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I just went through a strip club haunted house, and it was life-changing.
I guess my friends and I are getting to be that age where we all just need something a little different in our lives. Sure, a younger man would be content getting blitzed off shitty Halloween-themed drinks that are really just normal drinks with Pop Rocks and orange Gatorade poured into them for five straight days while hitting on freshmen just like every year, but not us. We’ve been there. We’ve seen all the policewomen, cats, slutty nuns, and mummy sluts before, and they no longer have the same effects on us as they once did. Sure, this is due, in part, to the fact that we, after numerous years of skipping leg day, back day, arm day, and the rest of the days, no longer have the same effects on women in general as we once did. But if I’ve learned anything from Trump, and I haven’t, it’s that placing the blame on women is how to make America great again, so that’s what I’m going to do.
Things were looking pretty grim this past weekend, so we piled into Brent’s shitty Toyota and road tripped it up the highway to the big city to hit up the titter. We rolled in hot to Old Town, double parked, gave a McNugget to a homeless man, rolled up to the club, and flashed the VIP badges Cortez got off this sketchy middle-aged line cook from the kitchen of the Applebee’s at which he was a waiter back in high school. Because where else do you get passes for special events at strip clubs? From your dad as a coming-of-age present and finding them on the street outside of a methadone clinic are the only other possible scenarios I can think of.
Some background: this was apparently only the second year they did this “strip club haunted house” thing, and this year’s theme was “Strip Club Time Machine.” It was run by a guy named Dirk Cognac or something similar. I doubt that is his real name. That’s all the background you need.
We started on the regular floor. If it wasn’t for a friendly bouncer pointing me towards the entrance to the haunted house, I would have thought it was just an average strip club. $12 drinks, bored topless women, and dudes who look like they work at Jiffy Lube. On the cash register at J Lube, too; not even one of the cool, hands-on car jobs. But then I saw a girl go by dressed like an alien with three boobs — each bigger than the last — and knew there was more to be seen on this night. I convinced the others that we were going to have to pregame this pain train, so we pounded a pitcher and a few tequila shots each and split a strip club pizza (if your city doesn’t do strip club pizza, move). Not a bad start to the night, but we were definitely looking forward to the real festivities: the haunted house.
We stumbled over to the back stairs. The haunted house was built on the club’s second floor, where all the private rooms used to be. The guy on the stairs radioed up to somebody on the other side.
“Right. So rules: no grabbing or touching. Tip the girls. If they make you scream like a bitch, pay them double. Okay, you can go up.”
Two strippers dressed like vampires came to lead us up the stairs, which I thought was fitting. In the first room, there was a projection screen and a girl dressed like a sexy Doc Brown. They had a little video playing, which was some kind of story intro I guess, but we were talking so loud that we missed it. Doc Brown shoved us into a tunnel that opened up onto a battlefield of the Vietnam War. Three nearly-naked Viet Cong strippers ran up screaming and waving huge guns in our face. Barnes screamed in a pre-ball drop octave and dropped his wad of ones. That distracted the girls long enough to allow us to escape. The next room was a guy with a bunch of strippers in a booth that asked us if we wanted to snort some coke. Cortez pointed out that by the size of the strippers’ bushes, we were probably in the ’70s.
We went through a Salem Witch Trial room, a room with a ton of strippers in it who were running around holding pool noodles and screaming for a reason I could’ve understood had I not been so drunk that I was just shamelessly staring the entire time I was there, and a room that contained completely naked girl in a bath tub full of blood. Things kind of blurred after that. Abe Lincoln was getting a blowjob, there were a bevy of tri-boobed aliens, some mourners were trying to bring back a sexy Jesus. A girl in only pasties came running up to us at some point and was yelling “WHAT YEAR IS IT?” and then there were robots.
“Probably The Matrix,” said Brent. Brent is kind of an idiot.
Then there was this room that was just a bar, where we got one free shot. It was green, and glowed soft like detergent under a black light.
“Welcome to the Overlook Hotel,” cackled the bartender. We downed them and pressed onward.
I remember reading about this place, and I kind of realized what I had been trying to put my finger on all night long: this strip club haunted house, compared to a regular haunted house, is a little bit like comparing Ghostbusters to Ghostbusters XXX. Ostensibly, all the elements are there, but the production values are really hokey and nobody gives a shit because it’s pretty fucking great either way.
We ended in a scene of female Bill and Ted having an orgy with Marty McFly, some Avatar blue people, Darth Vader and female Doctor Who. I dumped the rest of my singles. I was done. That was all I ever really wanted to witness in my life; I just never knew I was looking for it.
If you ever get the chance to go to a strip club haunted house, do it. It’s a good fucking time..
Image via Shutterstock