- Before you come to the strip club, GrubbyHands, StinkyTeeth, and SwampyBalls, it’s appropriate to take a shower, wash your hands, brush your teeth, and change out of your clothes if you work a physical job or sweat a bit at work. The club is open until FOUR A.M. — I promise you’ll make it in time, even if you change your clothes after work. I don’t want your grimy fingers all over me, okay?
- If you’re at the tip rail, CheapSkate, you should be tipping each girl. If you’re with a group, no less than half of your group should be tipping each girl. If you don’t want to tip a particular girl, move away from the stage and make room for those that do. Your ass is taking up space at my stage, so either pay or get out of the way.
- I understand: you want pussy, Pervy McPerverstein. I understand if you ask me ONCE to go to your hotel room, house, dinner, car, suck your dick, fuck you, touch your dick, let you touch my pussy, or some other thing that I’m not willing to do. But seriously. The answer is no. “No” was all-encompassing of those things. The minute you deposit enough money into my bank account that I can retire for the rest of my life very comfortably, I’ll suck your dick. Until then, I just make fun of your repeated, desperate attempts to get me to do the same damn thing. You think you’re the only one that’s asked tonight? Seriously? You think that if you ask me in just the right way, I’ll say yes? Not gonna happen. The more you ask, the more we laugh later.
- Appropriate attire for strip clubs without a dress code: slacks (yes, uh-huh, dig out those khakis, baby, just like that). I didn’t say you could wear jeans — that shit hurts my skin. I don’t even want to talk to you because of your jeans. I didn’t say you could wear sweatpants (Sweatpants BonerMan), workout shorts, sleepwear, and so on. I get it. You want more sensation for your buck. I promise that dress pants are a nice compromise — not as restricting and thick as jeans, and not as awkward as your fucking swimming trunks. You’re not at the fucking pool. And you should have showered after going to the lake, anyway (see #1).
- If you don’t want a dance, say “No, I don’t want a dance, thank you,” like a grown-ass adult. Don’t ask me to come back later, don’t avoid the question, and don’t pussy out on looking around like you can’t hear me. You fucking heard me. Yeah, you, the one that forgot to bring his invisibility cape to the club tonight. I get it. I’m not your type or you’re too fucking broke to be putting your sweaty palms all over my goddamn chairs, but just say it. Say no. Say it fucking promptly. And remember to say thank you. A nice tip is appreciated for my time, if I’ve wasted it. I’m working here, not just bar-slutting it up for fun.
- Hey, Grabby McGrabberstein, keep your hands to yourself. Didn’t your mother teach you any fucking manners? Did I say you could touch me? Nope. I’m just not that turned on by your Cheeto-powder covered fingers suddenly grabbing my ass while I’m staring at the motherfucking fishtank, okay? I’m fucking busy over here, and if you wanted to smack my juicy ass, a cash sum and a request for a dance is a nice bit of foreplay, thanks.
- What’s wrong with your fucking face? Why are you fucking making those faces at me while I’m on stage? You know the one where you stick your tongue out at me? Sometimes accompanied by a first and middle finger spread in a “V” shape? Yeah, you, with the fucked up face. That’s not hot. Ditto for grinding your teeth at me (creepy!), literal drooling (What am I? Fucking Pavlov with a pack of dogs now?), falling asleep/passing out at the stage (that line on your forehead and confused look is SO HOT, I’m getting off right now), rapid blinking eyes (there’s no fucking sun in here, guys), and the gaping food-hole in your face (I can see your fucking filling. Pick up your jaw. Yeah, I’m hot. I know. People pay me for it).
I’m sure there will be sequels to this. For now, try not to be ThatFuckingGuy that makes us all groan or laugh when you walk in.
EDITED TO ADD:
I was trying forever to remember where the original phrase, “Sweat Pants Boner Man” came from. Finally, I found it, on Tits and Sass, appropriately cited. Apologies for the many reblogs without this citation, as it isn’t an original phrase of my own.