LOUISVILLE

Two inches of snow might not seem like much, but in Louisville you might as well be standing in three feet of it. Just about every business shut its doors, supermarket shelves were cleaned out by the time the local weathermen got out the sound "snu-." The only thing open was the Bottom Dollar, a local strip club and about the most aptly named joint ever open for business. We’d been staying at the Albert, and when they told us it was last call, we decided to go trolling. It was like the dustbowl era in that town. The Bottom Dollar was the only 24 hour place and no doubt the only bar you could get a libation after 2 am. The dancefloor consisted of one long catwalk and one pole at the far end of it. No V.I.P. room, no real place to sit except for around that pitiful, cheap Christmas lit stage. It was us and two businessmen we recognized from the Albert. Both were almost identical, save the color of their suits: charcoal gray and deep blue. I remember being taken aback at how similar their toupees looked. The stage was as scarce as the house, unfortunately. Of the 14 dancers advertised on the marquee outside, only two showed, apparently because of the "blizzard." Mystique came out first. When the DJ said her name, I immediately thought of the blue-skinned villainess from the X-Men. This Mystique was pretty close to that color. She staggered out and hacked on charcoal gray. Looked as close to death as anyone I’d seen at that time. She could barely keep her balance on the four inch heels, and by the time the top and bottoms came off, it was obvious to everyone in that cramped room that what she needed was a big bowl of chicken soup. At one point during the grotesque event, deep blue and charcoal gray slipped her a couple of bill each, most likely out of pity, but even more likely to just get her the hell off stage.

She sauntered out and a sick strain of applause filled the smoky air. A hefty goddess, Bailey, came out next to the tune of Motley Crue’s "Girls, Girls, Girls," one of my least favorite Crue anthems. Her straddling of the single, sticky pole in front of her made us wish for the phlemy gyrations of Mystique again. And the nether regions of this behemoth made us never want to see a vagina ever again.

We left almost immediately after her set. No amount of alcohol could have made this floorshow appealing. Although we planned to take the town of Louisville hostage that night, we fell short in so many ways. The next day, we’d return home to our wives, each thanking God in heaven for them, and, more importantly, none of them had names that reminded us of X-Men.




-SLL