Boobie Barn Update

I know I haven't written about my job at The Boobie Barn for awhile. That's mostly because it's been such a bore ever since my helper monkey Tucksworth took off, and the management banned me from twirling flaming batons while I dance because they don't have enough insurance.

Every night there is just so dang dull. The routine never changes, I dance, I go out and work the crowd selling drinks and lap dances, I faux wrestle some other chick in a vat of green jello - being ultra careful not to pull out her weave (it's tricky), and then I go home. Ho hum.

You know, when I first started shaking my ass for money I enjoyed it a lot. I loved the excitement and partying with celebrities (like that time Kevin Federline came to town.) I love the nightlife, I like to boogie. Most of my jobs before this have consisted of sitting in a cubicle in some taupe colored office, pushing paperwork around and making lists of exotic ways to kill my coworkers - for example, shoving a spoon down the throat of the guy in the next cube who would take an hour to eat his yogurt, making disgusting slurping noises the entire time. Gah! Dancing seemed like the perfect career for someone like me, but lately it's become just as tedious as any office job I've ever toiled at.

So I've been trying to spark things up, to make it fun again, otherwise I might as well go sling chicken wings at Hooters. I tried playing music that I like instead of the usual club tunes favored by everyone else, but the DJ would get annoyed and yank off my Grateful Dead CDs before I could get even halfway into the jam. (Which was actually a relief because thirty minutes of twirling upside down from the pole turned out to be murder on my thigh muscles.)

Then there was my Krautrock phase when I wore a short black wig, a black leather thong, and thigh high boots and scowled at the audience while barely moving to Kraftwerk. Although that one was surprisingly popular with the frat boys - especially after I added a black whip to the costume - it got old after a while.

Then I made up a cute little tap dance/strip tease to The Carter Family classic Bury Me Under the Weeping Willow Tree which ended with me doing a back handspring off the stage into the vat of jello. I never made it that far however, because the guys started booing and throwing cocktail napkins as soon as the music started. Geez, you'd think Nashvillians would have some respect for Americana, but obviously that is not the case.



I've read that the music of The Carter Family and Ralph Stanley has been used by our soldiers to torture Iraqi prisoners with much success. Apparently it makes terrorists scream like nothing else. What do you think?



Captain Peanut gets annoyed with me. "Quit all that artsy shit and just bounce them tits," he advised me. "And don't forget to push the drinks, that's how you make money, not all this kindergarten fuckery."

I ignored him, of course. I am an artiste! I need to express myself! Besides, if I'm not having fun it will be just a matter of time before I start making up a new kill list. And this time his name will be at the very top. (That fucking DJ is next. God, he's a pretentious bastard! I'd like to drop two turntables and a microphone on his head.)

Luckily for them, I think I've finally stumbled on a winning routine. Last night I painted my face like Gene Simmons and danced to a medley of KISS songs, while waggling my tongue at the crowd every few minutes. Then at the very end I bit down on some fake blood capsules and let the red stream dribble down from my lips in a dramatic finish as I went into my trademark splits.

Wow, it was a hit! The dudes went crazy and I made a butt load of cashola. The only problem is that the fake blood is very staining - today my mouth, neck, and breasts look like they've been sprayed with strawberry Kool-Aid. What a shame I can't just spit fire instead. It would be so much cooler too. Stoopid, boring, insurance company!

*Note to self, find out who insures The Boobie Barn. Add them to list.