from the archives...............sweating the small stuff

One of my favorite Stressed Out Italian Stripper moment’s was one night we were on the couch watching the movie “Who framed Roger Rabbit”. Watching TV with her was an exercise in patience, “who’s he? Where did she come from? What time is it? I’m cold”

Get my drift? Well out comes Jessica Rabbit and the Stressed Out Italian Stripper tenses up, and I knew another question was coming. She turned to me and asked,

"who's better looking, me or Jessica Rabbit?"

And she was serious; I asked her if she realized the rabbit chick was a cartoon and that she wasn’t real? “So, who’s better looking?”

The Stressed Out Italian Stripper was of course Italian decent, and she always told me that her father hung with the Mob in Florida. I always called bullshit until the time I found out it was true. She was a very healthy little hump (38DD’s) and always dressed in small clothes that showed off her ample assets.

I always knew when she hit the bar I was working in because all the men in the club would turn to face whatever direction she was coming from like a herd of fuckin Meerkats. One of our constant arguments was me trying to tell her to dress down whenever she came to see me because I had to shut down a lot of guys over that fact.

But it being a chick, meant the more I bitched the less she wore. But one night we were both at the bar when about half a dozen cats of Italian decent started fuckin with us. I took all that I could and got up to deal with em when she said that she had this.

She walked over to the young Italian’s and said that her father would be very upset if he knew how she was being treated. “So what bitch, we don’t give a fuck about your old man or that mook you’re hanging all over”.

So she tells these muthafucker’s her last name and the name her father uses. All I can say is that they paid for all our drinks and came over and shook my hand and basically acted like her little bitches for the rest of the night. The Stressed Out Italian Stripper just looked at me and grinned and said, “I told you my father was a badass”.

I got to meet this muthafucker about a year later and I’ll tell you what, he made Charles Bronson look like a pussie. He grabbed my hand and told me that he didn’t like my kind but that his little girl seemed to dig me so until I fucked up I was cool with him. I shook his hand and counted the bulges in his jacket and said yes sir.

The reason I call her The Stressed Out Italian Stripper was that everything was high drama to her. All she seemed to care about was making money, her cat and me, in that order. She was like a bad dog sometimes, I would have to walk her up to my good friends and let her see them and tell her that she needed to play nice with this person because they were close to me. Cause if I didn’t then she was an uber bitch to everyone she came into contact with.

I was at work one day when I got an emergency message to come home. I rushed into the apartment expecting the worst and what did I find? The Stressed Out Italian Stripper had in the process of putting on her bra had gotten her hair tangled up in the clasp and both of her arms hooked behind her back.

It was like a tittie straitjacket, and she’d been that way for over an hour until she figured out how to dial the phone with her one free finger. Then there was the year that I spent New Year’s alone at home with her cat while she worked a party somewhere.

When she came home there I was on the couch drunk and next to me was her prized Persian cat with all four feet up in the air passed out from all the champagne I had stuffed into em. My bad, but it took her a month to calm down over that muthafucker.


"and the monkey flipped the switch"