Tales from Da Club #51

After making ten whole dollars at the club on Tuesday and a customer who tried to pay Dagger the Neon Mermaid with chicken wings (I would have been tempted to say yes) and another customer who threw a whole can of Skoal at a dancer onstage, I left super pissed and determined never to return. 

(I’ll probably return. I mean, their chicken wings really ARE that good.)

I thought a hiatus from the club would mean these tales would dry up for awhile, but the stories, much like me during last summer’s fling with Magic Dick, kept a-comin’.

I blew off band rehearsal on Sunday to go see “Waitress” with a friend at the Bass Concert Hall, so I dropped by DJ Rob’s house on Monday night for a make-up session.

But the rehearsal never happened.

Instead, DJ Rob was incredibly fired up about another shady business idea he had: a private sex club in the style of SNCTM, Hollywood’s most elite, expensive and extravagant sex club where annual memberships cost up to $75,000.

Seriously, I cannot make this shit up.

As a band that draws its members primarily from strip clubs, we do have nearly unlimited access to the city’s most beautiful women and men with deep pockets. It wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever heard.

He wanted me to host it. Also not the worst idea I’d ever heard.

The worst idea I ever heard was Rob’s plan to launch this sex club in his house. I had no idea how to tell him that nobody wanted to pay over $100 a head to attend a sex party at a tiny, one-story, beige-walled, weed-soaked bachelor pad in PFLUGERVILLE, Texas.

Instead, I suggested we rent an AirBNB for the night, and Rob thought that was a great idea. Because, you know, every homeowner wants 60+ people drinking and fucking in their house while they’re away.

Now, if you’re thinking this sounds like the beginnings of an actual shitshow and that this bitch has no idea what she’s doing – welcome to my same exact thoughts! 

We could get raided by the TABC for selling liquor without a license. We could get raided by the fire marshall for exceeding occupancy limits. We could get raided by law enforcement for prostitution.

I may wind up changing the title of these stories to “Tales from a Jail Cell.” Stay tuned.

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