Hello.
I had a traumatic experience tonight and I need to talk about it on my blog.
You see, there was a stripper in the Indian restaurant.
Let me explain:
My father and I decided to have dinner together tonight. “There’s an Indian restaurant in downtown Scottsdale that I like,” he said. “They have vegan options.” My father did not mention that they also have a stripper, so I agreed to go.
We walked into the restaurant, and the Indian music was blasting. Not, like, loud dinner music, more like we’d just walked into a fucking Delhi discotheque. Blasting. I looked at my dad. “Is it always like this?” I screamed. “No,” he screamed back, “but usually I come here for lunch.” At least that’s what I think he said. He could have said “I enjoy performing oral sex on marsupials” for all I know, because I couldn’t hear him over the music.
As we followed the hostess to our seats, my father pointed at something. I followed his hand and saw a hooker wearing a belly dancer outfit. She was getting freaky with one of the waitresses in front of a family with small children attempting to enjoy their naan and curry. Now, let me be clear here: There is nothing lewd about belly dancing, and I understand and appreciate that it is a respected art in certain parts of the world. This was not a belly dancer. The craft of belly dancing, as I understand it, does not involve 28-inch synthetic hair extensions and dollar bills around one’s waist. This was a 19-year-old sorority girl wearing cheap drug-store makeup and essentially dancing as she would in a hip-hop club while occasionally moving her hands around in what I might actually deem an offensive impression of belly dancing.
As we sat down, I kept turning around to stare at the stripper, and my face must have shown my shock. “This really bothers you, doesn’t it?” my dad commented. I didn’t know how to respond. She had dollar bills in her underpants. In a family restaurant. She was going table to table shaking her ass in people’s faces and making them pay her for it. “Dad!” I said. “There’s a stripper in the restaurant! There are children here!” My dad is a very “live and let live” sort of person. “She probably took a few belly dancing classes and knows the owner,” he said.
“Then why didn’t he give her a job as a waitress?”
Eventually she came over to our table and my dad tried to take a picture of her with his cell phone camera. She posed politely, and then gestured to him to pay up. Seriously. Like a fucking stripper would. Stuck her hand out and made the “now you give me money” gesture. My dad laughed and gave me a dollar bill to give to her, because my dad was not about to stick a dollar bill in her fucking underwear, because that is what you do with a stripper. And I was like, “Oh, no, if we’re gonna play this game, we are gonna play this game,” and I grabbed my wallet and got a few more dollars out and broke out my digital camera. She motioned for me to get up and dance with her, and I always enjoy playing with the strippers, so I gave the camera to my dad and I hopped up and got jiggy with her. She pointed to her head, which she was shifting back and forth, walk-like-an-Egyptian style. “It’s all about the head!” she shouted over the pounding music. Every ounce of my body wanted to be like “They pay way better for anal!” but instead I just smiled politely and danced with her while my dad took photos. Then I stuck a wad of cash in her underwear and she didn’t bother us any more.
I should also mention that our orders took forever to come and at one point the waitress came up to us, stared at our table with all of our glasses empty, and asked if there was anything we needed. My dad was like, “Uh … can we get another round of Diet Cokes?” The entire employee base was distracted by the stripper. Nothing was getting done in that restaurant.
In fact, the only useful thing about the stripper was that she gave me an opportunity to clearly define the term “hot mess” for my father.
Without further ado, and since I paid good money for it, the Indian restaurant stripper photo gallery:
