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January 4, 2008

The Sunset Strip

Written by Girth McDürchstein on January 4, 2008 11:58 PM
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Margo went out of town a few days ago for a modeling shoot in Boston, so I haven’t had much to do. Renal always seems to be out with her friends until all hours of the night, the band hasn’t been practicing since we are, at the moment, floundering. I hate to admit that, but we have no new material, nobody in the U.S. will book us, and ever since our world tour over the summer, I have been afraid to leave the country. Not so much out of embarrassment as the fact that I’m pretty sure there’s a price on my head in at least four countries.

Anyway, I decided to go down to a club out in Glendale called The Sunset Strip. Considering it’s nowhere near the actual Strip, I think it’s pretty obvious what kind of club it is. (It’s a strip club.) I had fun for about half an hour stuffing singles into the leopard G-string of a fake-titted blonde named Amber, but when she brought my third beer she whisper-shouted (to be heard over the music) that the main attraction would be hitting the stage in a few moments, so Amber needed to clear her pole.

“That sucks,” I said, sticking a fifty down the center of her G-string and playing around down there for a moment. “Is she hot?”

Amber moaned softly, “The hottest.” Then she walked away without saying goodbye.

“It’s that time again,” the slovenly D.J. croaked into his microphone. To my surprise, my own song “Phone Sex” started to play over the P.A. “The most sextacular 18-year-old ever to grace the stage—Margo Atwater!”

My jaw literally dropped. Margo had acted overly interested when a stripper from Indiana sought permission to use “Phone Sex” in her act, but I had no idea why…until now! I was about to leap to the stage and force her into the back to give her a stern talking-to, but I realized I would inevitably back down, so what was the point? I let it ride to see if her act was any good.

When the singing started, the curtain burst open, and a lingerie-clad girl who was decidedly not my wife launched herself onto the stage, throbbing and gyrating to the beat. She looked familiar, but I didn’t know for sure until she dropped the bra.

“Renal!” I gasped, lunging toward the stage, hypnotized by her small but luscious breasts.

Renal’s dancing slowed when she saw me. She looked baffled as five beefy bouncers jumped me from behind.

“RENAL!” I roared as they dragged me toward the front door.

On the long minivan ride home, I knew what had to be done. Only one thing could save Renal Rojas—and, almost as importantly, the reputation of myself and Abysmal Crucifix. One major change.