Jesusbudda’s Weblog

Whilst walking my imaginary cat the other day in the rain, I chanced upon a secret undergound club that provided nightly entertainment in the form of handicapped strippers.

Anturally I was taken aback: this wasn’t advestised in the local newspaper.

I asked the burly gentleman at the door how much it was to get in. He asked me what my name was. I responded “Jesus Budda”. He acted like he didn’t know who I was. But I knew he knew that I knew he knew who I was. I saw him dropping his sister off at one of my cult meetings a few weeks back. I could never forget that car. Not many folks drive a replica of the batmobile around these parts.

I said I wasnted to go in. He said I’d have to leave my cat at the door. I agreed. A retard strip club is no place for an imaginary cat.

So I proceed inside past the guy. There was nobody at the kiosk, so I’t turned out I didn’t have to pay to get in. Maybe there was someone there, but they were either too short and mute or hiding.

I pulled back a cheap curtain that was covering the entrance to the actual main hall. It was dark and smoky, so naturally I switched on the lights and opened a window. The few customers inside weren’t too pleased with that, so I switched the lights off to quieten them. I left the window open though. Always a good idea to leave a wndow open for an emergency exit. It could save your life.

sat at a table. Flimsy plywood thing covered in a stained table cloth. Reminded me of home. A woman approached and asked if I wanted a drink. I said “no. I’m only hear to see the naked retards and I’d be on my way soon”. She shrugged and stumbled away. I think she was an alcoholic. And she smelled of orthopedic back spray.

The cheesy pinao music suddenly stopped and was replaced with some throbbing drumbeats that made the table bounce up and down. A curtain parted on a tiny stage and a figure slinked out from a haze of mist.

“This must be the dancing naked retards”, I thought to myself.

I was right.

She was about 21 years of age and approximately 4 feet tall – including artificial limb extensions. She moved pretty good for somebody of such modest limb quality. No rhythm whatsoever, mind. She was dancing to a tune in her head it seemed. Round face and chubby limbs. Up-turned nose. Dainty feet like a cabbage-patch doll’s.

And then it struck me. What was I doing here? I was supposed to be walking the cat. So I got up and left.

Would I go again? Maybe. But only if the cat could come inside too. And if the lights were on.

So check out your neighborhood and see what’s going on. Maybe you’re living next door to a serial killer? Maybe that nice woman who beats small children with a broom is really possessed by Satan?

That quiet guy that kidnaps kids and sells them to the Russian mafia? What’s his story?

There is so much to do it could make your head explode! Or hurt. Spy on your neighbors and take notes. What harm could it bring? Live a little. Be adventurous.

JB