On Monday, I bid that Smartcar adieu after it had something of an arboreal run-in. The results are as follows:

Wear your seat belts, kids!

It’s officially a total loss.

Another result of that tree-induced snafu:

"Deep Inside Sarah: Skeleton Version"

My right ring-finger metacarpal is broken.

So now I have to decide: Should I take my busted self to work at the club or not?

A few Twitterers suggested that my injury will prompt sympathetic customers to tip me out of pity, but I think a stripper in a cast looks ridiculous and out of place. I’d feel like the stripper version of Tiny Tim. And all my pole tricks are on hold.

What say you, dear readers? Sarah the Crippled Stripper or Sarah’s Away on Leave?

That’s all for now …

<3 :: aS

P.S. … It takes a maddeningly long time to type now, a state of affairs that does not bode well for my day job, either. I never appreciated how dependent I am on all my fingers.

Foot suckers aside, the nipple guys freak me out the most. I personally hate it when guys try to reach out and rub or tweak mine; getting a dude who likes to have his … ew … stroked or pulled or WHATever, gawd, it’s so gross. Sorry. And just kind of bumping up against the general area outside the shirt is never enough. They aren’t ashamed to lift their shirts up and bare their man-nips, which, incidentally, are usually longer than what may be considered normal, the result of which I can only imagine must be from sexual apparatuses sold at stores like Nasty Pig on W. 19th in Chelsea. *

This subject freaks me out so much that I don’t like to talk about it, but if any of you out there have dealt with this before, please, feel free to elaborate.

Also, an ongoing comment war on my 10 Things You Should You Know Before You Date a Stripper post is some good post-holiday reading, if you’re up for it. Apparently, my blog is read by some ostensibly well-educated commenters with opinions on language, usage, and feminism. Thanks to Acadiana and Alice for the interesting back-and-forth.

That’s all for now … oh, and HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!!

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Red shoes, green sequins, little bow ... XXXmas, here we go.

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I love all the different iterations of sexy Santas and Missus Clauses that come out at the end of December, so ladies, hook it up. I want to see your Slutty Claus costumes!

Here’s mine:

Send your Slutty Claus pic in a Tweet, in an email (angrystripper@gmail.com), or post it on my Facebook page. I <3 Slutty Santas!

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2. We’ll wear heels anywhere. The grocery store, camping trips, gigging … everywhere.

3. We’re as hairless as a fresh baby bird.

4. We will be late to just about everything because we have these ridiculously high appearance standards for ourselves (… and we’re notorious procrastinators).

5. We’re friends with people you won’t meet in a million fucking years. And yes, they just text us right now, and no, we’re probably not going to ignore them.

6. Our sexual appetites are robust, an attribute due in no small part to a regular exercise regimen done in stilettos and our innate narcissism.*

7. We want you to buy us expensive goodies so we can brag to our stripper friends about it.

8. If you don’t like us dancing, you better be prepared to support our lifestyle. Otherwise, we don’t want to hear your bitching.

9. We’re kind of manipulative, even if we’re not trying to be.

10. Don’t get in without an iron-clad way to get out. Or you’ll lose your house (and/or wife, and/or sanity).

That’s all for now … (hope I didn’t scare everyone off!)

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Or maybe it’s not the strippers, but people in strip clubs have a tendency to steal things, I suppose.

I’ve had two Blackberries stolen this year from the Saint James. And I remember one particularly sad night when a very sweet girl sitting with a less than genteel man on one of my tables was given about $400 cash only to leave it in the VIP women’s restroom before heading to stage rotation for the last two songs of the night. The cash was gone. She had a meltdown in the dressing room shortly thereafter, tears and all, while we were all getting dressed around her.

I found $30 stuffed into a chair cushion in the lobby of the Saint James once and tucked it into my purse. Thirty bucks ain’t a lot for a stripper, and announcing that you found it — “Would the owner of this money please step forward?” — probably wouldn’t yield the real owner anyway.

But $400 is a nice chunk of change, and all you have to do is stand in the dressing room with your ears open; you’ll know who lost it — especially if the previous owner is balling her eyes out like this: “I WAS GOING TO PUT THAT IN MY SAVINGS ACCOUNT aHUH aHUH aHUH!”

Anyone else have a strip club stealer experience?

That’s all for now … <3 :: aS

It’s nice that you’ve got the kind of unflagging confidence that comes with downing multiple shots of Crown, but when the fried chicken party platter shows up, just put your top back on. No one wants to see you hunched over eating wings while you drop crumbs on your nipples.

Alternatively, you might want to try a bib.

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2. It’s flu season, and stripper flu is probably worse than bird flu. (But less dangerous than that nasty street hooker flu that’s been going around.)

3. That stripper who has three snot-nosed kids, a pimp, and a boyfriend who plays XBox all day? She’s still coming to work even if she catches malaria.

4. RABIES.

5. Have you ever touched the brass stage poles on a busy night at the club? They’re not smooth. Don’t ask why. Just wash your hands.

6. Girls who like to try to pick things up with their butt cheeks.

7. Guys who like to lick your hands.

8. The dude who’s been shooting Crown Bombs all night just quietly puked into a dark corner and used his hand to wipe his mouth off.

9. There’s an awful lot of ass running around without much of an absorbent cotton shield, and strippers will find a way to sit on just about anything when their feet hurt.

10. RABIES.

Hope you’re all keeping your mitts clean!

That’s all for now …

<3 :: aS

And follow me on Twitter! I’m  @AngryStripper.

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