There's this pathetic soul who comes into the kick I work at and drinks himself into a stupid stupor every night I'm there. This fool asks me to give him a ride to a nudie bar on Sat. I oblige him and on his request (and my curiosity to see a little such and such) I check the place out for a minute. What a dump. The next day he thanks me and asks if I want to join the place as a "member". "Member" what I say. "Member", he says, "so you can get in for real, the girls get naked and you can bring your own beer. It's $35 for the year and $21 a night."
I don't like this man. I think he's a creep. Now he's trying to convince me to dive into some kind of pyramid scheme nudie bar. I mess with people as it is, after this shit my "job" is about to get a whole lot more interesting. Unless of course I start to take my Jedi training seriously, like I should. If not I'll be lucky to get out of this thing without getting fired. My fellow employees, who all have cordless personalities, already comment on the shit I get away with.
To the point . . . "The owners are cool" he says as a selling point. "I know you love football" I couldn't give a good god damn about football you duck head, I think. "The owner's license plate is "VICK", he says, "He's a huge fan of the Falcons QB Michael Vick." I couldn't make this up. "Sick, die slow in it's belly." I said. If I met the owner of this sleeze factory I'd probably puke. I miss the Guns-n-Roses fan who used to come in and buy the huge bottle of Jim Beam every Sun. I could at least talk to him.
By the way, listen to Rocket Queen by G-n-R. Trust me, with any luck it'll make you forget all about Michael Vick.