Don’t Follow the Leader


I have insomnia. It’s not cool, man. I am wide awake, it’s only 12:14 a.m. so it’s relatively early (for me) and the documentary about Charles Manson and the biatches in his crew isn’t on until 2:00 a.m. I am completely intrigued by true crime stories like the Helter Skelter story of people who fall into traps like those chicks who followed Manson. Since I have 1 hour and 46 minutes to kill, I think I will blog it out.

Have you ever wondered what makes people decide to join a cult? I don’t get it dude. I think back on a time in my life when I used to believe random lies from boys when I was naive and young, but it was silly stuff like, “I’m sorry.” Or “I will only put the tip in. Just the tip, just to see how it feels.” It was never major stuff like, “I am the Messiah. Go stab some famous people.”

I wonder what kinda person falls for a guy like that? Perhaps a member of the bugar-eaters club in High School? You know the type…always smelly, always sitting in the back of the classroom isolated from other people with their head buried in a notebook, drawing their D&D character or whatever fantasy game they play। Not to offend people who played Dungeons & Dragons…I have heard it’s a super game. (C.Y.A. – you never know.)

Anyway, to round up all these followers, you would have to assume the guy is obnoxiously handsome or at the very least RICH। Wrong! I don’t know about you, but all the cult leaders I have ever heard of are total A-holes and not even remotely attractive. Case in point – Jim Jones. This cat fired up his own religion and schmoozed 909 people (not just chicks, mind you) into dying for him. This went down on the coast of Guyana in a kooky little South-American jungle where 1,000-ish people willingly left their lives behind to follow him. He called this quaint little dump “Jonestown”. All of his followers (300 were children) worked 12 hours a day while being brainwashed by listening to his propaganda. I don’t know about you, but I do my best work when I am jamming to some rockin’ tunes, not “You will love me…You are a Communist…You hate freedom…” blaring over a loud speaker all the live-long day in the hot-as-balls jungle. Whilst I am swinging a sickle, this asshole is sipping iced tea and getting blown by like 4 unattractive men. Hey, it could be true. I read about the guy. He was a swinger. Anywho, what I am getting at is this…throw on some Skynard dude. Crap.

As the grand finale of his escapade, good old Jonesy shot a congressman and his camera crew who had traveled to Guyana to check out “Jonestown”, largely at the request of concerned family members of these followers, or as I like to call them…fucktards. The congressman visited these followers in their dilapidated little busted-ass shacks to see WTF and try to convince some of these dickwads to come home. Immediately following the assassination, Jimmy mixed up a ginormous cocktail of strawberry Flavor-Aid mixed with cyanide (bastard was too cheap to bust out with some Kool-Aid) and all the idiots stood in line to chug it. People were practically doing keg-stands to ingest this poison because he told them to do it. How does shit like this happen? I haven’t heard of such behavior in my lifetime, well there was that one dude with the aliens and stuff…but dang man. What baffles me the most is, this Jones dude wasn’t even good-looking! I mean he looked like a combo of Fat-Elvis and Ronny Milsap, plus mix in a little dab of your creepy uncle Fred, and you get Jimbo the Pimp.

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Jim Jones was a complete douche rocket*, yet he somehow managed to smoke all these folks into traipsing down to some random island in the middle of nowhere to live in the jungle with no A/C and bust their asses all the live-long day to pick fruit or whatever then kill themselves. Talk about clout. I can’t even convince my seven and nine-year-old to rake leaves in the back yard for $5 each. Do they teach classes on how to locate gullible morons or how to get people to follow you anywhere and do whatever you say? Shit. I would have much rather signed up for that one instead of learning advanced Microsoft Excel. Jim’s gig sounds way more lucrative.

***Not to change the subject right now, but I really need a wonder hanger. You can hang 5 garments at a time on that bitch. Late night TV rocks!***

What was I talking about? Oh yeah. Cults and whatnot. I simply don’t get it. I see reality shows and documentaries on TV all the time about women who fall in love with criminals on death row and old ladies who get swindled out of their social security checks by televangelists and shit. Not to be a broken record, but this just makes no sense to me. So as a faithful reader who cares about what happens to me, you can do me a solid. If you ever notice that I am starting to eat cat food because I have mailed off my retirement money to some asswipe I saw on a religion show late at night, something has gone awry. For starters, if it’s organized religion, strike one. If I change my name to Sunshine Daisy or Jimmy Jam’s Pookie #12, strike two. If I am sporting a mu-muu and panhandling at the airport…shoot me in the face; I deserve it. As a reward for the generous act of ridding the world of my dumbness, feel free to loot through my shit and keep what you like. I will save you some time right now and tell you I am probably keeping all my valuables in a froot-loops box under the panty-hose filled with used cat litter in my freezer because I have officially lost my fackin’ marbles.

In closing I would like to say that the world don’t move to the beat of just one drum, what might be right for you, may not be right for some.

I should not drink caffeine past 10:00 p.m.

Peace.
Les

*Douche Rocket is a term I learned from my friend Tiffany Wilson. She is hilarious and I always give props to people when I use their material. I personally hate it when people shoplift my personality and don’t give me proper cred.



Pole Dancin’


The four of us, James, John, Sandy and I decided to go out for a bit of entertainment this past Friday night. We started out at ‘Hotshots.’ I am not usually a fan of this bar, or any of the bars in the chain for that matter, but we were trying to stay somewhere close to home. We were there for one bucket of beer, then we collectively decided it would be a smashing idea to make the trek over to the luxurious ‘Queen of Hearts Lounge’ in beautiful downtown (unincorporated I think) Fenton, MO.

Besides me, John was the only person in our group who had been in this glorious establishment before tonight. Immediately when we got a whiff of the inside, he told us the place had not changed a bit since he went in there about 20 years ago. I forewarned all my cohorts that this place was top freakin’ notch before we even got there. I told them to “prepare to be dazzled.” And here is why…
Partially naked tweakers dance on poles at this bar. Oh yeah. Let me tell you a little bit about the place.

First of all, you can smell the ambiance (aka busted stripper ass and trucker sweat) before you walk in the doors. The smell can best be described as “musty-cellar meets ash tray.” When you step inside the bar is straight ahead. You need to stop here and choose your poison right away so that you can really appreciate the whole experience. After we purchased our beverages, I was scoping out prime-seating for the spectacle before us. At the far-left, behold the stage. It comes equipped with some mirrors that have not seen Windex since circa ’84, and a pole that has some serious crusty build-up at the bottom, I told myself it was remnants of paint, just so I could muster up the strength to swallow my beer.

I thought we would sit near the back, so as not to disturb the “regulars”.

James opted for a table right in front of the stage. Of course, since chivalry is not dead, he offered me the seat nearest the stage. I found out later he chose that seat for me so he wouldn’t get splashed with anything. Thanks, babe.

The first entertainer called herself “Nova.” I am still not certain if she was referring to the stellar nova or the rusted out ’64 Chevrolet. Neither here nor there, she was littered with tattoos, had some missing teeth, and clearly opted for the do-it-yourself-at-home hair highlighting kit. She was dancing to Guns ‘n Roses ‘Paradise City’. We later found out that the strippers were the only people allowed to choose the music, patrons were forbidden to touch the jukebox. She swung around that pole like a goddess. As difficult as it was for me to take my eyes off her, I did peruse around the room and notice a home-made poster that said, “Please tip our dancers, it’s only $1.00″ Nice. Before Nova left the stage, she gave a quick standing-on-your-head lesson to a drunk chick in the bar. Hot.

The next performer weighed close to 220-230 and she was about my height without her clear 5-inch heels. I did not catch her name so I just nicknamed her “Meat Skirt.” She hoisted herself up on the pole and spun around gracefully until she got about a foot from the stage and she fell like a hot freakin’ rock the rest of the way down. At this point, James turned to us and stated, “I would like to meet the architect for that pole.” Clearly he was impressed. She danced for her two songs, she was heaving and sweating like a fat kid chasing the ice cream truck, (if the ice cream truck was a pole, and the fat kid had on a teddy and hello kitty band-aids covering his pepperoni nips.) After she finished wiping the stage of her sweat, it was the next lady’s turn.

I chose the nickname “Lady” for the last performer because that’s what I call all women who are older than my mom. For “Lady’s” music, she chose to dance to the vocal stylings of Heart. A quality song choice for a geriatric stripper, indeed. As I saw her approach the stage, I thought to myself, “Watch this, Lady is a pro. She is going to show these young girls how it’s done!” I was wrong. Man was I way off.

I can only guess, but I always imagine that inside a stripper’s mind, they are thinking, “Show them how hot you are, how limber you are, how hot you are in the sack” I imagine that’s what really rakes in the dough. Based on Lady’s dance moves, I guessed that she was thinking, “I am glad I took that extra Doane’s earlier because I do NOT want to throw out my back again.” As she was dancing, I looked around the room and noticed that NOT ONE PERSON in the bar was watching her. I started to wonder if she was there on a dare…or if she was crossing something off her bucket list, and I told everyone at the table to give her a buck when she came off the stage. Sandy said “I am not tipping her! She sucks!” But then James with his infinite wisdom said, “Come on Sandy, give her a dollar! She has grand kids!”

Sandy and I are best friends, we had a blast in there with our husbands. We were not worried about any hot chicks coming through to try and steal them away from us. I am pretty sure James’ penis crawled back up inside him for safety. There was another stripper sitting on the sink in the women’s bathroom. She was on the phone trying to get people to come in to the bar and watch her dance. She had a really nasty looking burn on her leg, she said she was drunk, and apparently naked)while curling her hair and dropped the curling iron on her leg. Sandy (being a nurse) said, “you need some silvadine on that burn.” But Crunchy (I nicknamed her Crunchy) replied, “Don’t worry, I will put superglue on it before I dance.” Thanks, Crunchy.

We had a blast that night playing pool in the back of the bar…hell we closed that place down. In all, if you are looking for a good time, and you want to see some hot strippers, I say go to Sauget, IL and check out the action over there. However, if you are looking to get tanked and laugh your ass off, head to the Queen of Hearts Lounge off the River Road in Fenton. There are good times a plenty in that crusty little joint.

Les