NOTE: This post was specially-contributed by Grand Masta Caspa
And so it begins. Once again I am back with a story that no one will believe (with the exception of a few people who know the story of my life and my luck). So for those who did not know I just started a new job working with a company called MarketSource. The basic idea and objective behind my job is simple; I am the person who trains the Nokia reps who try to sell you phones at Best Buys and the such. Well as with any new employee I was to be trained as to how to do my job. To be trained properly I had to be flown down to the “Dirty South” aka “Hotlanta, GA.” For those who don’t live with me, I had mixed emotions about going. On one hand I was excited to be starting a new job and on the other I was bummed about having to spend 10-12 hours in a conference room, sitting classroom style, with 40 other new employees, learning the world of telecommunications over a span of 4 days.
I arrived in Hotlanta on Monday afternoon. I was to be driven to the Marriot Hotel in Alpharetta, GA by 2 Canadian female co-workers. My expectations are exactly as follows: 2 bobbleheads saying nothing but “eh” and “aboot.” Well to my surprise when I called them to meet up with them, they were already resting nicely at the Marriot; they did not know they were supposed to wait for me. No problem, I’ll hop in a cab. Well this did become a problem. While minding my own business in the back of a ragged old Jeep Cherokee, I noticed that my driver (a 75 year old skinny black man, imagine Method Man’s dad on How High but much darker) had Yosemite Sam floor mats and (here comes the zinger) a picture placed on the dashboard, of himself, on his hands and knees in nothing but a zebra print g-string (pause for utter disbelief and/or laughter). My solution: a completely silent cab ride at a total of $85.
Day one consisted of meeting your co-workers over an open bar. My take on the event; dumb except for co-worker (Rueben, from Houston) with whom I would get into trouble with over the next few days and the opportunity for me to get drunk for free.
Day two was a lengthy one consisting of one really long boring meeting. The only saving grace was that we visited what may now be my favorite restaurant, Fire of Brazil. Fire of Brazil is the Atkins dieters dream. Basic premise of this restaurant is to stuff every person with as much meat as humanly possible. We were offered 13 different meats (roasted chicken, bacon wrapped chicken, ham, pork tenderloin, pork ribs, pork roast, pork shoulder, beef tips, beef ribs, beef kabobs, filet mignon, steak kabobs, and sausage). The meat is served on swords, by what appeared to be male slaves with large knives. Regardless of the male slaves, I ate the shit out of some meat. After gorging myself nearly to death with meat, Rueben and I decided to hit up the Cheetah Club (described to me by most in the hotel staff to be a great gentleman’s club with many single female women). WHAT IS TO FOLLOW MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR ALL READERS.
We approach and enter the Cheetah Club as many before us have done and as many more will probably continue to do. While in the Cheetah Club I decided to pay for a seemingly harmless lap dance. The fee: $25. The dancer, whose name was “Heaven,” appeared more anxious to give a lap dance to Rueben than one to me. Now I have been to many strip clubs and have seen many men who drop loads of cash on these dancers because they think they have a chance to go home with them. I have always walked into these places with the mindset that I am helping these ladies out by paying for their college tuition or their bastard children. Now for some odd reason I got the feeling that “Heaven” actually had a thing for Rueben. I decided to help my fellow man out and pay for his lap dance because he seemed a little bit nervous about the endeavor. When I expressed my interest in purchasing a dance for Rueben “Heaven” whispers in my ear, “Why don’t we take this in back and I’ll grab my twin sister. This one will be on me.”
They proceed to the V.I.P. room and on their way back Heaven motions to her twin sister to join them. Heaven sits him down and proceeds with her stripper ways. One thing begins to lead to another and the next thing he know her hand is in his pants.
Enter her twin sister from behind Rueben. Her twin sister (whose name I do not know) begins to rub his shoulder and head with her hand. Heaven then tells her twin sister to switch positions and take over where she left off. As Heaven walks to his backside she tells him to watch her, so he does as he’s told when he feel something weird in his pants. Rueben looks forward to find that her twin sister is MISSING HER FREAKING LEFT HAND. That’s right MISSING HER FREAKING LEFT HAND. HOLY SHIT. At this point Rueben screamed like a girl and bolted for the emergency exit, setting off the fire alarm. I’m just saying that is nothing wrong with missing body parts, but YOU CAN NOT BE A STRIPPER and most importantly YOU CAN’T BE SOMEONE’S TWIN IF THEY’RE MISSING A BODY PART AND YOU ARE NOT.
Long story short, worst strip club experience ever and poor Rueben may be scarred for life.