I went to the Hustler strip club last week. What a blast! I forgot how much I enjoy them. Not having a great time in a stripper club is like not having a great time on a Ferris wheel: As long as you don’t do anything stupid and keep your hands inside the car, you will be rewarded with a spectacular view.
For me, the joy of strip bars is broken into two parts:
1. Watching scantily clad sexy mamas dance and undulate and generally be all hot and shit.
2. Watching how men behave in a room full of scantily clad, undulating sexy mamas.

Aside from gay-pride parades and sloshball games, strip clubs are unrivaled when it comes to watching men make jackasses of themselves. The creepy crawlers; the gropers; the old-man golly-jolly seekers; the loser lonelies; the wannabe pimp gangstas; the misogynistas; the inside-the-bar-sunglass-wearing, big-Dan-on-campus, 20-something yuppie twits–all seem to have no idea how to act in a strip club.

Maintaining an exceptional strip-club presence begins with your approach to a strip club: What you think it is. What you think it’s for.

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Apparently, Major League Baseball is seriously considering adopting the instant replay. I sure hope so. After several decades of having my heart routinely stomped by the brutal boots of crappy umpiring, my thumper is beginning to look like a jelly donut smushed through a spaghetti strainer.

There are many arguments against instant replay in baseball, but I won’t bother disputing them, because it’s not a question of right or wrong–rather, it’s a simple matter of preference. Some people want to preserve the purity of the game. My sensibilities tend toward preventing aortic rupture. Nobody is wrong.

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As much as I complain about the imposition of the Ten Commandments unto our government, I will say that the authors of that document did have the right idea. There is something to be said about a list of rules and guidelines for us to follow so that we might better get along with each other.

The problem with the Ten Commandments is that it tries to be all things to all people. It is simply too generic a document to be applicable to all situations in life. For instance, the First Commandment, “Thou Shalt Have No God Before Me,” doesn’t really help you on the grocery store checkout line. Nor does the Fourth Commandment, “Honor Thy Father and Mother,” do a bit of good to that little boy living in a Cabrini Green rat’s cubby with a crack-addled mother who sells her ass for vials of rock.

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