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Wow, hey, everyone! Guess what? We’re all poor!

I’m sorry to be glib about a situation that’s wiped out countless college funds, savings accounts, and nest eggs for drugs, but when you’ve been poor for a while now, watching everyone get tossed into the same pool of piss is almost comforting. Almost.

Mom, please stop crying.

Naturally, everyone will still need writing for their websites in order to attract more clients, right? Press releases will still need to be written, companies advertised. My fingers are crossed so hard I’m typing this with my tongue, so of course I start thinking about things I could fall back on, other than my ass.

As a nympho and an alcoholic in recovery, two things that take up sizable slabs of my brain’s pie chart are sex and booze. I’ve profiled my views on sex work in several previous posts, but after overhearing a news report about a New York stripclub that is now offering a lap dance for one thousand dollars, I reassessed the possibility. Sure, I dance in a manner that calls to mind images of a baby bass flopping around on the deck of a boat. I have the body of a twelve year old boy with tattoos that fall somewhere between prepubescent flash art and Lollapalooza ’94. But a grand for a grind? Sign me up!

Only the VIP Room in Chelsea is an anomaly. Although people are still willing to watch frisky females do a fandango to forget the financial fiasco, most are tipping ladies less. And the craptastic job market has piqued the interest of more women like myself who would previously think of stripping more in relation to electrical wires running for the pole. There’s a glut of dancers, a dearth of tips. Not good.

Predictably, the multiplying of sorrows has led to the never-ending happy hour at most watering holes, especially those that boast boobs with your beer. Business is up as more people imbibe to take the edge off. After all, if your vision is blurry you can’t see how thin your wallet is, and a hangover is a problem that will pass. As per their contracts, Ginger or Carmen will set their glazed eyes on you and listen from your lap as you whine about your pension plan and credit card debt. But from behind the bar the bills for beverages don’t translate into tips currently. Bartenders are feeling the pinch in their tip jars, even as they line ‘em up and watch patrons knock ‘em back.

Okay, so naughty dancing and drink doling are both out as far as surefire ways to stave off starvation. Fine. There’s still one line of work that I think is a pretty safe bet, if not more secure in this current market, and that is security.

People get stressed about money, they go to the bar to loosen up, they buy a drink (or a dance), and they don’t tip too generously. After a few brews, though, the fact of the matter still hasn’t changed, and their anxiety is now just uninhibited. The guy next to them doesn’t want to hear their sob story, or is telling a lame one of his own. Pretty soon a round of foamy fun becomes a round of fistacuffs. The business of bar security must be booming these days. Not to mention that people will always try to grease the palms of those standing between them and an entrance. Andrew Jackson is a skeleton key.

Of course, there are several cold, hard facts standing between me and the other side of the velvet rope. Namely, I am a girl. Even underneath my tough exterior there are two ovaries and a lip gloss obsession. Although I’ve dated a female bouncer in the past [Editor’s Note: Hot.] I don’t think that even a lesbian bar would hire a five foot tall, one hundred pound, vegan voicebox to keep the crazy at bay. I could probably insult someone until they went home crying, but I couldn’t throw out an average sized guy who vomited on himself and punched the jukebox. Bummer.

But you can! Maybe.

Either way, beefing up your exterior will help you fight your way to the front of the line when we all start pulling our money from the banks.

Thanks to everyone who donates! I know times are tough, you’re helping to keep food in my belly and a roof over my head. Drop me a line to whine or comment: AinsleyDrew at gmail.

It’s not stripping, but there’s a fair amount of nudity involved.

Word shots.

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2 Comments

  1. It’s nice to see the rest of the world going to shit when we’ve been drowning in heaps of money-mongering shit for a while. I intend to sit back, relax, and let the government pay for school until the economy picks up. A nice “fuck you” to Uncle Sam, who is early and often fucking us in the ass. AT LEAST he could have a little stamina, no?

  2. God knows I’d hire you to do something or another (like editing!) if I could. Failing that, I’d just give you money. As it is, the jokes we are making around here include whether my husband should try breaking into the food bank at night, since a) they apparently give the same amount of craptastic food to a family of four such as ours, as to single individuals, and b) they can’t afford better security. (No shit: our local food bank has “laid off” a number of volunteers. Because there isn’t enough in donated food now to keep them busy. How fucked is that?)

    FYI, the sponsored links that show up on mouseover of the link to Simon’s twitter page included “Dreadlocks,” “Red Bull,” “Cornbread,” and “Root Canal.” Would that you could monetize that.


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