Tit for Tat (or vice versa)

Tomorrow morning I will be off to Birmingham to attend son’s bachelor party. I cannot even remember the last bachelor party I attended, but I do like the way this generation does it as compared to mine. We had ours the night before the wedding which pretty much ensured we were exceedingly hungover and comatose so absolutely miserable during the ceremony and reception. Now they’re done a week or two out to allow for recovery. Smart move.

One thing that has not changed, however, is the traditional incorporation of strippers somewhere along the line. I suppose it’s a must-do, but over the years I’ve lost interest it seems. Not my interest in seeing nekkid wimmin mind you for I like that…I like it a lot…as much or more than any I would guess. What I have lost interest in is dumping an inordinate amount of cash. Don’t get me wrong…I’m not cheap and according to my wife certainly not even a bit frugal and I do appreciate the lovelies work hard for their money and they deserve to be well compensated for that. I don’t mind at all contributing to their engineering or medical degree pursuits, but I have learned to develop enough self discipline to set some financial limits to my contributions. As with gambling casinos, these entertainers are pretty much focused on getting ALL of your money – every last dime. Most commonly, my fiscal limit is met long before my buddies’ who accompany me. I’ve seen many of my compadres empty the on-premise ATM machines on road trips to the extent they have no funds for gas or food for the trip home. Some just “feel the love” I guess. Such is the power of the voodoo poonanny.

Therefore, it has become somewhat of a game to me…or a negotiation…as one would deal when buying a new car or haggle with vendors in an open-air bazaar. A “Your job is to get all my money and my job is to keep some.” approach.

I had one gimmick that worked for years. When I had spent my self-imposed limit I would find the next opportunity (shift change usually…or I would feign my complete honesty due to my drunkenness) to announce to the scantily (or not) clad lap dance proposer that I was…gay. And that gets spread to the other honeys very quickly. I would reinforce this by pointing out my gay lover amongst our group and thereby also enjoy watching his bewilderment for losing all his action for the rest of the night. That worked for a number of years; but not anymore. In these days of hetero-, homo-, metro-, trans-, bi-, tri-, multi-, a-, über-, poly-, mono-, under-, over-, sans-, polysaturated-, chickenfried-, yada-yada-yada-sexual…my gay gambit doesn’t work anymore. The biatches ignore the announcement, climb over that wall and just get on board (so to speak). I guess they have come to just not believe it or don’t want to take the time to figure out what the “hook” might be anymore.

Soooo…I had to find a new wall. And I found a keeper. I’ve used it on the last two guys-only “baseball” road trips and it sent the gals scurrying off at the speed-o-light. Here’s how it goes:

Candi: “Hey, handsome, I see you’re by yourself. I’d like to talk to YOU!”

Me: “Well I would like that, Candi. I would like to talk to you, too.”

Candi: “Cool. And just exactly what would you like to talk to me about, suger?” *wink wink*

Me: “I’d like to know if you’ve accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal Savior.”