Why I Didn’t Blog Yesterday.

I missed my first blog day yesterday but not because I’m crap. In fact I’m doing two today to make up for it. Plus, I think we’ll all agree that the masturbation blog was somewhat of a substantial little article in the grand scheme of blogs and almost worth a day of rest afterwards. Don’t think I didn’t consider cocking myself a little yesterday. Just for old time’s sake.

Before I explain the drama of the night, I will say that 90% of yesterday was magical. OK, maybe 70%. The rest was daddy’s dick, but we’ll get there…

Because of the useless holiday yesterday, my daughter’s school was out and I was charged with the task of keeping her entertained with the help of her new best friend in the world. As she gets more and more grown up, her vocabulary grows and parental bullshit tolerance shrinks, leaving me even more useless than normal. I was exhausted before the day even started to crank up and it ended up being a 23 hour day for me.

I then had some trivial shopping I wanted to do, so I hit the Perimeter Mall here in Atlanta. It’s a great place and a great area in town and though I got very little accomplished it was a nice way to have some alone time.

None of this explains why I didn’t blog but text is cheap and you aren’t paying for my bandwidth so bear with me…

Ever had Yoforia? It’s a really ingenious yogurt franchise I saw for the first time yesterday. Three flavors, fuck you if you want more. An assortment of fresh fruits. A few fun toppings. Very little else. Simplicity in motion. I had a Green Tea Yogurt with Raspberries and Kiwi and it was the stuff of legend. I mean, for Atlanta it’s a nice little diversion. I’m sure there’s 68 places on every block in Santa Monica that do the same but it was a nice change of pace in a town that has a lot more places like Arby’s than Planet Smoothie. By the way, fuck Arby’s.

I then had a brilliant lunch date and got to look at artful nude photography to boot. Hard to find fault there. I need to know more ladies with the skill set. Actually, better not.

Then it was back to home for some quiet family time before kicking the night into Purgatory, the results of which left me blogless and hung the fuck over for no damn reason.

Eventually, I will get to the point.

Guys are retarded sometimes. Women are Batshit Beyond Belief.

Not all of them. Not even most of them. But, the ones that are spoil it for the rest of society. I think if you take a group of ten men and ten women from ANY workplace you’re going to have a melting pot of paranoia, hate, lunacy, lust, coolness, intelligence, and mind-bending stupidity. It’s the human condition and you can never console or convince a Batshit Bitch to be anything other than a Bitch under the influence of Batshit.

Now imagine that a few friends and I have become tight with a whole mess of people from a strip club. Imagine the drama and infighting and lapses in logic that must lead to.

Last night I had a fucking amazing time for a good two hours. Nice company. Great drinks. A nice cigar. I even had the pleasure of seeing someone I went on a few very platonic dates with back in the early 90’s enjoying a new career as a stripper and DOING. IT. WELL. Should have been the stuff of legend. Regardless of your own personal hang-ups about places like that and the knee-jerk comments folks make on this site’s talkbacks and message boards about such, there are exceptions to every rule and I consider myself one of them. I have a very lucid and fantasy-free take on the whole environment and it works. Some people, not so much.

Then again, if you reread this in three years and I’ve since gone off the grid and disappeared into the wild with a Filipino dancer named Uteria, please feel free to send me notes calling me a hypocrite. I will rebut with “You haven’t seen what she can do with two lemons, a loaf of bread, three chopsticks, Icy Hot, and my regions” and be done with you, but at least you’d have caught me in a lie.

Somehow things went bad and in the span of a minute things went to shit. No fault of mine, nor my friend’s. He left rather quickly because in a room where emotion really shouldn’t exist, someone let their mind get the best of him and things got cold and puzzling. Imagine a cold shower in the form of a five foot Bosnian gypsy and you’ll get my drift.

Not only did my friend leave. My RIDE left.

I had a few choices. A taxi. Call my wife. Get a ride home with a dancer. Integrate with the club and become even more a fixture.

A taxi is a decent bet. I don’t live too far away and I could probably have spent twenty minutes in a car and not fallen prey to the Bone Collector. My wife goes to bed at 9:30 at night and I know from experience that calling her in the middle of the night with a crisis is not the easiest road to success. She is up at the crack of dawn and needs to be sharp for her job. She knows I go to the club and I regale her with stories of the escapades but it’s bad form to wake her up to the harsh reality of that world. Getting a ride home with a dancer is rough because inside the club there are boundaries and rules. Being alone in a car with me would be too much for them to handle, and they would feel compelled to jump onto my body for instant humps. I mean, I’m a lot of things. Irresistible is one of them. Right? I mean, look at my stuff:

Either way. I wasn’t ready to leave so I took the chance a taxi or some other friend would square me and get me home safe and sound.

But the drama didn’t end and lo and behold my friend texted me asking if I still wanted a ride because he was coming back. Two hours after his departure, he was coming back. I had a ride! I could do my blog! I could get some sleep! Another night could go by without some exotic dancer throwing caution to wind and jumping onto my form from the sheer charisma I exude.

The fine print: He was also coming to pick HER up.

Which meant waiting until the place closed. After she had changed. Tipped out. Blown into the breathalizer machine all dancers have to do before being allowed to leave. My vigor was subsiding but it’s hard to complain when a few truly good and beautiful gals are there to make the wait worthwhile. Plus my friend, who is always good company even when being manhandled by Batshit.

So wait we did. And wait. My friend arrived at 3:10am, grumpy. Uncertain. Salty.

Then 4:00am rolled around.

Seeing a strip club turn on the house lights after the ladies have been ushered away is an eye-opening moment. Any mystique or romanticism one might have had is washed away in sickly pallid incandescence.

Then 4:30am rolled around.

Then we were asked to leave the parking lot. Then we were asked to wait at the nearby Waffle House.

Then 4:45am rolled around.

Then the girl and her horrendous Russian friend arrived and said that they wanted to eat first. This had not been mentioned before. Then it got worse and all I could do was shrink into my seat and beg that my phone’s battery could stay alive to keep me entertained enough from killing two Batshit Bitches just to make the hurt go away.

Then 5:00am rolled around and it became MY FAULT. I was the bad guy.

I got out of the car and began to walk SOMEWHERE, because anywhere was better than where I was. The line was drawn by my friend and finally two very bipolar and annoying females were in the rearview mirror.

I had had a decent amount to drink. It’s part of the terrain. I got home, told my wife the story (leaving out the fact that I’m pretty much every stripper’s wet dream) and collapsed in a heap of me shaped shit.

I woke up with the first ever case of a human hangover. It was not the booze nor the excessive smoke or the gyrating landing strips that caused my aching heart and soul but two very Batshit Bitches having an unhealthy and inappropriate outlook on how exist on this globe.

It still a shitty excuse why not to do a blog but it’s the facts. And now you know.

- Nick Nunziata is not going to the strip club tonight. Or tomorrow. Thursday… we’ll see.

And now… an ancient Mary Worth War Strip from the vault…

No Need to Large It Up!

All apologizes to the creators of the strip. This intended as parody only and not an attempt to be the best thing ever.