Point
Oh Man, This Stripper Totally Digs Me
Joseph Moneybags
Perceptive Hottie
I’m living the American dream: I have everything I want, and I buy what I don’t have. I buy beachfront properties. I buy best friends. I buy every iPod that Steve Jobs pulls out of his pretentious ass, even though I still listen to my Microsoft Zune.
Fortunately, I don’t even need to exert myself to get this hot chick all over my lap. God, she is so into me. Of course, I am practically feeding her Benjamins, but I bet she doesn’t even care because she’s just so hot for me right now. When she first started dancing for me, I thought it was only because I’m so goddamn attractive — I don’t blame her, the big guy upstairs graced me with a big guy downstairs, if you know what I mean.
What I mean is that I have a big penis.
Anyway, this chick dancing for me can clearly see I’m a good-looking guy. I got tons of dough, and I’m witty as hell. This dance is quite bootylicious. Her boobs are all up in my face (they’d better not get too close to this handsome devil though; I just got my teeth whitened, and I don’t want to mess it up.)
God, she wishes she could have me. She’s so into me right now. I’m probably just like, you know, radiating that aura or whatever the damn hippies call it.
Maybe I’ll tip her later …then again, maybe I’ll go all the way in.
Zing!
Counterpoint
I’m Charging This Guy Double Because He’s Creepy
Kandie Tiffany Mercedez
Objectified Linguistics Student
News flash, shitface: I’m a stripper. I’ve seen your type so many times. You really think I’m smothering you in my cleavage because I like feeling your stubble sandpapering my girls?
I’m only doing this because I can’t fucking afford grad school. I’m studying linguistics and cryptography — I bet you couldn’t even spell that without Googling it first. My stripper name is a cryptographic anagram that spells out “fuck my life” in an obscure, Borean-derived language.
I’m in cryptography because I like solving puzzles. Here’s a little hum-dinger I thought up just now, when I was humping that pole to the sultry sounds of Motley Crue: How many more times do I need to rub my ass-cheeks in your face until you pay me the correct amount?
Right now I may be performing a suggestive dance for a dimwitted, egotistical closet homosexual, but in my mind, I’m somewhere far off where money doesn’t exist and where I can do my cyphers in peace.
Jesus Christ, I’m depressed. I hate it here. I hate my life. I can’t wait to get that degree and not have to pay attention to these fucks anymore. I want to drink cappuccinos with intellectuals at overpriced coffee shops, discussing existentialism.
Whatever. If Simone de Beauvoir started her career wearing glittery star pasties, then I guess I can, too. We’ve all gotta start somewhere now, don’t we?
