A Whore Raising Experience

Since I don't have kids, I rarely comment on child rearing techniques.  However, I recently witnessed a parenting cluster fuck the likes of which I've never seen.

Hubs and I were with a group of friends at our favorite Greek restaurant in the city.  My friend and the brother my parents never gave me, Roger, was on leave from the Army visiting with us, so we wanted him to experience this great place. (Roger isn't his real name, but I swore I'd use that name for him if he made the blog because instead of saying "yes" he always says, "Roger!") 

This restaurant is typically raucous with drinking, dancing on the tabletops and roaming belly dancers.  It's after 10 p.m. and we're relaxing after a delicious meal, enjoying some adult beverages and good conversation.  Suddenly, we notice something we'd never seen there before:  a group of small children ranging in age from I'd say three to eight years old.  I'm no expert, but should young kids be out in a bar at that time of night?

But wait!  There's more....

Little girls dressed in sequined outfits with bared midriffs joined the belly dancer.  They even got up on the tabletops and did bump and grind moves that were waaaaaaay beyond their years.   I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd started doing apple juice body shots.  Our group all looked at each other and asked, "Is this making anyone else uncomfortable?"  It was weird.  Very weird.  But, much like a train wreck, we couldn't look away.  I hadn't seen bumping and grinding that inappropriate since my Night at the Dusty Beaver.

Roger, whom I'd been telling about this place for a long time, turned and gave me a look that clearly said, "I had no idea you were in to this sort of scene, pervert."  I assured him that this had never happened before, but he remained skeptical, especially when the little ones began stuffing cash in the dancer's G-string.

One of the parents whom we immediately named "Stifler's Mom" due to her voluminous, exposed cleavage seemed to be directing the tots.  Nice influence, there, tits.  Was there a Billy Ray Cyrus parenting workshop in town we didn't know about?  I thought that perhaps this group was out on the town practicing newly acquired kid pimping skills. 

Now, while I believe it is important for kids to learn the art of tipping, I do not think that includes baby hands making it rain on a scantily clad dancer.  There are certain things that little girls in the single digits shouldn't do.  I never thought parents would have to be specifically told, "Hey, how about not letting your six-year-old drop it like it's hot next to my dinner?"  Oh, and, "While you're at it, could you tell your little princess to stop twerking on the waiter?"  I'm 43 years old and it's safe to say that my parents would still try to beat my ass if they saw me doing bullshit like that. 

We even asked the waiter,  "Is that appropriate in here?"  He said that the parents were responsible, so what could they do?  I beg to differ on the "responsible" part.  If those girls end up dancing on a pole one day, their parents can't say a damn word.  They planted the seed.

If there was a pedophile dining there that night, no doubt he thought he'd discovered the best floor show in town.  Does it make you proud, Stifler's Mom, to know that some perv is tucking away images of your six-year-old's provocative dancing into his spank bank for later?  Nice.  Really nice. 

How about displaying some good judgment and class Mom of the Year?  I Ain't Nobody's Mama, but I know bullshit parenting when I see it.

Night at the Bashful Weiner

I introduced you to my gay boyfriend, Poodle, back when I shared my Night at the Dusty Beaver.  Poodle is always ready to go out and enjoy fun with our close group of friends, so when he invited us out to a drag bar, how could we resist?

He had to talk the straight guys in our group into going because they were totally not digging a drag club as a site for a fun evening out.  However, Poodle lured them with the temptation that there would be lots of lesbians there.  "What straight man doesn't like lesbians????" He asked.  They really had no argument for that, so, off we went, complete with Poodle sporting his pink, feather boa for the occasion.

For the purpose of this post, I will call this drag bar The Bashful Weiner. (I'd hate to offend any of the performers or patrons with my critique.)  Having never been to a drag show before, I expected the performers to look like Bea Arthur or George Foreman in evening gowns for some reason.  I could not have been more wrong.

The first performer was wearing the equivalent of a banana peel and two Band-Aids.  He/She was toned and tight as a drum balancing effortlessly on five-inch heels.   I was shocked.  Totally shocked.  Ladies, there is absolutely no excuse for us to look like shit when a MAN can make himself into that attractive of a woman. 

I was surprised at how entertaining the show was with the different performers singing, dancing, and cracking jokes.  One performer, however, brought us to an uncomfortable place.  He/She came out onto the stage in a wheelchair.  I thought, okay, so here's a disabled drag queen.  Not expected, but hey, good for him/her.

He/She proceeded to flail around to the music then suddenly -- BAM! -- he/she was face down on the floor.  My first reaction was, "Oh shit!" I felt sure this was an unfortunate accident for the performer.  But, then he/she began to gyrate on the stage and eventually was up -- on two stocking clad, perfectly functioning legs -- dancing.  I'll be honest.  I really didn't know what to make of that.  I was shocked, dismayed, relieved, confused.... So I ordered another drink and kept watching.

Poodle didn't lie about the lesbians.  There were a shit-ton in attendance.  But, he stretched it when he intimated that a straight man would enjoy observing these ladies in this habitat.  By my estimation, all of them (except for perhaps one or two) looked either like Justin Beiber, complete with side-swooped hair and oversized trucker hat or lumberjacks on furlough with their wallets chained to their jeans for safekeeping.

As I was looking around, I caught the eye of a burly looking gal with a mullet who winked and gave me a nod.  My first reaction was, "Oh shit!" Then, I got a little insulted because I knew I could do better if that was the side my bread was buttered on. 

As the night wore on, Hubs and the other straight guy in our group had to go to the restroom.  Poodle had warned them earlier in the evening to "watch their backs" if they had to go in there because things had been known to happen.   One got up and said, "Hey, man, you need to go?"  The other quickly stood up, stretched and said, "Yeah, man.  Let's go."  This was the only time in my life I have ever seen two straight men go to the bathroom together.

They returned a few minutes later, laughing and ready for more beer.  Thankfully, there were no unusually friendly guys in the men's room.  They were laughing at the fact that there were flowers in one of the urinals. They'd never seen that at Hooters or at a ballgame.

It was quite an enlightening night.  One to check off my Bucket List -- or at least my Fuck-It List -- for sure.