6/25/07
This weekend I embarked on that most Viking of masculine rituals, the Bachelor Party. Three of my friends and I (yes, I was shocked I had that many friends, too) went up to St. Louis to paint the town red. Hanni and her friends went up as well, staying in a different hotel and having their own alcohol-soaked bachelorette affair. Needless to say it was unlikely our paths would cross, and in fact did not.
Those of you unfamiliar with Springfield may ask why we didn’t just kick it here and save the 3 hour drive. Anyone asking that has never been to a strip club in Springfield. The difference in quality exotic dancers between the two cities is like comparing the Playboy Mansion to watching your elderly aunt take a bath.
But fair females goodly enough to remove their delicates and shake around a bit in exchange for ludicrous amounts of money wasn’t the only thing on our agenda; we also planned on setting fire to some perfectly cash by hitting the casino boats as well. I mean, they’re just little, green slips of paper, right?
I’d like to say a few words about our accommodations, if I may. We stayed at the Millennium Hotel right next to the Gateway Arch. If you ever get the chance to stay at the Millennium, don’t. It’s not strictly a bad hotel, but other than the outside façade, I wouldn’t say anything was nice about it. First of all there was a Cardinals game going on across the street, so naturally the parking garage had been slated for game parking at a criminal $15 per space. We did get a space free because we were guests of the hotel, but only the first level was open to us…which basically meant driving around in maddening circles for about 15 minutes, following people around like a roving horde of kidnapping rapists on the off chance they were going to vacate a parking space.
The rooms were bigger than a bread box, but not by much. Also, I had to go one floor up to get ice, and the hallway next to ours may or may not have housed a dead body within one of the rooms, but it certainly smelled like it. But enough of this literary appetizer; let’s get to the entrée.
We ate at Broadway Oyster Bar just down the street, which has been named the best Cajun food in the city for a decade running. I concur; it was Bayou-tastic, even if the oysters-on-the-half-shell appetizer was made up of shellfish that looked as though they may have suffered from anorexia. Oh, and this fish was my friend:
I named him Jacquemo. Another point of interest, we now have a winner for “Craziest-Ass Bathroom on the Planet.” This 80’s-faboulous monstrosity of a funhouse shitter was, quite literally, the size of a hall closet:
This weekend I embarked on that most Viking of masculine rituals, the Bachelor Party. Three of my friends and I (yes, I was shocked I had that many friends, too) went up to St. Louis to paint the town red. Hanni and her friends went up as well, staying in a different hotel and having their own alcohol-soaked bachelorette affair. Needless to say it was unlikely our paths would cross, and in fact did not.Those of you unfamiliar with Springfield may ask why we didn’t just kick it here and save the 3 hour drive. Anyone asking that has never been to a strip club in Springfield. The difference in quality exotic dancers between the two cities is like comparing the Playboy Mansion to watching your elderly aunt take a bath.
But fair females goodly enough to remove their delicates and shake around a bit in exchange for ludicrous amounts of money wasn’t the only thing on our agenda; we also planned on setting fire to some perfectly cash by hitting the casino boats as well. I mean, they’re just little, green slips of paper, right?
I’d like to say a few words about our accommodations, if I may. We stayed at the Millennium Hotel right next to the Gateway Arch. If you ever get the chance to stay at the Millennium, don’t. It’s not strictly a bad hotel, but other than the outside façade, I wouldn’t say anything was nice about it. First of all there was a Cardinals game going on across the street, so naturally the parking garage had been slated for game parking at a criminal $15 per space. We did get a space free because we were guests of the hotel, but only the first level was open to us…which basically meant driving around in maddening circles for about 15 minutes, following people around like a roving horde of kidnapping rapists on the off chance they were going to vacate a parking space.The rooms were bigger than a bread box, but not by much. Also, I had to go one floor up to get ice, and the hallway next to ours may or may not have housed a dead body within one of the rooms, but it certainly smelled like it. But enough of this literary appetizer; let’s get to the entrée.
We ate at Broadway Oyster Bar just down the street, which has been named the best Cajun food in the city for a decade running. I concur; it was Bayou-tastic, even if the oysters-on-the-half-shell appetizer was made up of shellfish that looked as though they may have suffered from anorexia. Oh, and this fish was my friend:
I named him Jacquemo. Another point of interest, we now have a winner for “Craziest-Ass Bathroom on the Planet.” This 80’s-faboulous monstrosity of a funhouse shitter was, quite literally, the size of a hall closet:
We did shots of Jäger and something consisting of Crown Royal and Apple Pucker, which makes it a slightly gayer shot than a “Royal Flush*.” Properly lubricated with girly shots, we took to the streets and winded our way to the President Casino down on the Mississippi. I apologize for the lack of pictures here; casinos and “gentlemen’s clubs” tend to frown upon photojournalism.I won $100 playing roulette and blackjack, but that’s not what you want to hear about, is it, dear readers? No, I know why you’re here. You want to know about the strippers, you dirty birds.
You can pretty much take your pick of clubs along “Stripper Row” across the Mighty Missisp’ in Sauget, IL, because there’s not an unattractive woman within miles of the place. On this trip PT’s (the Penthouse Club) takes the cake, and for reasons which you cannot possibly guess. It had nothing to do with the ladies, comely as they were.You can pretty much take your pick of clubs because there’s not an unattractive woman within miles of the places. We went to one other one, the name of which escapes me, but on this trip Penthouse takes the cake, and for reasons which you cannot possibly guess. It had nothing to do with the ladies, comely as they were.
Aaron and I were minding our own business, sitting down there at the edge of the stage and watching a fetching young blond show off some impressive plastic surgery when all hilarious hell broke loose. I can only assume that this guy worked for the club, perhaps as a “hype man,” because how else he would be allowed to do what he did is beyond me. From out of the peripheral shadows, like Nightcrawler just teleporting in with a burst of purple smoke, came this frenetic man in a full tuxedo who leapt upon the stage with the dancer. From his pockets burst showers of $1 bills like a ticker-tape parade. The best part? He bore a staggering resemblance to Farnsworth Bentley, so just imagine this man suddenly dancing all over the stage, raining wads of cash and dry-humping the strippers:
Got that? Has that psychotic image crystallized in your mind? But wait, there’s more! The dancers weren’t the only ones to receive attention from Farnsworth; at one point he dashed to the edge of the stage where Aaron and I sat and threw wads of cash into our faces like Emeril – BAM! Then, quickly as he had come, Farnsworth vaulted off the stage and vanished back into the night, leaving only a rain of money and mirth behind as any clue that he’d ever been there. This is a time when even my eloquence with words cannot fully express the awesomeness of watching an energetic, tuxedoed black man dry-humping strippers amid towering showers of cash.*Crown Royal and cranberry; filled with rainbow-y deliciousity.
