Later the other nite

So I'm cruising, trying to find the exactly right women for me, with the right mix of virginity and rampant hosemonster sexuality that breaks backs and makes Nun's cry.

Especially the bit about Nuns, I want that too.

So anyway, I go into this Nightclub with a particularly prententious name, called "EVERYONE IN HERE IS A REALLY IMPORTANT ARTIST AND YOU CAN'T BE COS YOU'RE OUTSIDE", and I only had to crawl through 3 miles of sewer to the servants entrance. At the end of the sewer I see a poo-soaked brick and the timeless adventurer in me makes me add it to my inventory.

I wash myself down and unzip my poo-proof bag and get out the sort of Electric White duds that have John Travolta throwing his belt over the shower rail when he's sober enough to remember...

The Matre'E (they're an advanced club) sees me and laughs, all according to plan, and bends down to slap his thigh in an effeminant fake french way, exposing the back of his head to me. The excretion drenched brick in my hand falls -just once-, and the Fake-French-Git goes to the great French Hunting Ground.

No, he wasn't dead, I threw him in the sewer. It might remind him of his fake homeland.

Anyway, to skip past a few more racial slurs masquerading in the name of good sex and bad spelling (not Aaron either) I enter the club in the garb of the Matre'E.

I get past the toilet bouncers and am into the club. Club distibuted rumour has it that you can see Movie stars in the club, all willing to talk to you if you can make the 12,000 swiss franc cover charge. I look around.

All I can see is an industrial vacuum cleaner with an extra big bag. Oh! Sorry, that's an industrial vacuum cleaner pushed by Oprah Winfrey. There's no-one else in the club.

My ideas of using the pickup line "Hi there sweetie, You know, I once pissed alongside Hammer - wanna ROOT?" go out the window, this is a definite waste of good money. Lucky I didn't pay.

I skip out the front door, only pausing to grab a pass-out, luckily I fell on the carpeted area tho, so it didn't hurt too much.

I go to a nightclub I feel more at home in. Sure enough, Mum's working the strip on stage and my dad's holding down the the sci-fi section with the "Probe Uranus" room. I'm sure they'd make less money if they knew it was a blank room with a shit-stained rubber glove in the corner.

But what the hey, I'm partying!

I trade in my pass-out of "EVERYONE IN HERE..." for a 2 litre keg of acid-wash, the stuff the use on Jeans to make them light. Sure it's poisonous, but isn't everything if you get too much of it?

(Which just happens to be another of my favourite pickup lines:
	She:    You shouldn't drink that, it's poisonous
	Me:     {the last sentence "Sure, but.." above}
	She:    Well what about sex then?
	Me:     You asking?
	She:    You offering?
	Me:     I am, but I must warn you, I'm wanted in 6 states for
		manslaughter...
	She:    It's ok, I'm not a man..
	Me:     I could teach you if you like, just grab your crotch
		every five minutes and talk crap continuously.  It's a 
		good cover
	She:    Works for you?
	Me:     All the time...
	She:    Woof.
	Me:     Bite me Lassie....
	etc etc etc)

So anyway, having exercised my lines, I wander over to the corner to a nice looking woman, who is obviously not from the south (She's got no extra fingers and doesn't drool continuously and isn't blonde), making sure the label of the bottle is facing her.

Me:     Mind if I sit here.
She:    No, go ahead.

I wonder if cheering myself on at this point would be rude. I decide to play it sophisticated and not mention the words pork, shag, or lovetruncheon unless my Durettes plays up.

Me:     Would you like a sip?
She:    What is it?
Me:     Acid Wash - good stuff - They use it to turn jeans whiter
She:    You shouldn't drink that stuff it's poisonous.

(What did I tell you - hook line and sinker)

Me:     {as above}
She :    Well, what about sex then?

(I hate myself, I really do.  This formula should be illegal, or patented
or something)


Me:     You asking?
She:    Nope.

Before I can think she gets up, whacks me over the back of the head and stuffs the flagon down my throat....

spt@grace.waikato.ac.nz - Simon P Travaglia