Category: Strip Clubs

Dumbass Lies That Will Save Your Nut Sack – Maybe

“Tell the Truth, Dumbass!”

Best of Dumbass News

Here’s an Old Saying that I just made up : “All liars are Dumbasses but not all Dumbasses are liars”. Pretty profound, huh? Yeah, I come up with a good one once in a while.

The preceding Fearless Leader of the Dumbass Horde Words of Wisdom and Dumbassery© are mainly true for male Dumbasses when talking to female Dumbasses. Under certain circumstances, when presented with a choice of telling the truth or lying like a mangy flea-bitten dawg, a male Dumbass will lie through his teeth every. single. time.

In all fairness to male Dumbasses everywhere, sometimes a lie will save your life – not to mention your gazebos. As a Public Service to Prevaricating Dumbasses of the XY Chromosome Persuasion, I shall point out some instances where a teensy weensy fib is an infinitely better choice than telling the God’s honest truth.

It ‘s OK to Lie When…

Mrs. Fearless Leader of the Dumbass Horde, Top Dumbass Material Contributor and You Tube Star,  found an article on ivillage.com about The Top 10 Lies Men Tell Women. I will list a few of them below, then give my take on the proper way to address the deal.

  • Does this dress make my ass look big? Fellas, this is a trick question. A woman asks you this because she really wants to know the truth. Except she really doesn’t. I told you it was a trick question. One the one hand, a lady honestly wants to know if a certain dress makes her ass look too big. She can’t, after all, go to a party, business dinner, etc. wearing a dress that makes her rear end look like the back side of a Mack truck. This is both embarrassing and unprofessional. Therein lies the dilemma for a male Dumbass. Let’s say the dress is too tight and you know it. You then politely say, “Honey, that dress fits you a little snugly”. The woman, wanting to hear the truth but not wanting to hear it all at the same time, hears you say, “Bitch, your ass is so wide I’d have to measure it using the length of axe handles”. 

Solution: Lie and lie convincingly. I mean real convincingly. A little white lie here can mean the difference in leading a life with happy gazebos or no gazebos at all. The gazebos win every time.

  • I Don’t Enjoy Going to Strip Clubs. Men, you have dug your own grave here with one foot in it and the other foot on a banana peel. The only way out is to know when to stop digging. And by “stop digging” I mean of course, “stop lying”. You are in a no-win situation at this point, guys. So just shut the fuck up. Here’s the deal: you have begun lying to a woman by lying before you ever get the chance to tell the real lie! Of course you like going to strip clubs! You are a man for Pete’s sake! Men are horn dawgs and going to a strip club is the closest to being a philandering bastard as you can get without actually being a philandering bastard! Unless, of course, you are already a low-life cheating scuz ball. 

Solution: Don’t lie to begin with. Women are not stoopid. They can see through a lie like this like Superman looks through brick walls. Or G-strings. Women know (they may not understand, but they know) that men are pigs. A man, when faced with the choice of settling down with one woman and the same poon every night for the next fifty years or cavorting about with nubile young women who look like Jessica Alba without clothes on and getting new poon every night of his life, will, believe it or not, always go home to someone they love before they go on a Stripper Hump-a-Thon. Even the horniest of marrried men need the comfort and reassurance that only a good woman at home can provide.

If you want to go to the Jiggle Joint with your buddies, simply tell your wife, “Baby, I’m going to the Pierced Nipple with Frank. We just want to check out some young, firm hooters. You know, the kind you used to have?”

Then call a divorce lawyer.

Dumbass.

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Strip Club Evacuation! Ugly Strippers First Out

Best of Dumbass News
As a Former Professional Drinker I can assure you that I contributed to the United States economy in ways that your Non-Professional Drinker does not.

For example, back before General Motors and Chrysler got themselves in a big jam, they owed to me a debt of gratitude, not to mention a new Corvette, for my contributions to their financial well being. Not all of their success but a great deal of it.

You may be asking yourself how could a solitary Fearless Leader be such a boon to the automotive industry in the United States? The answer? Strippers. I dropped enough money on lap dances to finance several dozen new cars. With extended warranties. I had the money to blow, so why not help out a stripper? It beats the hell out of giving to the nitwits who sell flowers on street corners. I’ll take knockers over flowers any day of the week.

Not So Good Places

Some of the Jiggle Joints I patronized were not what you’d call “gentlemen’s clubs”. Dives is more like it. I was going into to this one place in Houston one time with a couple of my buddies visiting from Dallas when there was a hail of gun fire right in front of the entrance to the place. Spooky indeed. So, what did we do? We went in. What did you expect? There were boobies waiting to be gawked at in there.

Fire! Or Not.

In the more “high class” strip clubs the props used by the dancers range from that well-known piece of exercise equipment known asthe “stripper pole” to ribbons and fog machines. Only the ugly stippers, however, used the fog machines. But even the most high-tech and foggiest of fog machines can not hide ugly. Take my word for it.

I did not pay for lap dances from ugly strippers. A nice rack can get a girl only so far with me. Ugly is a deal-breaker.

Smokin’

Down in Hotlanta, a group of Professional Drinkers and bidnessmen were sitting around looking at tatas and blowing their hard earned money at a strip joint when a thick smoke filled the room. Thicker and thicker the smoke became. “Fire!”, someone yelled. So the pro drinkers and the Guys Cheating on Their Expense Accounts were herded outside the club.

Enter the Fire Department. Unable to locate the blaze, one fireman bravely entering the “inferno”, struggling to see through the thick smoke when he finally came upon the source of the smoke.

You guessed it. A stripper fog machine!

It seems as if if one of the strippers forgot to turn off the fog machine after her routine and the smoke quickly filled up the entire titty bar! This ruins a good day of looking at nice racks rather quickly.

Preguntas (a little Meskin lingo there)

As usual, I have questions.

  • How could a stripper fog machine be making fog for a long enough period of time without being noticed until the whole club looked like downtown London?
  • Who was the Dumbas in charge of turning off the stripper fog machine? The stripper or some minimum wage bar back who was too drunk to remember to shut it off?
  • Why did this Strip Club hire an ugly stripper? Remember, only ugly stripper use fog machines.
  • Did the management of the club fire whoever screwed up all the boob ogling?
  • Is the ugly stripper still working there?
  • What happened to the stripper fog machine?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Dumbasses.

Fog Machine Causes Strip Club Evacuation!

As a Former Professional Drinker I can assure you that I contributed to the United states economy in ways that your Non-Professional Drinker does not.

For example, back before General Motors and Chrysler got themselves in a big jam, they owed to me a debt of gratitude, not to mention a new Corvette, for my contributions to their financial well being. Not all of their success but a great deal of it.

You may be asking yourself how could a solitary Fearless Leader be such a boon to the automotive industry in the United States? The answer? Strippers. I dropped enough money on lap dances to finance several dozen new cars. With extended warranties. I had the money to blow, so why not help out a stripper? It beats the hell out of giving to the nitwits who sell flowers on street corners. I’ll take knockers over flowers any day of the week.

Not So Good Places 

Some of the Jiggle Joints I patronized were not what you’d call “gentlemen’s clubs”. Dives is more like it. I was going into to this one place in Houston one time with a couple of my buddies visiting from Dallas when there was a hail of gun fire right in front of the entrance to the place. Spooky indeed. So, what did we do? We went in. What did you expect? There were boobies waiting to be gawked at in there.

Fire! Or Not.

In the more “high class” strip clubs the props used by the dancers range from that well-known piece of exercise equipment known asthe “stripper pole” to ribbons and fog machines. Only the ugly stippers, however, used the fog machines. But even the most high-tech and foggiest of fog machines can not hide ugly. Take my word for it.

I did not pay for lap dances from ugly strippers. A nice rack can get a girl only so far with me. Ugly is a deal-breaker.

Smokin’  

Down in Hotlanta, a group of Professional Drinkers and bidnessmen were sitting around looking at tatas and blowing their hard earned money at a strip joint when a thick smoke filled the room. Thicker and thicker the smoke became. “Fire!”, someone yelled. So the pro drinkers and the Guys Cheating on Their Expense Accounts were herded outside the club.

Enter the Fire Department. Unable to locate the blaze, one fireman bravely entering the “inferno”, struggling to see through the thick smoke when he finally came upon the source of the smoke.

You guessed it. A stripper fog machine!

It seems as if if one of the strippers forgot to turn off the fog machine after her routine and the smoke quickly filled up the entire titty bar! This ruins a good day of looking at nice racks rather quickly.

Preguntas (a little Meskin lingo there)

As usual, I have questions.

  • How could a stripper fog machine be making fog for a long enough period of time without being noticed until the whole club looked like downtown London?
  • Who was the Dumbas in charge of turning off the stripper fog machine? The stripper or some minimum wage bar back who was too drunk to remember to shut it off?
  • Why did this Strip Club hire an ugly stripper? Remember, only ugly stripper use fog machines.
  • Did the management of the club fire whoever screwed up all the boob ogling?
  • Is the ugly stripper still working there?
  • What happened to the stripper fog machine?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Dumbasses.

 
 
 

Dumbass Lies That Will Save Your Gazebos – Maybe

“Tell the Truth, Dumbass!”

Here’s an Old Saying that I just made up : “All liars are Dumbasses but not all Dumbasses are liars”. Pretty profound, huh? Yeah, I come up with a good one once in a while.

The previous Fearless Leader of the Dumbass Horde Words of Wisdom and Dumbassery© are mainly true for male Dumbasses when talking to female Dumbasses. Under certain circumstances, when presented with a choice of telling the truth or lying like a mangy flea-bitten dawg, a male Dumbass will lie through his teeth every. single time.

In all fairness to male Dumbasses everywhere, sometimes a lie will save your life – not to mention your gazebos. As a Public Service to Prevaricating Dumbasses of the XY Chromosome Persuasion, I shall point out some instances where a teensy weensy fib is an infinitely better choice than telling the God’s honest truth.

It ‘s OK to Lie When… 

Mrs. Fearless Leader of the Dumbass Horde, Top Dumbass Material Contributor and You Tube Star,  found an article on ivillage.com about The Top 10 Lies Men Tell Women. I will list a few of them below, then give my take on the proper way to address the deal.

  • Does this dress make my ass look big? Fellas, this is a trick question. A woman asks you this because she really wants to know the truth. Except she really doesn’t. I told you it was a trick question. One the one hand, a lady honestly wants to know if a certain dress makes her ass look too big. She can’t, after all, go to a party, business dinner, etc. and being wearing a dress that makes her rear end look like the back side of a Mack truck. This is both embarrassing and unprofessional. Therein lies the dilemma for a male Dumbass. Let’s say the dress is too tight and you know it. You then politely say, “Honey, that dress fits you a little snugly”. The woman, wanting to hear the truth but not wanting to hear it all at the same time, hears you say, “Bitch, your ass is so wide I’d have to measure it using the length of axe handles”. 

Solution: Lie and lie convincingly. I mean real convincingly. A little white lie here can mean  the difference in leading a life with happy gazebos or no gazebos at all. The gazebos win every time.

  • I Don’t Enjoy Going to Strip Clubs. Men, you have dug your own grave here with one foot in it and the other foot on a banana peel. The only way out is to know when to stop digging. And by “stop digging” I mean of course, “stop lying”. You are in a no-win circumstance at this point, guys. So just shut the fuck up. Here’s the deal: you have begun lying to a woman by lying before you ever get the chance to tell the real lie! Of course you like going to strip clubs! You are a man for Pete’s sake! Men are horn dawgs and going to a strip club is the closest to being a philandering bastard as you can get without actually being a philandering bastard! Unless, of course, you are already low-life cheating scuz ball. 

Solution: Don’t lie to begin with. Women are not stoopid. They can see through a lie like this like Superman looks through brick walls. Or G-strings. Women know (they may not understand, but they know) that men are pigs. Men, when faced with the choice of settling down with one woman and the same poon every night for the next fifty years or cavorting about with nubile young women who look like Jessica Alba without clothes on and getting new poon every night of his life, will, believe it or not,  always go home to someone they love and are spiritually bonded with before they go on a Stripper Humping-a-Thon. Even the horniest of marrried men need the comfort and reassurance that only a good woman at home can provide.

If you want to go to the Jiggle Joint with your buddies, simply tell your wife, “Baby, I’m going to the Pierced Nipple with Frank. We just want to check out some young, firm hooters. You know, the kind you used to have?”

Then call a divorce lawyer.

Dumbass.

Killer Crack at Strip Joint

Deadly Weapon

The crack research staff here at Dumbass News is a dedicated group of Dumbasses who take their jobs very seriously. This crack research team consists of me. And Mrs. Fearless Leader. Even though we are called a crack research team, we do not research crack. Or cracks for that matter. We are not on crack either. But, we are a crack research team.

Mrs. Fearless Leader was doing some crack research (though not about crack) when she came upon a story that is as Dumbass worthy as any story can be. The story is about a man who died a crack death. that is to say, with a crack in his face. A butt crack. Mrs. Fearless Leader was not researching cracks when she found the story, the crack is, however, an integral part of the tale. (pun intended)

Remember: crack kills.

B.C. (Before Crack)

When most people die, it’s usually because of old age or disease. How-so-ever, some people die in ways that even Stephen King couldn’t come up with. I’m talking weird shit here.

Here’s a quick rundown of some of the strange ways in which the Grim Reaper paid a visit to some most unfortunate folks:

  • Two guys were out in the desert doing a little target practice on some Saguaro cactus. One of the guys took aim with his shotgun and BLAM! The dude put a very large hole in the 25 foot tall Saguaro. The hole was large enough that it left the cactus unable to support itself. Then gravity took over and it fell. On the guy. And killed him. Grave. Yard. Dead.
  • It was 1277 and Pope John XXI wanted a new laboratory, so he ordered one to be built. Now, you’d think that with a ton of money at his disposal, The Pontiff’s new lab would be made of the best and sturdiest of materials. I guess it wasn’t because it fell on him and soon the white smoke was coming from the Vatican chimney announcing his successor. R.I.P. Il Papa.
  • In 1911, Jack Daniel (yes that Jack Daniel) forgot the combination to his safe. He then threw a temper tantrum and ended up kicking the safe. Soon thereafter he was dead from blood poisoning. 

Which brings us to Robert Gene White.

Now…the Crack

Robert died in a very strange but almost envious manner.

You see, Robert was at the Red Parrot Club  (NSFW Linkage!) in El Paso, Texas when he bought the farm. Just in case you didn’t/couldn’t check out the link, the Red Parrot is a strip joint. Robert was there looking at perky young hooters when he thought it would be a good idea to get a lap dance. As it turned out it was a lousy idea to get a lap dance.

This is where the crack comes in to play.

Smack dab in the middle of this intimate encounter with a stripper’s butt Robert Gene White met his Maker. Keeled over right on the spot. Dead as a door nail. It appears that a massive coronary was the culprit. That must have been some ass on that stripper.

As a Former Professional Drinker and Friend to Strippers, I can honestly tell you that I have never heard of a guy having a fatal heart attack during a lap dance. I can tell you of times where fatal shootings and stabbings took place during a lap dance, but a heart attack? Not so much.

Questions Abound

As is the case with stuff like this, I have a question or two.

  • Is the stripper with the great ass guilty of a crime? Involuntary manslaughter caused by too much ass to the face, perhaps? Suffocation by hooters?
  • In instances like this, should strippers be required to know CPR or is giving a horny old bastard Vapor Lock just a hazard of the job?
  • Did she get to keep her tip?

According to the story, several members of the club’s staff tried to revive Robert but it was too late. He was pronounced dead at the scene.

With a big smile on his face.

Moral of the story?

Crack kills. And what a way to go.

.

Dumbass.

Parrot Flees Owner, Searches for Strip Clubs

Parrot in the Jungles of Brazil & Shit

Have you ever been around a parrot? I have, and let me tell you that they are magnificent birds. They are also very expensive birds. I once worked at a pet store (great job, Yankee bosses) and we were selling a 4 year old Amazon parrot for about $2000. I know they can be bought cheaper than that, but this bird was from the jungles of Brazil or some shit. I think her name was “Cheyenne” or some hippie shit (the Yankee bosses were old hippies), but, man, was this bird incredible. This guy in New York City had an Amazon parrot too. Until he took it out for a bike ride!

Bye Bye, Birdie

Now that I’ve quit laughing, I can go on with this story. This NYC guy, Allen, went for a bicycle ride around the Big Apple one day and thought, “I have a great idea! I’ll take my $2000 Amazon parrot straight from the jungles of Brazil and shit, for a bike ride! He can sit on my shoulder as I pedal around the largest city in the country showing eight million people what a dumbass I am. What fun!” What a mistake. Allen goes on with his plan, tales the bird, straight from the jungles of Brazil and shit, bike riding while he (the bird) was sitting on Allen’s shoulder. Then the parrot remembered that he was from the jungles of Brazil and shit and starts to get homesick. He (the bird) also remembers the good old days of flyong around the jungles of Brazil and shit chasing the hot parrot babes and visiting Parrot Strip Clubs and shit. So his instincts take ove and guess what? Yup.The bird said, “Allen you’re an idiot for bringing a once-wild bird, untethered, outside. I bid you an A.M.F.” For those of you in OcupyMyAss movements around the USA, that means Adios Mother Fucker.

Futility

The bird flew the coop and what does Allen do? He goes all over NYC hunting for the damned parrot. Face it, chump, you are out one bird and and two large. You are also a dumbass. I don’t care how tame you think a wild animal is, one day the beast’s instincts will take over, and no matter how trained you think he is, you can not un-do what has been bred into that particular species for thousands or even millions of years. So, Allen’s bird split. That’s what parrots from the jungles of Brazil and shit do.

Free as a Bird 

Also by blowin’ the scene with Allen, the bird proved smarter than the man, which in Allen’s case wasn’t any major deal. The parrot’s out looking for Parrot Strip Clubs and the NYC equivalent of a jungle (The Bronx, maybe?) and Allen is at home curled up in the fetal position contemplating buying a goldfish. Let’s hope he doesn’t take the fish bike riding too.

Dumbass.