Dave was a “man’s man” at the local manufacturing plant—the kind of guy who smelled like industrial grease and desperation. Between bowling on Tuesdays and Thursdays and “networking” at the golf course every Saturday, he barely spent ten minutes a week with his wife, Linda.
For Dave’s 45th birthday, Linda decided to stop nagging and start “participating.” She figured if she couldn’t beat the boys’ club, she’d join it. She told Dave to dress up, then drove him straight to The Velvet Grotto, a strip club that smelled exclusively of Pine-Sol and regret.
The Arrival
They hadn’t even cleared the velvet ropes when the bouncer—a 300-pound wall of meat named Tiny—grinned, revealing a missing molar.
“Davey! Good to see ya, pal! We got the VIP corner open if you’re looking to get weird tonight.”
Linda froze, her heels digging into the sticky carpet. “The bouncer knows you? Since when do you ‘get weird’ with guys named Tiny?”
Dave didn’t skip a beat. “Honey, that’s… that’s Big Mike. He’s the alternate on my bowling team. He’s just friendly because I let him borrow my spare ball last week. He’s a bit of a talker.”
The Service
They sat down at a wobbly table near the stage. Before Linda could even open the drink menu, a waitress in a thong that was doing a lot of heavy lifting slid two napkins onto the table.
“The usual, Dave? Or are we feeling fancy since you brought a date?”
Without waiting for an answer, she returned with a lukewarm Budweiser and a shot of cheap tequila.
Linda’s left eye began to twitch—a rhythmic, dangerous pulse. “The usual? Dave, you told me you only drink at weddings and funerals.”
Dave broke into a cold sweat. “She’s the beverage cart girl from the 6th hole at the country club! I’m a high-tipper, Linda. It’s about service. She probably just saw me and assumed I was parched from the back nine.”
The Main Event
Suddenly, the lights dimmed to a deep, lurid crimson. A dancer named ‘Destiny’—who was wearing approximately three square inches of spandex and enough glitter to be seen from space—strutted over. She didn’t just walk; she prowled.
She slid into Dave’s lap, wrapped her legs around his waist, and whispered loud enough for the next county to hear:
“Hey, Big Davey… ready for the ‘Double-Down’ special? I cleaned the poles just for you, you filthy animal.”
The Aftermath
Linda didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She simply stood up, grabbed her purse, and delivered a slap to Dave’s face that sounded like a gunshot. She bolted through the exit.
Dave, sensing his life insurance policy was about to be cashed in, scrambled after her. He dove into the backseat of a waiting yellow cab just as Linda was mid-way through a creative, five-minute monologue involving Dave’s anatomy, his mother’s lineage, and several things you can’t legally do with a bowling pin.
The cab driver, an old guy named Sal who had seen it all, adjusted his rearview mirror, looked at Dave’s terrified face, and then glanced at the screaming woman beside him.
Sal sighed, clicked the meter, and shook his head.
“I gotta hand it to ya, Dave… you’ve picked up some real skags in your time, but this one is a real bitch.”
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