Patrick Stewarts "A Tale of Two Titties" or "The Bad Lieutenant gets a Lapdance"

What more can be said about this Redneck Report? I'll do my best movie trailer write-up for it and leave it at that.

"In a world of greasy thrills, three plucky young men and their trouser snakes set out on a trek to a den of inequity, because they could, and because they shouldn't. Will they be overpowered by skank? Who will drink the most beer? It's a 'survival of the most sarcastic' free-for-all in this no holds barred whore mongering quest of all quests. Starring both Patrick Stewart and Harvey Keital as Dementia Don. The feel-queasy hit of the season. - Anon"

-Jebby

Strip Bar!

A friend always warned me about the place. It really wasn't a warning, but that's the way I took it. "All I gots ta do is sit in th' corner, and before I knows it, th' women're all over me."

That really doesn't matter much; the place is a strip bar. But he went on. "All ya gots ta do is sit there an' treat 'em like ladies. Buy 'em a drink er two, and pay for a few dances, and you take 'em home. 'S easy!"

The bar is more of a whore house than anything else. It stands in the middle of Inkster, which says more than enough. So what the hell was I doing here? I always took Mark's advice and did just the opposite. When he started selling hard drugs with a few friends, I cut out of the scene. Lucky for me, too, since they're all fucked up; Mark has a fake hip from getting baked and crashing his car into another car; Bubba is a vegetable after getting half his head blown off during a bad deal; Dennis can no longer show his face in Michigan. Yea, and I took off to college to avoid it all.

But, then in other scenes, the circle came complete. Tim canceled his wedding because there was someone else. But that went sour. Then, he started hanging around strip bars. Dates? One never knows for sure; I do know several people who fell in love with strippers. Of course, they all fell flat on their face.

Rob, a friend of mine from the Eastern Michigan Marching Hurons, went head-over-heals for Candi (the following week she was Daisy, followed by Barbi, etc.). The first night he met her, she did the usual stripper routine. Be friendly, have similar interests, come from the same area; just like a regular easy girl, but the guy has to waste more money to see her naked. Anyhow, she sat on his lap, which sent him into instant orgasms. He put his arms around her waist, and, after she stated that she was only doing this to earn her way through college (that's every stripper's excuse), he said "See? They're people just like us!" Yea. She never really gave him her real name. And, every time he would go to Deja-Vu to see if she wanted to go out sometime, the response was always the same.

"Come back tomorrow, Rob, and I'll tell ya if I can go."

Kiss 100 more bucks goodbye.

I went with John and Tim more or less to laugh at the place. I always heard of Henry the VIII, but I never dared step into it. I was always afraid that my friends were telling the truth: That it really was a skanky slime-ridden hole in the Armpit of Disparity. And they were right.

It started out good enough. I called up John to see what he was up to for the night. "Oh," he said, "Tim's been going to Henry's for almost the entire week. I'm going along with him for the helluvit. Join us?"

Sure. Curiosity got the best of me. I could have stayed down in Bowling Green and partied 'till the cows came home (literally, too. There's a cow heard right out of town.), I could have joined two other friends and partied 'till the sun came up, or I could have stayed home and drank cookies and baked milk; just like what we did at Adam's bachelor party, right guys? But, no, I went up to Plymouth to meet John and Tim and go to Henry VIII.

When I arrived, I thought I was slightly under-dressed. Tim and John had ties and slacks on. I preferred a pair of washed-up blue jeans and a button down shirt. But, I wasn't going to impress anyone. I was just along for the ride.

To make a short story long, we walk into the bar. Some gut with a tux on said, "Five dollars and ID, please." He looked at my Ohio driver's license, and instantly became an asshole. "You know, your football team really sucks. Michigan will really kick your ass."

"Gee, that's funny, I never realized I went to Ohio State. All these years and I thought it was Eastern Michigan. Thanks."

But, evidently, he couldn't put two and two together. "And what kind of colors are those, anyways? Red and Silver?! Ha! Maze and blue all the way."

I guess he thought that I should retaliate, for he wasn't giving me my ID back yet. I looked at him and quickly snatched my ID back. Well, this is going good.

I walked deeper into the cave and, when my eyes adjusted to the total pitch-dark surroundings. I never knew that women needed to inflate their breasts. That was the first thought that came to mind. Every single topless person I saw had these two bags hanging from their chests. They were flesh in color, so I guessed that they were tits. But they were all. . . deflated. I mean totally deflated. Like some 13 year old kid ran up to them when they weren't looking and stuck their breasts with a pin. Totally disgusting. So the ball was on the roll.

The first stripper that sat down next to us was the one Tim "set up for John," if I can remember right. She said hello to John and to Tim and then she looked over at me. "Who are you?"

"Why, I'm Patrick Stewart!"

"No you're not."

"You're right. I'm Harvey Keitel."

"No you're not."

"Yes I am."

"No you're not."

"Oh yes I am!"

And on like that. I told that to every stripper who asked me for my name, and - you know? - none of them believed me! The nerve!

The strippers could be placed into one of three categories. First, the trainees. These were the ones who were just learning the trade. Then, there were the ones that had their time in the bigger, better places. They found out that their time was over, but they had no other training and didn't want to become waitresses. And, of course, the last group was the scariest. They were the ones that decided that turning tricks on the street was just too dangerous and decided to become strippers. Of course, there wasn't too much difference between the last two. The easiest way to see if they were new was to look at their skin; if they had less than two tattoos on them, they were fresh.

The waitresses were as bad as the strippers. Usually, the waitresses in a strip bar have some looks to them. But these looked like old whores, too. And one looked like Orca the Whore. 220 pounds of pure woman only wearing a bra, g-string and a tuxedo jacket. MY GOD!!! I'VE GONE BLIND!!!!!

I had plenty of time to look around the place. Dark. Really Fucking Dark. There were red alternating lights running across the top of the walls. The main tabletops had 10,000 watt light bulbs flashing alternately on the strippers then at every males' eyes. That blinded everyone, probably so no one could see how ugly the strippers actually were.

This brings us to the section that scared me the most. In the back corner, there was a totally dark room with two obese men standing at either side of the opening. I thought it was complementary VD testing. Especially when I noticed strippers entering and exiting. That's when I looked around and noticed nobody had lap dances.

John stood up and walked with his "sure thing" to the VD testing area. Tim took off to get food. I was alone. Easy prey. And it wasn't too long before I was found.

"Need some company, stranger?"

She looked like a more-drugged out version of Chris Robinson of The Black Crowes. And, of course, if you've ever seen him, you know that's a hard thing to accomplish. Oh, and her skin looked like she fell asleep and a gang painted her with graffiti.

To say the least, she pulled every single old trick in the book.

"You live around here?"

"Nah. I live in Bowling Green."

"No way! I live in Rossford."

Yea. Sure.

"First time here?"

"Yea."

"Me, too. Well, there's a first time for everything. . ."

"Yea. And a last!"

"What, you don't like it here?"

I looked at her as if she were on drugs. "No. Do you?"

She stared at me for a second and didn't say anything. Poor wretch.

She took me to the back for a dance. One of the men at the opening said, "Hay, you got a wrist band?"

So, I showed him my watch band. "Pretty nice, eh? It's lizard leather!"

Evidently, paying five bucks to get into the bar wasn't enough. Oh, no. They were a "classy" whore house. You also had to pay five buck to go into their secretive back room. But you did have unlimited access to it all night, and you get a nifty wrist band.

Needless to say, I got two more dances, and each time I was more fearful than the last. Luckily, though, no strange welts have appeared on my skin. Although every stripper that came to talk to me only got my name as Harvey Keitel, and every one found out that this was my "first and last trip to this slime hole." And they all look at me as if I were insulting them. Hmmmm. . .

Wonder why?