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The Poison Tour Diary via Metal Sludge

Date August 30, 2000 / 225 reads / No comments yet



Dear Sludge Diary,
~ I'm considering religion. Yes, you heard me right! I mean, after last night, there is just no other place to go with my life. Ya know, there must be someone watching over me!
~ I got bored last night and called one of these private stripper agencies. At least that's what I thought. It was in some funky lettering in some ad and I wasn't even sure of the name of the place. I told them that I wanted 3 strippers that would dance to Polka music. The guy who answered goes, "Yep, o.k. wierdo, whatever! (Is he making fun of my choice of music or my name? I wonder.) They'll be there in an hour and a half. The guy says. What room? Mastercard or Visa?" he asks in a south Philly accent. "Visa, room #325" I answer.
~ 3:12 A.M. They enter. I guess no one wanted to hire them besides me, because they not only looked sad, but they weren't exactly attractive either. Now, my original idea was to have some bottle races with them. Bottle races? You may be asking. Glad you did. Bottle races consist of at least 2 stripper participants. They have to be bottomless. Participants must squat down, capture a beer bottle with their ass or coochie, then duck walk forward. If they drop the bottle, they start over or loose. There is money along the path and the one who gets to it first, obviously gets the money. It starts with one dollar and goes up as far as you wanna push it. Now, imagine this with polka music blasting! It rocks! Sick? Ummm, yeah, but just a little.
~ Anyway, back to the girls. What can I say, there is usually something about every girl that has something nice. Even if they aren't all around hot, there is usually one little thing that can get you going. Not these three. I mean, the audacity of the fuckin' guy sending them! These aren't strippers, they are trolls. I hate to say it. I feel bad saying it. But, it's true! I've had a few beers by now, but ya can't drink these chicks pretty.
~ The one with brown hair named Gemma, goes, "Dude! Another 50 bucks and all of us will fuck you." (How about 50 bucks to leave, I'm thinkin'. Trolls, I tell ya!) I don't know what got into me, but I go, "Well, let me see the goods first!" I think it was morbid curiousity that made me say it, but what the hell, they are here now! "Fine!" Gemma says. Off came her trench coat. Wanna know what was under there? Of course you do. A straight up, Miss Fitness! That's right. Gemma, with a troll face, had the most perfectly carved Bally's fitness type body you could ever dream of. I mean, she looked like she runs 120 miles a day, and that's just to get started! Tan, beyond firm thighs and the kind of tits you draw on the back of your books in study hall. All three had long coats on and in what seemed like choreography, the last two come off in concert ... Well, blow me down! All three were about the same. I mean, besides being taller and shorter, that kind of thing, all of 'em were candidates for a fitness magazine. Perfect 10's! Unbelievable! How could this happen? When I say ugly faces, I mean I was looking at a reflection of the final days of Sid Vicious. As for the bodies on these three, I already told you. Perfect! Not good, not great, perfecto! If they were records, they would be double platinum!
~ Did I tell ya about their accents? I guess not. Well, I wasn't quite sure where they were from yet, but after all this mind overload, I had myopically overlooked the question up till now. I go to all of them, "Look, I think you are all wonderful, so how about 50 bucks each? I'm feeling rather generous." (The truth is, I'm getting lucky in the bargain bin. You could find prettier girls, but none would have these very stellar attributes!) The second one now speaks, Her name is Kendra, "Maybe we can convince you to marry one of us. That is what we really want. We are from Russia and we wish to stay here in the U.S. forever." The 6th beer has just kicked in with me and I stupidly answer, "No, I'll marry all three of you!" (They are being groomed to be mail order brides, I somehow conjure up in my foggy mind.) "All of us?" The quiet one named, Leah, finally spits out the words. I go on... "Yeah, baby! I'll marry all of you! We can do that here in the U.S., ya know." The next couple of hours are bliss. As long as I kept my eyes off of thier faces, I felt like I was being attacked by the Gypsie girls in the Dracula movie. It was all good.
~ I awake at 7:00 a.m. the next morning to find myself more sore than the first time I figured out how to jack off. ( I spent all day in my room that time.) Anyway, the three of them were gone! Just gone. No note, no anything. The phone rings... I answer... "Rikki! It's WQ somethin' or other calling for you to do the morning radio show, buddyyyyy! It's crazy Mark somethin' or other!" Oh, God, this is just perfect, I think to myself. The phone feels like I'm holding an 8 foot, 2x4 by the end. "Rikkkkkiiiii!, the D.J. goes on... Are ya wearin' any of that 80's glam, hair metal eyeliner this fine A.M.? Got yer spandex ready for the biiiig shew tonight?" A honking noise bellows out of the phone louder than a bomb shelter siren. "Well? Are yaaaaa?" The D.J. demands. "Ummm, yeah", I continue very slowly, "On all three accounts." "He's a craaaazzzy guy, folks!" The D.J. geerz at me, then continues... "Any craaaazzzy stories from the road for us folks here at WQ somethin' or other?" "Nope. I say, I'm real mellow these days. Just got done workin' out. "CAA-RAZZZZZYYY MAN! You are nuts! Hey, are ya gonna settle down with some chick now that your mellow, crazy Rikki? Maybe one of those mail order Russian girls or somethin'? "Ummm, yeah, three of 'em." CRAZZZZY man! The D.J. barks back right away. Ya can't marry more than one girl here in the U.S. there good buddy! You know that! But hey! You're Crazzzzzyyy man!" I slam the phone down! A revelation has just hit me. Crazy Mark has just sold me out live on the radio!
~ The phone rings again... "Hellloooowww!" I try to sound like Big John in case I don't wanna talk to the person on the other end. A voice blasts through the other end of the phone, "Richard Rockett?" Yeah, that's me, I answer. (Obviously I failed to disgiuse my voice) "This is the Mail order bride agency that you called last night. He begins talking real fast. The fee for one girl with all expenses from the flight, lodging, our advertisment, ect, is $5,000 dollars. An additional $5,000 is for the wedding expenses. Our hassle free wedding package! Nice , huh? IF you make arrangements for three of our prized ladies, I'll give you a discount. $25,000 smakaroos! Good deal, huh, Mr. Rockett?" "Uhhh, look, I just got into town. I don't know what you are talking about." I respond. "O.K., O.K. Can't blame a guy for tryin'! The guys sez. It's was crazy Mark's idea from the radio station to call you anyway. Hey look, I'll bring a few ladies down tonight to the show anyway and if ah, well maybe, ah, you know. We'll see." Thanks, dude. The Dokken guys will be all over that shit. I say. See ya tonight, bro! I hang up...

Rikki Rockett
"If they really think we're the devil, then let's send 'em ta hell."
-Blue Oyster Cult

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