Oh for farks sake, for the price of an admission ticket he could have bought some spray tan at least was the exasperated comment of my best friend, B.
His alabaster coloured, probably hairy ass was encased by a show-stoppingly bright blue g-string, the cheeks tiny in appearance and in comparison to the triangular shaped back of a male that works out regularly pumping iron.
If he comes near me, I fucking swear I'm jumping that table I told B.
Oh, look at him, he's a baby, he's young enough to be my nephew she noted.
My eyes rolled.
Hellllooooooo, he's young enough to be your son darls, I replied, somewhat startling myself the moment I made the admission.
In his very early twenties, he had a slightly terrified, deer in the headlights look as he worked his way around the still brightly lit room filled with women of all sorts, shapes and sizes.
One rather large woman next to me bounced excitedly.
The closer he got the more her bits jiggled.
Did I say there were women there?
But then there were the...
that had somehow found their way into the room of mostly whatthefuckarewedoinghereanyw ay women.
One such couple were well into their fifties, possibly sixties.
Nan and Pop looked over my way.
What on earth could they be here for?
What could have possessed him to make the journey to this amateurish, pitiful and oh so cheesy show?
Secrets to be learnt and later unleashed in their bed with the Spotlight doona on special below the wooden framed picture of their five grandchildren?
Was it due to distrust and insecurity issues?
After all, who knows what a woman is capable of, unrestrained and in the company of a man who could be her grandson, parading his bum and body, gyrating (very badly) to the music of the Village people...
Perhaps she was like me, deciding at the last minute to go, free ticket on offer but wondering whether she would be an object of derision, lampooned that she was a dirty, horny old bag who had absolutely no business in being there.
And I wouldn't have gone but for B.
She wasn't having any of it though.
You see, B had made a pact with life.
A few years ago and unbeknownst to me she had been diagnosed with skin cancer and about to have the operation to cut the tumour out of her leg right down to the bone when she texted me how she didn't want her very best friend to find out, perhaps after something had gone wrong or it was too late.
She told me how I had been and always would be her best friend.
Afterwards, with a new lease on life, there was nothing too outlandish, ridiculous, outrageous or unachievable.
There were no negatives, only positives.
Life was what you made it.
Tired of your job? Then quit.
Want a holiday to a far away place you've always fantasised about but never quite had the balls to go through with? Well, stop your fart-assing around softcock, pack your fucking suitcase and stamp that passport.
Don't bitch about what's wrong with your life, change it.
It was the new, improved, and so shiny you had to get the ridiculously big sunglasses to protect your eyes from it way of thinking.
Unable to argue with her, there I was.
This dirty, horny old bag at a (free) male stripshow.
Especially after I told her I was sure this particular bloke (a baby, really) was performing his second ever show and then the compere yelled 'Give a big round of applause to Tim, he's been very nervous as this is only his second show'...
When it finished, all too soon I'm sure, and the doors opened to all we hit the floor.
For a few hours there was no work or family life pressure, financial problems, depression, fear or loathing.
It had been years since B and I had gone out on the town together, literally years and it was just like we'd done it last Friday night, out on the piss and taking the piss out of everyone.
She would dance behind all those unfortunate enough to be near us, mocking their clothes or dancing and bumping into them only to flash them a brilliant, toothy and apologetic smile when they spun around.
One man with too many gold chains flashing on a too hairy chest with far too much confidence bore the brunt.
You're fucking crazy he eventually told her.
She was tormenting me, such was the pain of my stomach muscles from the laughter and I fell to the floor snorting, gasping and unable to breathe.
I didn't know if it was the alcohol or her.
Maybe it was both.
We are sooooooo getting our heads smacked in I told her wiping the tears of mirth from my eyes.
I had to sit down after that.
Honestly, there's only so much excitement a dirty, horny and very, very drunk old bag can take.
A few days later when we spoke on the phone she asked what the hell had I been talking about, getting our heads smacked in and I protested that I'd been worried we'd gone overboard a bit.
Oh who gives a fuck she replied dismissively.
I love that girl....
Measuring the influence of Andrew Bolt
2 days ago