I went back to work on Saturday because Allegra Kaough got bored and needed the roughly the three minutes of TFDC entertainment I glean for you guys from the eight hours of work I put in at the club each time. This one’s for you, Allegra, because I am a damn good friend!

Business was slow around 10 pm, so Dagger and her very cute weed dealer and I sat smack dab in the middle of the club and proceeded to get really fucking high. This was a first for me; I rarely get high, and I’ve never done it at work before. Of course, it is almost inevitable that anytime I enter an altered state at work, I will get called up on stage to dance. 

This night was no exception and I approached with curiosity, wondering how it would go. Honestly, I never get performance anxiety, mostly for terrible reasons: No matter how poorly I perform onstage, over half the sad and lonely audience would probably pay to fuck me anyway. The bar is very, very low.

The verdict? That was the best performance I’ve ever done to “Smack My Bitch Up.” (I know, I know, it’s a helluva song for multiple reasons, but there’s no such thing as political correctness at a strip club.) I did so well I didn’t even have to dance to the second song at all, spending it entertaining tipper after tipper onstage instead. By “entertaining,” I mean that I stuck people’s faces in my chest and slapped them with my sweaty tits for tips. People love it. It’s weird that I get paid to do this, but whatever.

Perhaps I should get high at the club more often.

At one point, I was my plying my trade with two gentlemen at the VIP bar and felt compelled to perform the opener to a rap song I’m writing for the band. The song is called “White Meat” and the opener goes a little something like this:

“If you see her at da club, dat ass will leave you broke / Got so many mouthfuls, Sir Mixalot gon’ choke
If you spend a thousand dollars, you know you got a deal / Cuz she’s a five-star, four course hell of a meal
Ya’ll don’t call it booty, ya’ll, cuz that shit’s BOOTAY / If you ever get a taste of her, you’ll know it’s gourmet!”

Now, the song is supposed to be funny for multiple reasons, chief among them being that white girl canNOT rap. I did, however, put my heart and soul into this performance, yelling at the top of my lungs, lunging into their faces and throwing down every rap video move I know without missing a beat or forgetting a single word. I *killed* it.

You have never seen two gentlemen more unimpressed. At the end of my performance, they just looked at me, wide-eyed and blinking. One of them picked up his drink, took a noisy slurp from the straw, set it back down and proclaimed, “Well. You’re certainly no Eminem.”

The second gentleman promptly shelled out two hundred dollars for six dances, perhaps for no other reason than to shut me up.

Perhaps I should get high at the club more often.