So, Ogre came to hang out in NY...
I ended up too physically and mentally demolished to write my own account of what happened so I left it up to him.
This "happened"...in the same way that "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" is supposedly a true story. Ogre is a genius.
I visited Rex in NY a few weeks ago, and I've been trying to plot out how I could retell the story in an entertaining way. I've decided to use the metaphor method of telling the story, and using a night at the strip club as the subject. Not that we went to any strip clubs or anything.
The arrival at the strip club began in a very classy section that was ripe for some debauchery. At first it was only me and my guy from college, so we had to work it overtime to make ourselves visible. We met some strippers and some bar employees and found the classy section of the strip club was only there for the suckers to get completely wasted and to forget the whole point of being at the strip club. The ensuing wastedness seemed to last a full day before the blackout happened. The blackout was picture perfect, as proven by the pocket digi camera, and apparently one of us didn't forget the goal of the night. My friend found a stripper that had something special about her and decided to take her home. I woke up on couch with a bloody lip, and my friend woke up with an unused condom on his floor. The story was probably good, but we had to high tail it to the chinatown bus to get on our way to the better strip clubs up the coast. The only thing of note I accomplished was almost getting thrown out of an expensive cigar store for yelling "Show me your Cubans." The employee treated the situation as if I yelled bomb in an airport.
The next strip joynt happened with more friends, but the friends brought their own brand of turmoil. Mr. Clitosaurus and the other guy came to the party with different ideas on where we should view these boobies. We ended up going from club to club trying to find the perfect fit for all of our special needs. A night that began with sushi ended with a gothic themed strip club where the chicks served us Milwaukee's best and talked to other guys. The only stripper we were able to snare in our four sided trap was quickly turned off by the story of the unused condom and his potential for ED. Before we got a chance to shut him up we were outside eating bleu-cheese burgers. Normally this would seem an odd way to end a night, but it was only the beginning. The new guy in the bunch found a friend in a homeless guy with diabetes and a wheelchair outside, and started yelling at him to get a job. Despite the fact the guy might lose his leg to diabetes, new guy kept pushing the fact that he was a drain on society and nobody should help him but himself. I paid him a dollar to leave and new guy got himself a cab. Before any of us had time to reason with him, we were drinking scotch, getting high, and smoking hookah, while chewing bandits. The morning couldn't come early enough, and we had to get back on it soon.
The last day was the crowning achievement of the trip. We decided to leave the nice clubs and check out what the other boroughs had to offer. We started with a place where the chicks were nice, but standoffish. We weren't able to infiltrate the regulars, or really figure out what was going on. We didn't really try though, as we were mainly amazed how such a small town place could exist in such a big town setting. The place was called the yard, and the best thing to come out of it was the joke "Who's milkshakes brought us to this place?" Which is only minimally funny. Soon we were back on our way drinking Pabsts whenever we could and climbing in a cab to our next goal. A man met us at the door and immediately took the camera. He was a 5th place finisher in the 96 olympics as a wrestler, and none of us were going to argue. This place seemed to fit all of our styles. It was empty, and the chicks were half extremely hot, and half extremely down for whatever we wanted them to do. The club itself had no regard for laws or ordinances. The law says no touching: we touched. The law says bottoms stay on: the bottoms came off. The stripper says the lap dances cost $20 bucks: the lap dances cost $30 bucks. The law says no smoking inside buildings: The waitress offered me a cigarette. The dancers weren't paying attention to us for a minute: The waitress danced on me for a dollar. After several girls were used and abused, we moved on to better things.
The next club described itself as the only bar to offer short puerto ricans that will dance with you for $2. Rex, you're a better man than I. The rest of us hit on the bartender cuz that chick was hot. At least she was in our hormone clouded view at the time. Unused condom guy got a email address: who gets an email address? The next bar seemed to have nothing to offer except a chance to quickly move on to another site, but it had staying power. The club had karaoke and ugly people, except for four semi to more than semi-attractive chicks, who didn't mind talking to four guys who could barely keep it in the pants. The chicks were definitely professionals, but it seemed to be too late at night to find a better option. An amazing rendition of Psychokiller changed the complexion of the night and pretty soon the oldest stripper in the place began accosting us for our goods. Someone shouted "you just gave me an erection from dancing with you" and we knew we had to leave. Unused condom guy was the only guy to get busy, but a second bout of ED kept him from enjoying it. Luckily we were able to pass out on the couch.
The last morning was mainly breakfast and Flight of the Conchords references, which was all that was needed. It was concluded that the next round of this trip should include more rub n tugs and less time wasted. Also more flight of the conchords. Right Bret?