Birth and Death of a Menace

        Last week I had this great idea.  Well, great in my eyes,
anyway.  Since my employer's contract ended on the 20th, I basically had
a week to do pretty much whatever I wanted. I was going to sleep in,
watch ESPN naked, and screw off as much as possible. Which meant SC'ing.
A lot.  A whole lot.

	The days start blending together.  I became a regular in one
place on my third visit.  Anyone know how many different sporting events
are going on Thanksgiving week?  I even did something I can't believe
pulling.  I watched an entire football game and forgot I was in a strip
joint.

	PT's on Monday from mid-afternoon to close. Drank way too much.
Played guest DJ.  (And I was annoying, crude, and pretty much just like
the guy who's tipped out for it.)  Hotties abound, however.  Day shift
talent wasn't too great, but once 7:00 rolled around, good god.  And I
was hammered.  Maybe I should cross-post this to alt.beer.stories.  I
got driven home in the courtesy van.

	Woke up with my shoes on.  I hate sleeping in my shoes.
Remembered where my car was, so I called a cab.  The bastard driving
starts rambling.  I started thinking whether the taxicab was a step up
or down from the DJ booth.  Go in.  Ate lunch.  Had a beer. Then the
dayshift bartender asked if I wanted to go with him to see his
girlfriend at All-Stars. What the hell.

	All-Stars is basically what you would think a topless bar named
All-Stars would look like. Bunch o' memoribilia on the walls, all the
waitresses in cheerleader outfits, et cetera.  Met Yvonne, Max's
girlfriend.  She said I looked like Ricky Schroder.  I don't look like
Ricky Schroder.  But he's rich and pulls more tail than I do.  Blew
money on her.

	Wednesday begins with a cold shower and cleaning up all the crap
on my living room floor. Yvonne and Max are asleep on my couch.  Nekkid.
Why hump on my couch? Then I thought, I'd hump on their couch, given the
opportunity.  Life went on.

	All Stars looked the same as when I left the night before.  I
went with Bill, this guy that runs a Dave and Busters and walks around
trading drinks for "PowerCards". Good concept, I thought. The girls look
the same, the music was the same, the results were the same.  Spend an
hour in the VIP room watching SportsCenter and this dude in a
three-piece trying to purchase additional action.

	We hit the Palace, which is the upscale club in my neck o' the
woods.  I see a girl I went to high school with.  She tells me about the
crush she had on me then. She's full of shit, but those silicon-enhanced
chesticles are yelling at me, begging for release. What the hell.

	Wake up on Bill's couch Thanksgiving morning.  Taco Cabana trash
all over the place. Football at one, though.  Got just enough time to go
home, take a shower, and...

	Wild Zebra was full.  I mean, it's a holiday mid-afternoon and
there not a seat to be had. Went to All-Stars in Denver last year on
Christmas, same thing. Packed house, five dancers.  No shit.  I know a
few girls that work here, and the manager is pleading with me to call a
couple and convince them to come in.  Yeah right.  I find a table and
watch the entire Dallas-Miami game.

	Went home, got online, scoped porn and got hammered.

	After the UT-A&M game on Friday, my uncle suggests we go catch
Colorado-Nebraska at the "y'know, the tittie bar!", he tells me.  PT's
is right across the street from the busiest mall in the city. On the
busiest shopping day of the year.  It's packed.  Go up to Max and he
tells me that if my wife was out shopping, wouldn't I be here.  I agree,
and the cycle started again.  Kelly comes by, takes my uncle away for an
hour, and he bums cab fare off me.  G'job.

	Max gets off and we go to All-Stars again.  Drank a bunch,
groped a bunch, spent a bunch. I'm tired.  Whenever I'm finding breasts
to be tedious, I need to get out before I buy another overpriced
longneck.

	Saturday Erica calls me and needs a ride to work.  She's telling
me she's made $400 every night that week and doesn't have a car. Great.
So I go to the Zebra, lather, rinse, repeat.  I start looking for people
that look like people I know.  I start wondering who the oldest woman in
the club is.  I start trying to count the number of handprints on the
mirror. I leave.

	Is there an ASSC term for burnout?  Please let me know.


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