If I were a stripper…

If I were a stripper, I would limit my song selection to that of Ani DiFranco and Joan Jett (maybe a little Voltaire on the nights that I am feeling goofy). If I am going to dance around like a half-naked fool on stage, I’ll do it to music that I like, Dammit!

If I were a stripper, I’d fart during lap-dances on purpose. Any man insistent upon getting close enough to smell my knickers deserves the full tour.

If I were a stripper, I’d use a pair of ancient, malicious-looking scissors to remove my clothing. And if anyone tried to touch me I’d stab them with those same scissors then promptly return to what I was doing.

If I were a stripper, I’d morph my hair into a rainbow colored Mohawk, because I think that style would really suite my personality. Plus, I am of the opinion that I could have boogers hanging out of my nose and I’d still be sexy. Therefore, my appearance is merely an identifying characteristic and has no real bearing on how appealing I am. (Any who disagree with this theory can have a round with my blowtorch, because I DIDN’T ASK YOU.) Moving on…

If I were a stripper, all over my body I would apply messages with glow in the dark body paint like…

“Sharpen Your Daughters.”

“My Body, My Rules”

“Unless”

“Fuck War”

“If you lived here, you’d be home now.”

“Don’t drop the soap for anyone, but me.”

…and other stuff. Maybe once in a while I’d use Mud or fake blood instead. (For dramatic effect.)

If I were a stripper, I would work out all of the time! I would lift weights, and take kickboxing classes! Not to lose weight though. I just want to be a bouncer part time. I’d love a job that gives me an excuse to kick some ass on a regular basis. That would make my fucking day!

And this is because I like being naked. And I don’t see a problem with getting paid to be naked, or even flirting. Elsewhere, I do it for free. But I would never actually be a stripper because of the middle-aged greasy fucks that I would have to strip for. Eww…or worse yet…The fucking frat boys. (Advice: Polo shirts look great on lesbians, but not so much on you guys.) Personally speaking, I think that all frat boys should have to wear a sign that says, “Beware of date rape.” There is no way I am taking my clothes off in front of a whole pack of ‘em. I am smarter than that!

Daddy Warbucks

My mother was very young when I was born.  She was so young that returning from maternity leave meant looking for her first job.  As a stout, though, graceful woman she easily acquired a position working with the elderly at a local nursing home.  It was so local, in fact, that she could look out the back window of our apartment and see it quite clearly.  It always seemed to loom at the top of the hill, eyeing us like a watchful parent.  Mom quite quickly began to resent this closeness, but compromised by keeping those particular curtains closed a large portion of the time. 

Working with the elderly is an emotionally and physically tiresome, thankless job, but it is a way for a woman to support herself.  And my mother was glad to have the paycheck, therefore enthusiastic about her job. 

A few days into the job, she was bee bopping down the halls recording blood pressures and temperatures.  Just as she was leaving room 24 she noticed a nicely dressed man striding down the hallway.  The fellow strolled up to her and asked for the whereabouts of his father.  She recognized who the man is talking about, so she picks her jaw up off of the floor and escorts him to the room of Daddy Warbucks. 

Now Daddy Warbucks got his nickname upon arriving at the nursing home several years before.  At this point, my mother hadn’t heard his real name enough to be able to remember it.  So, when we talk about it we just call him Daddy Warbucks.  He was a man of considerable age, but always polite and pleasant with the staff.  He quickly became a favorite resident for many of the women walking the halls, including my mother. 

When they reached the room, my mother found quite a surprise.  Now, she had not yet ever seen a dead body before, but she could tell from across the room that Daddy Warbucks was stone, cold dead.  The man following her, however, seemed to have no inkling that things were off.  He breezed past her and sat in the chair next to poor, dead Daddy Warbucks.

 “How have you been, Papa?  It’s so good to see you!” the man said with a bit of glee in his tone as if no one in the room were dead.  Shocked down to her toes my mother goes to excuse herself, but the visitor called behind her. “Excuse me, Ma’am?  Papa seems to be a bit cold, could you find him a sweater or something.”  Without missing a beat, she hops over to the closet and grabs one of Daddy Warbuck’s favorite sweaters.  Doing everything that she can to act natural, she squirms with the body’s stiff arms and joints to work the sweater into a suitable position, meanwhile talking to him.

 “Gee, Daddy Warbucks, I bet you are really glad to see your son.  How long has it been now?” 

The son noticing his father’s silence pipes up “I know it’s been quite a while, perhaps even a year since I last came to visit.  But you know how life can be.” 

My mother trying to save the moment says, “Oh, but he seems so happy to see you!” 

“Yeah.”  The son seemed comforted with that somehow. 

By the time my mother had securely fastened the sweater on this man, the son seemed to be content with the visit.  He stood up, gave his father a hug, thanked my mother for her hospitality, and casually walked out the door as though he had done a good deed for all of humanity by spending 3 minutes with his father. 

My mother, still a bit befuddled, ran to the nurse’s station hollering “Daddy Warbucks is dead…and I just put a sweater on him…”

Though the direct confrontation with death was a regular part of the job, my mother eventually got the hang of things and as of this day has never changed her chosen profession. 

Dear Mr. Employer

Dear Mr. Employer,

It is my belief that after the amount of time I have spent with this company, I deserve a substantial increase in benefits. I have committed at least 40 hours per week of my ever shortening life to making money for you instead of writing my novel. I have brought you coffee every morning (only occasionally spitting in it or using rotten milk as creamer), even though I am certain that your own damn legs work just fine for the process of getting it yourself. I have catered to your ego by not correcting you when you think you are “hot shit”. Even though, frankly speaking, years of business meetings and reports that have forced you to sit at your desk and do nothing have molded you into the sexual equivalent of a corpse.

I have never set the building on fire, or committed bodily harm to any other employees, regardless of many tantalizing opportunities. I have never stolen from the company anything of substantial importance or value. I have never been rude to a customer that wasn’t rude to me first. I have been a model employee.

My commitment to this company must be readily apparent to you, especially considering that I haven’t been working to save the world during business hours. If I weren’t here at my desk every damn day, I could be rescuing our nation away from the spindly fingers of our republican super villains. I could go to pro-choice rallies; I could march for women’s rights. I could have been working for gay rights, and for racial acceptance for all. I could be lovingly spoon feeding the starving people of our country. I could provide advice for young unintended mothers. I could be chipping at the walls of poverty with a jack hammer. I could pierce my nose and die my hair a sharp green color. I could be free. So you must see how dedicated I am to the job, or at least to the steady paycheck, otherwise I would be out in the world living my life, and creating change where I feel it is needed.

So, here is my proposal Mr. DeMan. I want your full and total commitment to the evolution of our country.

• Since I have ascertained that your actual presence in this office is entirely expendable, for every “long weekend” that I spend making you money, you are going to spend a “long weekend” marching on Washington and petitioning for Gay and Women’s rights.
• For every dime you pay me, you will devote an equal amount to finding a cure for AIDS. And every dime that I make for you and the money grubbing bastards on the board, you will donate half of that to the NOW organization.
• I want to see you marching in the Gay Pride Parade, holding a sign that says “I kiss boys”. Whether or not you are gay is of no importance, but your show of support is.
• In order to park in the company lot your car must bear a clearly visible sticker that reads “I’m a feminist, and I vote.”
• And I get to dye my hair any color I please. Simply because our appearance should only be an identifying characteristic and not gage for status.

If you have any disagreement in regards to the opinions or comments stated in the above text, my office is the fourth one down the hall on the left, and I will have my blowtorch close at hand. Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

The Feminist Drone
That answers the phone
And prays for your evolution.

P.S. You’re wife is hot!