It was like …. that doggie in the window. The one with the waggely tail. As soon as I heard the phrase “like marrying a stripper” I knew I would adopt it. I heard it from ESPN radio-talker Colin Cowherd. Not sure how Cowherd uses it, but I know how I will use it.
If a regular guy “marries a stripper”, his buddies and his buddies’ buddies will all be talking about it. Like Jack / Jackee the cross-dresser at Blondie’s reunion, “the guy that marries a stripper” and “the stripper” are gonna be topics of LOTS of conversations.
To his face the comments will range from “Dude, you rock” to “You dawg” to “Excuse me, its none of my business but I gots to know …..”. Behind his back, at the barber shop and over the back fence the chatter will be different ….. “what was he thinking, SHE’S A STRIPPER!” ….. “date one maybe but who actually marries one” …. “he’s the last guy I’d ever think would marry a stripper”.
NOTE: This column has been up for a week and received national attention, but for whatever reason is just NOW (Tues 8/24) attracting the really hard-core crazies. Musta got linked on one of the bottom-feeder fan sites. Oh well ….
Have you compiled a list of friends in descending order likely to “marry a stripper”? You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? I love playing with ya’ll’s minds.
Words matter. It could be “marry a hooker” or “a ho” but “marry a stripper” is funnier. At least I think so.
Doggies with waggely tails and marrying a stripper will find a perfect analogous home. The ongoing unpleasantries over in Chapel Hill came along for a reason. Four years ago Carolina married a stripper – named Butch.
There was the “Dude, you ROCK!” congrats and the murmured “Doesn’t he know? Should we tell him?” “No, besides, maybe the stripper is not doing IT any more.” Yeah, right.
Is getting buck nekkid to titillate a roomful of losers with cheap haircuts and a sizable number of local elected officials analogous to flimflamming overly aggressive young men with a penchant for inflicting legalized mayhem and way below-average reading comprehension?
Is being the headliner at a nudie bar out on the bypass really similar to being the long awaited messiah who will lead us to BCS glory? In either case it’s just a masturbatory fantasy for the audience and a pile of empty liquor bottles for someone to clean up….
…a masturbatory fantasy for the audience and a pile of empty liquor bottles.
Time passed. The odd couple settled down, bought a nice starter-home and opened a 401-K at the local credit union. “Stripper-wife” did everything she could to fit in to the neighborhood. Put away the Daisy Dukes and the Candies and the French t-shirts. In their place she wore jeans a size too big, over-sized tees, and espadrilles. She used minimal make-up never teasing her hair, pulling it into a ponytail with a rubber band most days.
At neighborhood get-togethers she avoided direct eye contact with anyone’s husband lest she be accused of “flirting”. She boned-up on TMZ so she could have inane chit chat with the other wives. She learned to make two kinds of casseroles and even took a course in organic gardening at the community college. She drove a Kia crossover and told her manicurist definitely no French tips. She really tried. After four years it seemed to be working out.
She was shopping at Trader Joe’s at Eastgate lingering over a choice of imitation coffee flavorings – Amaretto, Hazelnut or, a seasonal special, Pumpkin Spice.
Ms Wuff and “that jersey girl with the blue dress on” from a block over were chatting by the deli counter. They had always been a bit standoffish. They hadn’t noticed her.
“…. and when she was in Miami, she entertained A-rabs and Colombian drug lords.”
“Did they run her out of Cleveland for doing kiddie porn?”
“I hear she was the original “Debbie” in Debbie Does Dallas and did NOT use a body double ….”
It hit her like a blitzing linebacker from the blind side. The baggy jeans and tuna casseroles had not mattered. She was “the stripper”. She would always be “the stripper”. A marine with / without a jarhead haircut is always a Marine. With / without stilettos and a brass pole – a stripper is always a stripper.
Vice cops from Indianapolis would always be snooping around the neighborhood asking questions.
She drove the Kia back to the tidy suburban ranch on the quiet cul-de-sac. She knew what she had to do. Her husband – Tar Heel – had been wonderful to her. He bought her anything she wanted. He bought her a black lab they named “Blake”. “Blake” could go fetch really well. There were gifts for no reason – a $250,000 check on their first anniversary. He was building an elaborate “Blue” addition to their house amid the towering pines! He didn’t care what anyone else thought – he loved his stripper. She loved him in her own way.
But she had never deleted the old playlist from her i-tunes – those songs with the pulsating beat. Her entrance music. Her old agent/pimp Jimma would leave voice mails. Some afternoons, she would draw the drapes and get out the naughty school marm outfit or the Nurse Goodbody uniform. Tar Heel never asked her to get rid of them. She never said she had. Both knew it was best not to say anything. She really tried.
The casseroles, the Gerber daisies, the sensible shoes were fine and perfect for most people, but a stripper isn’t most people.
Tar Heel saw the note on the breakfast table as soon as he walked in. He didn’t have to read it to know what it said? Tar Heel knew. Work was going well but he knew the suits at the home office referred to him as that nice guy that married a freakin’ stripper. Nice guys who marry strippers get known but never get the big promotion. How would the memo read – We are pleased to announce our new VP for Strategic Marketing is that guy who married the stripper.
Dear Tar Heel:
We gave it our best shot. We tried our very best. Four years or fourteen years, I’ll still be “the stripper” and you’ll still be “that nice guy who married a stripper”. Call that nice coach from Vanderbilt or Ty Willingham or even Bill Cowher (!). You deserve to be happy. You really are a sleeping giant you know.
I’m taking Blake with me. Jimma has booked me into a nice club in the SEC. Please don’t try and follow me.
Butch The Stripper
PS: Yes, I did clean out our bank account. Hey Gomer, you married a freakin’ stripper, you dolt ! …. There is a tuna casserole in the fridge. Just heat it in the oven for 10 minutes at 300.