is praying?
I see you’ve been sitting here a long time, is everything all right?
Well, my friend posted a picture of her scar on Facebook and I told her I would pray for continued healing. So, I got in my car and ran down here.
Is it not healing right? Does she need more surgery?
No, she just posted a picture, and I said I would pray for continued healing.
Maybe you should pray for something a little more important like world peace.
Well, she didn’t write about that in her Facebook post.
I’m sorry, you need to leave now because you’re wasting God’s time with your dumb requests! But, feel free to leave your son for me.
Unimportant Feelings
I can sum up this Facebook post as an unimportant post about being unimportant.
Feeling unimportant!
There is no etiquette for these fucking feel-sorry-for-me posts. Are you supposed to like the fact that someone feels unimportant? Should you give her a thumbs up? If you did, does that mean you agree with her? Isn’t that going to make her feel worse?
Let me guess, you’re feeling unimportant because a bunch of people are out together and they are taking pictures, posting them online, and you feel left out. Maybe it is because whenever you go out with them you cause problems and they don’t feel like dealing with it t
his time. You only feel important when you cause drama. You should feel important now, you made my book with your awful post!
CHAPTER FIVE
PRANKING LIKE IT’S 1999
Fast forward to 1999, I’m living with my girlfriend and my good friend, Jim Norton, in a dingy apartment. Jim and I were both comedians, so we rented something on the edge of New Jersey to be close to New York City and its comedy club scene.
At this point, I’d been doing standup for about seven years. Jim had put in about the same time. All of our gigs were shitty. We barely made a living. Our rent was eight hundred a month, and we had to split it three ways to keep a roof over our heads.
I would sleep in every morning because I had nothing going on in my career. But I would always answer the phone in case it was a new opportunity. Nope! It was always a fucking telemarketer.
I hated these scumbags, so I would try to keep them on the phone as long as possible.
One day, my buddy Don Jamieson asked me to put him on three-way so he could listen in.
“You’re on to something,” he said, “You need to be recording these calls!”
After Don encouraged me, I let a few friends listen to the recordings. The reaction was always positive. People hated telemarketers, so they loved hearing me turn the tables on them.
The Fortunate Birth of Special Ed
The next day, I walk over to the Radio Shack and buy a phone call recorder for about eighty bucks. This was way before the digital age and the device used a regular-sized cassette to store the calls but it did the job I needed it to do. I hooked it up and waited for the next telemarketer to call.
I had an advantage because as long as you don’t curse, or tell a telemarketer you don’t want the product, they can’t hang up. Ending the call prematurely is frowned upon because hanging up means you are passing up a potential sale. Most of the time, their calls end with, “Fuck you, and never call here again!” So, when they got me on the phone they were just happy to be talking to someone that sounded sane.
Everybody Is Awful_Except You! Page 7