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Strippers and Rock Stars go together like champagne and cocaine. 

Sex, arrogance, status and money put this intoxicating sheen over the nasty-ass carpets and questionable beat-matching we all hear while trying to make the rent and gather some stories for our impending saggy-tit days. 

Let me tell you about the time I was 'hired' by Dennis Rodman's 'team' to make him look like the baller I thought he was:

We were asked to show up at the club at 8am for 'press photos' with the birthday boy himself.

NOTE: Asking a stripper to do ANYTHING before 4pm is like asking the feds if Charles Manson can replace you for jury duty. YOU JUST DON'T DO IT.

BUT WE DO IT. Because he wears weird-ass outfits and lets his freak flag fly and WE LOVE HIM  FOR THAT. 

So - still drunk - me and my sorority sisters show up, our boy Dennis does NOT, and this guy who claims to be 'a photographer' takes some pictures of us while we are instructed to look like we are 'having fun.' At the crack of 9am as we exit the club, a 'protest' is gathering outside. Something about North Korea and Dennis-will-you-please-go-back-and-fix-things. (SPOILER ALERT: he does go back! No news on the 'fixing things' but you know, whatevs.) 

Later that night we return, meet Dennis, take this ghetty images photo, and then are encouraged to 'hang out with him.'

This means that, for the next three hours, we sit beside Dennis while he sort of talks, but mostly says, 'Whenever you see a photographer, look like you're having a good time, okay?' A 'good time' means lots of erratic hand gestures and open-mouthed smiling. You know, like a Bacardi commercial, only not as well-lit. The 'protesters' from earlier this morning are now inside, monitoring a queue of selfie-enthusiasts and refilling his vodka red-bulls.

At thirty minute intervals, Dennis changes into a fresh pair of sunglasses he keeps in one of his many cargo pockets. I count four distinct pairs as we wince fake smiles in an attempt to find someone to pour us a goddamn drink. 

Dennis is ambivalently sweet while we tell him how stoked we were to save our allowance money to buy his Barbie doll back in the day. He is flattered. 

But not flattered enough to tip us for our time. Three hours' worth of time.

Once the press stop snapping photos and move on to the next party, my sisters and I are carted off. Dennis keeps his head bowed to avoid meeting our indignant expressions. Another dancer is thrust onto his lap. She has cute short hair and is toned as fuck. Immediately, Dennis reaches into his pocket and starts making it rain onto her gyrating ass. Standing up, he throws his scarf around her waist and starts dancing, smiling and singing. SINGING.

Me and my sorority sisters feel undervalued and used. Unamused and penniless, we leave while Dennis is finally having the fun he was waiting for all along. 

All these fucking famous people who project some image of always being in the club don't know SHIT about being in the club. They will drop thousands on bottles so the press picks up on how big the bill was, but they won't tip you a fucking cent. It's cool if you want to use me to keep up appearances, but fucking PAY ME for it, BITCH. 

They can obviously afford to tip. They just don't because they think they are doing us a public fucking service by being able to bask in their light. So here I am, a year later, blogging about basking in the light of yet another cheap-ass, C-list has-been. Thank you for the writing material, Dennis! Maybe Karma will finally come full circle and I'll get paid off to take the post down! 


1. Allegedly famous people are entitled as fuck.

2. NEVER MEET YOUR IDOLS. Unless you MUST. In which case,