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The shredded American flag I’m wearing around my boobs has felt nothing more than ironic, which makes me angry after a week of interacting with True-Patriots-who-know-what’s-best-for-America.Why does some stock-wholesome 20-year-old from Indiana with a Washington, DC internship get to be “all-American”?
Even with our faves missing, we still had some hot storylines to follow.
“Kid Rock’s playing a concert down there right now, rubbing elbows with the high-end rich people,” he huffs through his cigarette.
The strip club bus is empty and parked at the curb.
I start to feel as though I’ve seen everything there is to see from the RNC run-off and I hate them all.
After a decade on the job, our favorite family premiered their 14th season last night and I couldn’t be happier.
The inside of the club strives to fashion itself as an old-timey party mansion fit for a king, like a prefab Valhalla. So yes, he’s pro-wall, to keep out the freeloaders who come over and don’t pay taxes.“Isn’t the wall a waste of tax money?
Half-nude girls lounge on leather sofas as the doors to private rooms swing open and shut, revealing glimpses of men with their shoes off and shirts unbuttoned. Someone has finally sent it to the Quicken Loans Arena, where the convention is taking place, and it attracts a handful of men in suits with various credentials around their necks, including a groomed-for-TV man who claims to be a delegate from a Northeastern state. ”“Mexico will pay.”Later he says, “if Trump doesn’t get it this year, he never will.”“Why? “Because he’s running against a woman.”It’s Wednesday, and nobody has died.She’s been in this industry way too long to suffer through another life story or laugh at an unfunny joke for free, so she does what many attempt, but few execute successfully: Dispensing with smalltalk completely. She wraps it around his neck, leans on their chest, and announces, “we’re gonna beat your ass.” He says okay. She gives me some business advice—how to draw out endless no-contact strip teases, how to cut around all of the exhausting flattery, how to construct brief and impersonal customer relationships.“You can’t present it as an invitation,” she says.She grabs my hand and takes a swift lap around the main room, scoping out her mark, an average-looking 30 something bearded guy in a flannel shirt.“Do you have a belt? She calls him a putrid little worm, spanks him, we sway our asses in his direction, and within five minutes, she has extracted from his pocket. “You can’t go into it like you’re asking a question because you give them the option to say no.”To a row of customers, she calmly administers tittie twisters, rips off polo shirts, sits on heads, pours beer down an on-looker’s throat until he coughs it up. A green 19-year-old tries to demand a dance from the customer next to us, but she loses the sale with an awkward pause, opening up the floor for negotiation.We try the same with a guy in a “Make America Great Again” hat, but he bolts in terror. It’s , the club is nearly empty and the staff is angry. “I just hate them so much.”It’s that point in the night when the customers start blending together.Heresy tells me in the bathroom that sometimes she doesn’t even care about making money. I mix up their names and backstories and the details of their political rationalizations and don’t care. His suit is spotless, so when I give him a lap dance, I tip my face upwards when I get close to him, to avoid smudging foundation on his shoulder. Last night, I met a riot tourist who’d come all the way from Vancouver, Washington to catch some of the action, and seems perturbed by the lack of it. He and his buddies are here as a “deterrent” against large groups of “militant left-wingers,” and they’re prepared to assist the police “by any means necessary.” Those groups haven’t shown up in particularly large numbers, which he considers a Bikers-for-Trump success.