I think we're at our best by the flicker by the light of the TV set.

Monday, March 30, 2009

Trixie Taylor (Pet's Name/Street I Live On)

Our crap-tastic economy is causing strange things to happen. Take this morning, for instance, when my mom suggested I become a stripper. Yes, a stripper. As in a scantily clad sexpot seducing strange men with lap dances. She saw some story on the news about smart, successful women who turned to pole dancing after losing their job. One woman dances three nights a week and makes a whopping $1,500 a night...or six figures a year! SIGN ME UP. I'll start ripping off my clothes and shaking my ass right now! That sure as heck beats the $12 an hour I make as a receptionist at the law office and would definitely be more exciting. The office smells like old people and stale farts, not that a strip club would smell much better. And though I like to think of myself as Pam Beasley, there's no Jim Halpert around to spice things up.

I can't lie. I'm a bit flattered that my mom thinks I have the potential to be said sexpot. As far as I'm concerned, I'm a daddy long legs with no rythym and little, if any sex appeal. It didn't take long for her to burst my bubble, though. She said my only setback to entering the wonderful world of stripping is, ahem, my chest. She thinks I would probably need breast implants since the strippers she saw on the news had "big 'ol boobies." But, let's see, when I factor in the cost for implants, which would run me about $1,200 (see: yourplasticsurgeryguide.com) the price won't really be an issue considering how much money I'll be making as a stripper. It's worth the tits, don't you think?

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