For my bachelorette party my friends came together to create the most joyous of Saturday nights. One made bundles of garland and goodie bags (etc.), while another set up a raunchy trip to a local pole dancing studio. After bribes of champagne, chocolate covered strawberries, and foam boobie cups, I made my way to the stripper pole- where I quickly slung my legs around it, grunted, "Uh-oh Gawwwwd!", and tumbled clumsily onto the hardwood floor. My prospects as a future pole dancer: not so bright. Stunt double in the next Jackass movie: call me.
My abs are still killing me from the deceiving workout and I can't bring myself to take the garlands down from my living room ceiling. I'm going to end this blog with a brief word association:
Man-sized teddy bear
Pole dancing: How to rack your groin with class