Since my opportunity to read this newsgroup is severly limited these days, I usually have to read the archives to see if there are any follow-up posts. I seem to remember someone disbelieved my last posting, about my mom and my ATF. Well, he sure isn't going to believe this one either. But, like that story, every word of it is true.

Last year, I spent much of my time working in a city known for its strip clubs. As you all know, it's not uncommon for those of us who travel to bring home as a souvenir something which reminds us of the local culture. You know, a model of the Empire State Building from New York, or Conch shell from south Florida. Well, I decided to bring home a souvenir from this city, and what better souvenir of a city known for its strip clubs than my very own dancer.

At first, my wife wasn't too keen on this idea. I guess she would have preferred that I swipe an ashtray from my favorite club or something like that. But, after listening to my obviously eloquent (hell, this was the sale of the century) arguments in favor of having our own dancer, she reluctently gave in. Man, how I wish I had a tape recorder that day when she said "Since she seems to make you happy, you can have her...just as long as you don't spend more money on her than you do on me."

Since I didn't plan to buy the dancer her own house, I felt that I could abide by this restriction (although an itemized list of expenses I sent privately to one esteemed member of this group shows that I've spent enough to at least get her a nice double wide where she can entertain her out of work musician boyfriend).

All went well at first. certainly better than I would have expected. When my wife found out that the dancer could also cook, clean house, and garden, things were really looking up. Then, little by little, the dancer in her started to show. My wife lent her a car, which she lent in turn to a friend, who stole it. After consuming large amounts of liquor one night, the dancer needed to pee. Problem was, we were riding down the road in my truck at 80 mph. No problem. She reaches over and throws the transmission into park. We stop amid lots of expensive grinding noises. A few nights later the dancer isn't to be found. She finally calls at 3 am. "I'm in jail and need $350 to get out!" she screams into the phone. The night before last, she took out the plate glass window in a drunken tear.

This morning, I'm packing the dancer back off to the place I found her. I have to say, the second happiest day of my life was the day I brought her here. The happiest? Probably tomorrow, when I know she's really gone.

Regards,
Hardball