Retro Relapse: Dude, You’re Not My Girlfriend

RETRO RELAPSE is a series of older articles from various places where I used to write before Talking Pulp.

*Written in 2014.

I think we’ve all known this guy at some point. He’s the guy that is one of your buddies but kind of always acts like the girl in those “overly attached girlfriend” memes. He’s easily upset, always wants to be the center of attention, a total drama queen, a jealous diva and a snooty bitch. What I’m talking about here is a weird enigma that is becoming an epidemic, as many more men seem to be adopting these behavioral traits. If you’ve got a male friend who has a tendency to act more like an annoying girlfriend than a guy you want to go to the game with, this post’s for you.

Guys today, as I have talked about in previous articles, aren’t the buffalo hunting badasses of previous eras. Sure, some of us are, but hunting buffalo is now illegal because our swashbuckling badassery almost wiped them out. This isn’t about murdering tasty buffalo though, it is about getting these bitch men we all know, back on track – if that’s even possible.

A few guys I know, don’t act like men in the realm of building relationships with other men. They don’t seem to understand the unwritten codes and laws of manhood. Those who know these codes, know what I am talking about. If you don’t, it isn’t my fault that your DNA isn’t working properly. These bitch men who don’t seem to know and respect the code and the way things are, tend to act more like sensitive girlfriends who embody a level of neediness more fitting of a spoiled female child at her sweet sixteen party.

I think the easiest example is to paraphrase a texting conversation that I had recently:

Him: Are you coming over for dinner or not?
Me: No, dude. I told you like a week ago when you asked that I had shit to do.
Him: WTF? We never see each other anymore? You never come to my house.
Me: I told you a week ago that we could do something on Wednesday.
Him: Yeah, well I don’t know. I’ve got shit going on too.
Me: Cool. Whatever. Let me know.
Him: So what’s your plans tonight.
Me: I’m going out with (insert random name here) for his birthday.
Him: Oh, him again? Don’t you guys see each other enough.
Me: Well, alright then.
Him: So, that’s it?
(no response)
(5 mins. later) Him: So we’re on for Wednesday?
Me: You’re supposed to let me know.
Him: Well, I really wanted to do something TONIGHT. That was the plan.
(no response)

I think that sums up the kind of dude I am talking about and that’s just one scenario but you get the picture.

I’m not sure why many men act like this but I find it bizarre. There is a whole slew of reasons someone could point a finger at but between the bitch men I know and the bitch men my other male friends know and have told me about, all these guys come from vastly different scenarios and upbringings.

Maybe this is just one of the negative effects that has developed due to modern society pushing for a more androgynous face. Men in America have been becoming more and more emasculated due to a myriad of reasons. I’m not bitching about that per se but when men are demonized for being themselves and young boys are raised in a less manly world, shit like this is what you’re going to get. Also, with a lot of young males being raised as “mama’s boys” due to absentee fathers, one would have to consider that a possible factor. But again, when analyzing the sea of bitch men out there, each one comes from completely different and contrasting circumstances.

I don’t push most of these guys away or blow them off because despite them acting like an approval-seeking needy girlfriend all the time, most of them are actually good and decent people at their core. It’s just that something isn’t working upstairs for them. I don’t know what that is, I wish I did so I could help them in a more effective and direct way than just putting all this out there.

Additionally, you can’t even really point this stuff out to them because, like an annoying girlfriend, they have an insane level of sensitivity. Sorry, but I have never been the type of motherfucker to coddle people, especially a goddamned man. And if I just told them to “man up” they’d misinterpret that as “hey go buy a paintball gun” or worse yet, they’d cry. Hell, I’m wondering how many of these guys will read this and possibly give me the silent treatment. Well, at least for ten minutes or so, until they need me to tell them their pretty.

At the end of the day, I have enough drama and bullshit dealing with women. Granted, I seek out less dramatic women but they always have some level of dramatic bullshit that they will bring to the table. Truthfully, I don’t mind it that much in women overall, if they’ve got their shit generally in check. However, when I hang with my fellow men, it is an escape from dealing with the ladies because it is a totally different dynamic. I get different things from my relationships with women and my friendships with men. I don’t need a bunch of dude’s ruining my female downtime by acting like fucking females. I don’t care and I don’t have the attention span for it. I’d rather just sit home alone drinking bourbon, eating ribeye and watching Steve McQueen movies.

Retro Relapse: Men Who Text Like Teen Girls

RETRO RELAPSE is a series of older articles from various places where I used to write before Talking Pulp.

*Written in 2014.

Being a man in the modern world is often times difficult. I mean, it really shouldn’t be if we embrace who we are and stop worrying about stepping on the toes of those who may find our masculinity offensive. Fuck those people, whether they’re feminist trollops or apologetic dudes suffering from a chronic case of dick guilt. Those people really don’t matter to me other than being a minor nuisance in life, kind of like a fruit fly in my face when I’m trying to eat ribeye.

Moving forward, being a man has become somewhat difficult for several fellows I know. You see, many guys find it necessary to fill up my phone with texts that look as if they are coming from 13 year-old middle school girls. I get one word texts like “sup”, “holla” and other words that are mostly spelled incorrectly and so ambiguous that I’m not sure if I am supposed to respond to it or if I should wait because it looks like they accidentally hit “Send” before finishing the sentence.

Then there are all the acronyms and texting shorthand bullshit that I’m supposed to know. The simple ones are “lol”, “lmao”, “rofl”, “roflmao”, “omg”, “brb” and some others. Then there are the more difficult acronyms like “afaik”, “fyeo”, “ianal”, “nagi”, “ptb”, “qq” and so on. I thought “ianal” was just lanai spelled backwards or it meant what it says,”ianal” a.k.a. “I am down for anal.” Apparently it means “I am not a lawyer.” Yes, a thirty-something dude sent that to me. I told him to stop texting me like I’m his adolescent girlfriend. How or why he even knows that acronym and thought that I would as well is pretty baffling to me.

I also get “k” instead of “ok” or “okay”. Are you that lazy that you can’t type an extra letter and send an “ok” instead of a “k”? How busy you must be, I’m glad you took the time out to send me that one letter. Then there are the guys who prove they aren’t lazy, just lame as hell and too cutesy to be men when they send “kk”. Men aren’t supposed to be cutesy, leave that shit for the flower girl in your wedding photos.

Then you get those guys who abbreviate short words and text crap like “r u seri”. Are you asking if I am Siri because you spelled her name wrong or are you asking if I am serious? Who the fuck knows. Just type out “Are you serious?” It isn’t hard and I just typed it in this very sentence and it took less than two seconds maybe even less than one second.

Another texting issue with some guys, is the dudes who seemingly can’t finish a thought before hitting “Send”. For instance, you get like four texts within 4 seconds, all of which add up to one sentence or a group of words that could’ve been articulated in a normal sentence. Think about what you want to say and articulate it in a single text. Don’t rush to send me every bit of thought progression going through your slow moving mind. I understand that sometimes a text needs a quick follow up, as yes, sometimes you need to quickly send a footnote but to send 3-4 additional footnotes every time you send a text is ridiculous and it makes me want to block your number. I’ll be honest, sometimes I’ll mute a conversation like this and not check up on it for another day.

Then there is the chronic “lol” user. The guy who types “lol” after everything, even stuff that isn’t humorous or funny. There’s a special breed that even puts multiple “lol”‘s in a single text. Was there a sale on “lol” bookends at Bad Grammar Depot? The “lol” has almost become a nervous laugh for insecure dudes. You know the guys who nervously chuckle and laugh after every sentence. Well, this is the text version of that and it is even more annoying. Frankly, I don’t think any dude should even type “lol” unless he is bitching about it like myself or trying to be ironic or sarcastic. In those instances, a perfectly timed “lol” can actually be associated with something funny.

I also hate having texting conversations with one word answerers. Yes, often times one word is sufficient but when you are discussing something detailed, a constant stream of “yes”, “nice”, “cool”, “sweet”, “awesome”, “whoa” and “lol” doesn’t progress things along nicely. It is like talking to a wall. It is texting’s version of the guy who can’t make small talk. You know, the guy sitting next to you when you ask, “How’re you tonight?” and he responds with “Fine.” Then you follow up with, “Come here often?” and he says “Yes.” Then you ask, “So what do you do?” and he answers with “Construction.” Yeah, great talking to you, buddy.

Dudes who text like this piss me off because it says several things about them. The first, is that they have poor images of themselves because they don’t even think that they look like an idiot when texting like someone who should be out with their mother shopping for a training bra. Secondly, if you can’t text a full sentence, it tells me that you really don’t have time to converse and our dialogue isn’t all that important to you, even though you were the one that initiated conversation with “sup?” Additionally, it makes me question your intelligence and heart because not only aren’t you annoyed by this intellectually lethargic and incredibly impersonal way of communicating but you participate in it and lower yourself to this new norm of Twitter shorthand and atrocious grammar.

The great manly men of yesteryear, had they had smartphones, wouldn’t have texted like this. They would have sent clear and concise messages back and forth that wouldn’t be littered with Twittalk and confusion. They’d send texts like “Meet you at Moe’s Tavern at 9 p.m.” or “Don’t forget to bring the bourbon.” or “We acquired steak. Feel free to swing by this evening around 7 p.m.” And frankly, that is how I text because that is the proper way to text. It is still short and straight to the point but it is clear and one shouldn’t feel like they’re a female child. If you violate your manliness while texting, you might as well be watching One Direction concert DVDs and pining over Edward Cullen. Congratulations, the evil feminists have won because you are now a little girl.

Texting like a man, isn’t difficult. All you have to do is see yourself as a man and not some weakling that has compromised his manliness after years of texting girls who themselves still think that they’re thirteen. Keep your texts short and concise but clear. Fuck the acronyms and never ever and I mean, never ever use an emoticon! When you send a text, think of it as a short email response. Kind of like a quick business email you need to send to a potential client to confirm something. You wouldn’t email a client “c ya 2mrw @ the meeting dood! *smily face.”

To be honest, I don’t know how any self-respecting guy can commit these texting violations and not feel like an emasculated wuss.

Retro Relapse: The Princess Syndrome

RETRO RELAPSE is a series of older articles from various places where I used to write before Talking Pulp.

*Written in 2014.

To all you princesses out there, this one’s for you!

You know who you are; the girl whose daddy always called her “princess” and bought her princessy shit for her room. The one who thought all those Disney movies were a primer on love and who thought that Prince Charming was the first guy you fucked. You roll with those other princesses, all perpetuating the same bullshit because those Prince Charmings who turned out to be Prince Douches must’ve just been under some evil witch’s spell. You can’t be the problem! No, not at all! You have “princess” bumper stickers all over your 2003 Kia Sephia and you wear shirts stating your royal status! It’s only a matter of time before a Prince Charming not under an evil enchantment sees all your princess shit and swoops in on his white horse to save you from the mediocrity that is your dull an boring royal lifestyle.

Of course reality is something much different than the bullshit fantasy you keep selling yourself, despite it being a cycle of repeated failure. It doesn’t mean that you don’t keep trying so hard though. The fairytale eludes you but if you have faith in it, you will get to that magic life you’ve always dreamed of. Your girlfriends pick you up, dust you off and continue to enable you, as you do for them. Yet it has never occurred to any of you that there can only be one or two princesses in the kingdom. You can’t all be “her royal highness”. Besides, if all of you are a princess, why is being a princess even special? It’s not and that’s the point.

You’re all one in the same striving for the same thing. With that being said, how can you stand out from the pack and be noticed? What makes you so special when you are just one princess in a sea of princesses? Truthfully, what makes you think a man even gives a fuck?

When I am confronted by a girl or a group of girls that exude this princess mentality, I run the other way. Not because I am intimidated by “royalty” but because I am annoyed by the stupidity of the world that they exist in. It’s the same reason that I walk away from dude bros at the bar who keep flexing and acting like they’re fucking Braveheart. You people are trying too hard and you need to chill because you’re acting like a piece of shit that can only attract other pieces of shit.

Ladies, just because your father and clam shell Disney VHS tapes filled your head with some bullshit, doesn’t mean that you have to project your fantasy on the rest of the world. Every girl who didn’t have an absentee father was “daddy’s little girl” at some point. Well guess what, there are billions of you in the world.

It amazes me though, how far some girls will go with this princess mentality. Not a weekend goes by that I don’t run into some girl celebrating her 32nd birthday, out in some shit bar, wearing a fucking tiara and a “Birthday Girl” sash over her princess gown like she just won some middle-aged average girl beauty contest. What’s wrong with you? I mean, really? I don’t recall Cinderella clutching the bar, puking up Jägerbombs all over her friends. And for fuck’s sake, by 32, you should be drinking adult beverages.

Let me further elaborate why your princess mentality is not going to get you a quality beau.

Real men, unlike the boys you typically get dicked up by, aren’t going to put up with your royal attitude. We aren’t going to deal with you being a stubborn bitch with a penchant for hissy fits. We aren’t going to see you as actual royalty… ever. You are not cheap or cost effective and even if you believe you are, you’ll still be a royal pain (pun intended) because nothing we do will impress you. Additionally, any woman who believes herself to be a princess is an idiot and not even worth attempting to have a real conversation with; real men don’t exist in fantasy.

It goes much deeper than that however, as chicks suffering from this Princess Syndrome are usually just awful people. You prefer men without a spine who will bow to your bullshit and kiss your ass. You are prone to cheating because when your spineless and nutless lapdog isn’t around, your royal vagina secretly yearns for the seed of a more masculine suitor. Unfortunately, this continues your cycle of Prince Charming revealing himself to be Prince Douche.

You are typically vindictive by nature and embrace your bitchiness like it is some badass hardcore badge of honor because you think you’re entitled to have such an attitude. You are not trustworthy and are probably always at odds with your “besties”. You certainly don’t know what “love” is, even if you think you feel it. What you feel is not real because your whole existence is built up on some Disney lie. Your life is an illusion. You’re shallow and empty and truthfully, no one wants to get to know you because there isn’t an actual person there to get to know. Stop being a fucking toddler.

This doesn’t mean that real men won’t approach you. We just won’t stick around when we come to know that we’ve got some princess in our midst. Maybe some of those failed Prince Charmings were decent guys but they bolted because you suck. That doesn’t make them all douches or assholes, it makes you the douche and the asshole. Furthermore, the real douchebags out there, who quickly see the game you’re playing, view you as easy pickings because they know that you are an emotionally vacant and distraught human being. There have been times where I’ve been drunk at a bar or a party and said to myself, “Fuck it, I’m horny and this will be a cakewalk.” It was.

There is no benefit to acting like a princess. You paint yourself out to be an annoying piece of shit and you’re just doing what a dozen other annoying piece of shits in that same bar are doing. You’re not unique, original and certainly not special. You are cookie cutter at best and frankly, the cookie is stale.

Shit to think about, princess.

Retro Relapse: Le Mans: The Greatest Race in the World

RETRO RELAPSE is a series of older articles from various places where I used to write before Talking Pulp.

*Written in 2014.

Since 1923, one race has stood above all others as the greatest race in the world: The 24 Hours of Le Mans.

It has now gone on for over 90 years and is inching towards that century mark. It is the most important event in motorsports history. It pits the best car manufacturers in the world, head-to-head, to see who is the best between them. It is a dangerous game of impossible odds, cutthroat competition and bragging rights yet it still exudes more class than any other sporting event in the history of the world.

The only thing that even comes close to the 24 Hours of Le Mans is Formula 1. However, Formula 1 doesn’t race for 24 hours straight, through the elements and into the dark of night on poorly lit and often times wet roads. I can’t think of a sport or a single event with such a level of danger, risk and reward. The 24 Hours of Le Mans is a showcase of the immortals behind the wheel. Only the best can hack it and only the best of the best can cross the finish line.

I could spend all day pumping this thing up because it is the most amazing thing that I get to witness year in and year out. This race is great for all the reasons I stated above but it doesn’t seem to click with American audiences. I guess watching ugly billboards go round and round in a circle for four hours is more exciting than seeing Ferraris, Porches, Aston Martins, BMWs, Audis, Mercedes and other beautiful cars weaving in and out of other luxury cars, s-curves and sharp turns for 24 hours. Sorry America, I have to side with the rest of the world on this one.

Additionally, Le Mans brings out the prototypes. The best manufacturers and engineers in the world use all their resources and knowledge to create the absolute best machine they can build in order to compete against one another. For more than a decade, Audi has dominated the sport because they have made cars that make supercars looks like ’82 Datsuns. In the past, manufacturers like Porsche and Ferrari dominated the sport. I’d rather see these majestic beasts of the road zipping by than some Chevrolet eyesore trying to sell me penis pills and Pop Tarts. If you don’t feel the same way, you need to really look at yourself in the mirror. To succeed in Le Mans, you have to be able to do a lot more than turn left at high speeds and talk with a twang.

This weekend, the 24 Hours of Le Mans returns. I will be glued to my television set for 24 hours, actually more than that due to all the pre-race and post-race coverage. Yes, I know that Audi will most assuredly win once again but that’s not the point. I didn’t stop watching Formula 1 when Michael Schumacher won five seasons in a row.

The point is, this is a sport for men. The most dangerous and life-threatening sport in the world. It gives us the best drivers in the best machines on the best race track ever created. It gives one more excitement and awe than some Mike’s Hard Lemonade 900 or whatever the next NASCAR race is called.

Steve McQueen, one of the greatest manly men to ever live, made a racing movie about one event, it was the 24 Hours of Le Mans. Hell, the film itself was simply called Le Mans.

Any argument one could have against Le Mans being the most badass sporting event of the year is completely and utterly invalid.

NASCAR can keep Tom Cruise.

Retro Relapse: The Fitness of the Modern Man

RETRO RELAPSE is a series of older articles from various places where I used to write before Talking Pulp.

*Written in 2014.

You go to the gym, you lift, you spin, you even hit a speedy blue ball with a racket. Sometimes you run, sometimes you swim and sometimes you stair climb. You eat celery and tuna and only drink water and protein powder mixed with water. You tore your half-shirt last week when flexing in front of the mirror for a Vine. All that is great and fantastic but compared to the men of ancient times, you’re a pussy.

Don’t worry, it’s cool, I know that in this regard, I’m a pussy too – it is what it is.

The fact of the matter is, no matter how many crunches you do or how many power squats you scream through, some ancient Mongol savage could probably conquer a dozen of us in about 30 seconds. We’d be nothing but easy-to-kill food for all the old school warriors of every badass race in history. And no matter how hard we work to improve ourselves, we’d never be more than a sandwich or a nuisance to those people. Their world is gone but if they still existed and hadn’t evolved into us, they’d pillage the shit out of us in no time.

You see, it doesn’t matter how strong you are or how fit you are, you’re still doing it all wrong. And that’s okay because as society has evolved, we don’t need to be rabid beasts roaming the desolate wilderness for a minute form of anything considered sustenance. We no longer have to hunt and gather and thus, life is pretty fucking easy.

Apart from that, we no longer have to find ourselves in constant battle with neighboring tribes who want our land, our food, our water and our women. We don’t have to be on edge constantly because we have a society that is organized and for the most part, civil. We have air conditioning, hot water, television, movies, the Internet, fast food on every corner, a Starbucks wedged between every corner and a multitude of vices we can use to distract ourselves from a world that is nowhere near as tough as it used to be. Shit’s simple.

Looking at the Aztecs, Vikings, Mongols, Apaches, Spartans, Medieval knights, musketeers, Roman gladiators, Ming Dynasty warriors, Rajputs, old school Persians, Comanches, Centurions, Zandas, Maoris, Samurai and Ninjas we’re just fucked. Even Neanderthals would probably just grab us and crush our heads between their palms like the Hulk trying to squash a grape. And the truth is, these guys didn’t work out. They didn’t need to. Their whole existence was a workout. Us modern men, if we’re on top of things, schedule an hour (maybe two) to go to the gym and maximize our time in that short of a window.

The thing though, is that modern men aren’t training for the oncoming wrath of another warrior tribe, they are training to look good above all else. It’s a fashion show and a lifting competition; it’s no longer about survival. Apart from athletes who work out and train for performance or badass motherfuckers like the Green Beret, Navy SEALs or Delta Force, fitness has become a dick wagging contest. Sure, some people do it for health. In fact, most people claim it’s for health. Reality dictates something different than the rhetoric though when you see swollen dudes screaming at each other pressing bars with hundreds of pounds on them all in an effort to impress and outshine their fellow dude brahs.

I’m not saying that this is wrong or trying to paint it as silly or pointless. Truth is, I want to bench press school buses and have the physique of Dwayne Johnson. I think ultimately, most guys would want that (and many women too). I’m just not going to kid myself and pretend that I’m some Herculean barbarian that could eat an entire village for brunch and make a stew out of their weakling souls. As hard as any of us work, unless we are living in a cave whittling battle axes with our teeth and walking 30 miles per day over mountains and through swamps to find 4 oz. of protein, we’ll never be what we were.

But that’s okay, as a society, we’ve earned our much easier lifestyle. We’ve evolved to not have to be the barbarians of old. However, those old habits are still ingrained in our DNA. At a primal level, we probably are still fighting for survival despite the theatrics. Additionally, we’re still competitive because that’s what we are.

Keep working out, stay healthy, eat good but maybe cut out the effeminate low calorie beers because Mic Ultra would just piss off the brutes of old.

In the end, live a long and prosperous life because we deserve it. It was the old warrior and barbarian ways that led to our success and the luxury of not having to remain warriors and barbarians. Let’s just hope that a magical rift in time doesn’t appear because then we’d just be the meat in a Viking omelette.

Retro Relapse: The Legend of Dr. Chek

RETRO RELAPSE is a series of older articles from various places where I used to write before Talking Pulp.

*Written in 2014.

*Taken from my personal journal.

There is a legend that must be chronicled in order to keep it going for generations. A legend that I had never heard about until I experienced it firsthand while camping recently at Fisheating Creek in Palmdale, FL. The legend I am speaking of here in this journal, is the Legend of Dr. Chek.

Now before one might jump the gun, don’t simply assume that I am talking about the generic brand of Dr. Pepper soda pop that Winn-Dixie distributes through their chain stores. Oh no! This Dr. Chek is a raccoon! A brave warrior raccoon with an uncanny and bizarre handicap.

You see, while camping late at night, my fellow campers and I left a cast iron pot full of chicken and potatoes near the bushes by our camp in an effort to lure some small woodland creatures out of the brush for a little bit of casual observation. As the hours passed and I had to chase off some feral cat a half dozen times, I was alerted to the presence of something alive and unusual in the scrub palmettos approaching the cast iron pot.

A peculiar sound emanated from the palm brush. It sounded like “tink… tink…” -pause- “tink… tink…” -pause- “tink…” The sound kept repeated like some strange Morse code getting nearer and nearer! At first I thought that maybe some backwoods redneck was playing a joke on us, but no!

Out of the bushes crawled two raccoons. The first seemed very confident and brave and dove his tiny raccoon paws into the cast iron pot honorably and heroically. I named him Colonel G.W. Bertram Garrett. Behind the good Colonel however was the answer to the odd mystery behind that “tink… tink…” sound for there stood a raccoon with a rather bewildering and unbelievable feature.

As I was a bit taken aback by this interesting discovery, I had to stare harder to make sure that my 20/20 eyes were not deceiving me. But they weren’t; there was a raccoon with a soda can for a front right leg! Somehow it must have gotten stuck and he was never able to get the damned thing off! Hence the name, Dr. Chek.

Now one would think that this can could cut into Dr. Chek’s flesh and sever an artery and that is very much possible. However, when startled by our observation of him once or twice, he darted into the bushes like he wasn’t hindered by the abnormal handicap at all. In fact, he seemed to be just fine in his condition even though he could only eat and scrap with one paw, he couldn’t climb trees and lost the art of stealth with his ominous “tink… tink…” The truth is, he didn’t even seem to care and he didn’t let it get him down. Pretty impressive, as I’ve seen bear-sized men get taken out by springtime pollen. This raccoon was a goddamned warrior!

Maybe somehow that old soda can will combine with Dr. Chek’s DNA and when he plants his seed in a lady ‘coon, it will birth a new species of aluminum raccoons. It would only be a matter of time before they conquered the Earth! It’d be like Planet of the Apes but with metal raccoons – Planet of the Tin ‘Coons! Except they probably wouldn’t try to kill mankind, they’d just make us work on farms created for us to generate human trash for the tin ‘coons to eat. Damn, we all might be royally screwed!

I probably should have thought of this sooner, like when I was camping, and thus murdered Dr. Chek while he was in my sight. If mankind falls to these creatures, I am to blame. I should do something to make it right, if it isn’t already too late.

I apologize Dr. Chek, for I must not stop the hunt until your little half ‘coon, half cyborg soda can body is quivering and bleeding at the end of my bodacious cutlass!

Or… I could just leave him be, as a warrior of Dr. Chek’s caliber should be worshiped and admired like a just and righteous god.

Retro Relapse: An Economics Lesson for Anti-Capitalist Strippers

RETRO RELAPSE is a series of older articles from various places where I used to write before Talking Pulp.

*Written in 2011.

It is no secret to those who know me, I love spending quality time and a good chunk of change at the strip club. Those chicks fucking love me, especially after Christmas bonus time! Well, they act like they love me, which I am totally fine with because while they are acting like they are into me, I am acting like I am into them when all I really want is to grab a few titties, slap a few butt-cheeks and have my cock attacked by gyrating asses. A girl that really knows how to utilize her knees during a lap dance really gets my wallet’s respect (hint, hint to you strippers reading this).

In the past, I have been engaged to a few strippers because on more than one occasion, a night of drunken debauchery, capitalized on by yours truly ballin’ outta control, has led to genuine feelings shared amongst myself and a few of these ladies. I’m not talking feelings grown out of monetary exchange, I am talking about two people connecting and finding some common ground and understanding. Granted these situations never panned out, as most strippers are flakes in the real world and I am hard to please and easily irritated but it doesn’t mean that I don’t wish them well. In fact, I have tried to help many understand how they could make a shit ton of cash but usually my economic lectures are interrupted by another stripper walking up to steal me away from the one I’m talking to or by some generic crunk song forcing the stripper on my lap to act like a trained monkey dancing for treats.

I have given this lesson to many but only a few have listened. However those who have listened have made a fuckload of bank! See, I have a very simple plan, one that could provide strippers with the riches they so desire and often times try to get by latching on like parasitic lampreys whenever they discover a guy who seemingly has a bottomless bank account. Fuck those guys, your plan of seductively siphoning off their riches never works out to your benefit, at least not long-term. Rich dudes are completely fucking unreliable. The only person you can rely on is yourself. Only when you break through and shatter your anti-capitalistic mentality and look at your “assets” as a real business, will you be able to transform your lackadaisical and often times inebriated work ethic into a lucrative and promising career. Wouldn’t you like to be a millionaire before the strip club owner pushes you out on your 30th birthday? Well, this is a lesson on how to do just that.

In the area that I live, strippers work for bargain prices, so my neck of the woods actually provides me with a good example. If you make more for your services than the girls do in my area, adjust your math accordingly.

In my town, strippers typically charge twenty dollars per lap dance. I have been to places where the prices are as high as forty to fifty bucks a lap dance. I refuse to pay that. Not because I am cheap but because I don’t find the exchange of that amount of money to be equal to the service provided. Maybe I am just spoiled in my neck of the woods with our twenty dollar lap dances but hey, why pay fifty for one when in most towns you can get a b.j. for less? Hell, I know a girl that gives $10 handjobs. Not that I would want a cheap b.j. or handjob, I’m just trying to put the cost of competing services into perspective. Now back to my point.

A lap dance is twenty dollars ($20). That twenty-dollar lap dance usually lasts about three-to-four minutes. Let’s round up to four (4) minutes to have the numbers nice and round. So if a stripper performs five (5) consecutive lap dances that amounts to one hundred dollars ($100).. cha-ching! That’s one hundred bucks made in twenty (20) minutes, as 4 (minutes) times 5 (lap dances) is equal to twenty (minutes). Since twenty minutes is a third of an hour, multiply these numbers by three (3). The total money made in twenty minutes is $100, so the total money made in one hour would be $300! If a stripper works non-stop, she can make $300 per hour! Fuck getting that psychology degree you are all supposedly working so hard for at the community college!

And real estate licenses? Shit, the best real estate per square foot is any lap you’re grinding on.

Granted, a stripper can’t work non-stop. I mean, they do have to go on stage every hour or so for at least two songs. They also have to go to the back to freshen up and either get a swig of water or vodka. God forbid they dehydrate. So for reality’s sake, let’s say that she can squeeze in at least a half hour of real work, she is still averaging $150 an hour! Keep in kind, that this is a stripper at a $20 per dance rate. If you charge $40 per dance, you’re back up to $300 per hour! If you’re a $50 per dance stripper, you’re averaging $375 per hour! Those rare dancers in the really high-end clubs that can get $60 per dance from the high rollers will average $450 per hour! I wish I were a chick so I could hustle these horny motherfuckers and bank some serious cheese.

The craziest part is that strippers don’t just work for an hour, well technically they are at the club for more than an hour if they show up on time and don’t get sent home early. If they keep hustling during those hours, this hard earned cash will multiply with ease. If a stripper can maintain this pace, she’ll be rich in no time. Now, I know that there are peak times and low times during the day but if you have the looks and the tools, you should be able to get the attention of every dude that walks through that front door. Run that club and be the “go to” chick. It ain’t a hard thing to achieve, you just have to not look like ass and you have to make an effort to please and be pleasant and classy at the same time. No dude wants to continually throw money away on a hood rat. Stop acting like a dickhead, ladies, and get your shit together. Moving on!

If a chick works, say an 8-hour shift, and maintains her money making pace, she’ll walk away with $1,200 that day! Sounds crazy but strippers I’ve coached in the basics of economics have pulled this off. Sure, there are days where this won’t happen but one girl I talk to told me that she can pull this off about three times a week, when she works five to six shifts. If you can hustle like her, you can get paid! Am I sounding like an infomercial for a bullshit product yet? Really though, I ain’t selling anything, all this knowledge is free! Well, maybe you can hook me up with a few lap dances next time we meet, as a courtesy of course.

So my girl that was able to hit the $1,200 mark was also able to average this three times a week. That comes out to $3,600 a fucking week! That ass is expensive! Think about that number for a minute. You could pay for your titties in one week!

Now most of us are aware that there are 52 weeks in a year. If you multiply $3,600 (per week) by 52 (all the weeks in a year) you could hit $187,200 in a single year! This is before taxes and shit but who really claims all of their “tips”? Also, this is before you have to pay your dues to the club owner and DJ and whoever else, depending upon your establishments set up.. but damn! $187k a year is over 18 times more than the poverty level!

In five years, at this pace, you could earn $936,000! That is just shy of a million dollars! If you push even a little harder, you could be a millionaire in five years. Fuck that club owner, you could buy his ass out and run that shit the way it should be run. Hell, that might actually be a bad idea because you may just want to focus on shaking that ass because that ass is one hell of a bread-earner.

In ten years, you could earn about 1.9 million dollars! So if you started stripping at 18, by the age of 28 you could have nearly 2 million dollars. Do you know what you could do with that much money? This is considering you didn’t blow it on drugs, asshole parasite boyfriends or Hello Kitty sandwich makers. The truth is, your ass can make you rich.

So why are strippers usually broke and always whining to you about it? Quite simply, they have the shittiest work ethic I have ever seen. Some of them are there to please but half the time they are socializing with you, it is a waste. They are either trying to get you to buy them appletinis or Chinese food. Often times, the customer has to ask them for a dance, as they are too busy gossiping with regulars who are just there to drink. Otherwise, they are just bumming cigarettes while rolling their eyes whenever another stripper (who is hustling) walks by with a customer in hand. If you don’t get off of your fucking asses and try to sell your products and services, the competition will crush you and the opportunities and most importantly the money will continue to pass you by. The knowledge I have shared here is literally a million times more valuable than any dollar bill I have shoved in your black light reactive panties.

Do you want to be a winner or do you want to debate with yourself if you should quit and go back to Hot Topic because you feel that you were better off there at $7.25 an hour? At least the assistant manager from Spencer’s thought you were cute enough to buy you a smoothie everyday. Fuck all of that, it would take about 3 hours of shitty menial work at Hot Topic just to equal the $20 you could make in 4 minutes at the strip club. Do the fucking math.

You have also got to stop with the negativity and bullshit excuses. I’ve heard it all before. If you know that you are good at what you do, why the fuck are you working in a club that barely gets any customers? I’ve heard the day shift excuse too. You’re only on day shift for one of three reasons. The first, you are getting old. The second, you are a newbie. The third, you aren’t pulling your weight. If you were the top attraction, you’d be working the prime schedule. Even then, if you get the prime shifts and the customers just aren’t there to make it lucrative for you, go work at another club. Hell, move to a bigger town and get a job there. If you are better than most, you will make more than them. If this is what you do for a living, make it your fucking passion. If it isn’t, get out and go do something else. Take pride in what you do or don’t do it. PERIOD! If you take pride and have the work ethic to hustle, you will do what you have to do to make it big. Free market ass is where it’s at!

I’ve given you the keys to success here. All you’ve got to do is work it and work it well! If you’re on drugs, stop using them at the office. If you spend more time drinking with desensitized regulars than looking for the steady flow of new paying clients, stop it and switch your game up. If you’re spending more time gossiping with the other girls or whining to customers about your prick boyfriend, you will never succeed at the level you could. All it takes is effort; the problem is that most strippers seemingly don’t have any. Instead of taking that as an insult, any stripper with half a brain should look at that fact as an advantage. Your competition is easy pickins. So pick away, hustle and count that paper.

You’re fucking welcome.