Beyond the Valley of the Malls – One Cannibals Journey into Madness

I was waiting for Skaank while she got her nails and eyebrows done at a local esthetics joint and witnessed womanly exchanges that will haunt me eternally. First off, the nail salon was no bigger than a shoe box and being a broad shouldered bull in a china shop, I fit in there just as snug as you’d expect and second; how do you ladies deal with that acrid smell of putrid polish, pubis peeling and perfume? I had never been in such a place, this was something that women usually did on their own when they drop off the radar for a few hours leaving males to proudly pick their noses, eat grease and crank man music (like Neil Diamond, right Pig? HAHA). I had somehow found myself behind the lucrative lines of femdom with no recorder of any kind except for my beer addled brain.

While one of the ladies gingerly tended to Skaank’s airbrushing requirements, the rest of the little Asian estheticians were running late due to an “emergency” cuticle recovery operation which not only occupied one technicianista but three of them over time. It was like an operating theater, with each white coat cosmetologist chiming in – ‘I need a manicure bowl over here and 10cc’s of Acetone free nail polish remover, stat!” The cuticle queens circled the wounded woman’s hand like helpful hyenas armed with tools of the trade, precision puffs of support for the fallen finger and big hair (that was either full of girly gossip or the impossible knowledge needed to unlock the universe). I was stunned and half expected a pillow fight to break out, but today was not the day I suppose.

The manager of the place was a well proportioned blonde teetering on what must have been the most uncomfortable shoes known to man; she pranced about the place like a show pony – clop, clop, clop. I resist the urge to speak to her for fear of inane babble forcing me to scurry out into oncoming traffic. I consider picking up a stray copy of Cosmopolitan magazine – spot something about menstruation on the cover – I re-evaluate my choice and do not pursue the periodical. The operation now complete, the manager leads the little princess with the once killed cuticle to the couch beside me. They are chatting… I take a look out at the street, there is a bus out there that would make light work of me should I choose to bolt out in front of it. A big day of decisions, I choose to avoid suicide once more.

Both of them were poured from the same mould and I was in no way prepared to learn of their individual ingredients. They were attractive to a flaw (if that can be said). Footwear aside, the two of them had similarities beyond the teased hair (neither of which appeared to be authentic), excessive perfume that made my nostrils singe and sponge cake makeup application. With jeans like second skin and breasts that were as unnatural as the Olsen twins in a conversation about poverty the two carried on like they’d known each other since Christ was a child. For some reason Cuticle Cutie gives Manager Miss the go ahead to rifle through her purse. In search of something (the Holy Grail of Girls perhaps) the manager comments on each and every item in the posh looking purse stopping once to ask “you don’t mind do you? I’m a bit of a snoop” answered by a “no, not at all, blah blah blah”.

Aside from the usual small talk and tale swaps, Manager Miss somehow ends up throwing the name "MacDonald" into the conversation to which Cuticle replies; “that’s my last name!” Manager says that she knew that because “I'm a little bit psychic”. Where’s that damn bus?! A few photographs are found drawing forth yet another question from Manger Miss; “are you a dancer?”
“Yes!”
“What’s your stage name?”
“Paris” – hesitantly looks over her shoulder at me. What is she looking at me for?
“I used to dance” says Manager Miss “I was Christian Dior”
Paris? Christian Dior? Dance? Good lard! They’re strippers! It dawns on me that I just might have seen one or both of these women naked at one time or another. Holy guacamole, do they recognize me? I have a lot more hair now, there’s no way! Without a pint to my lips I’m unrecognizable! I rifle through my mental Rolodex of women I’ve seen naked – nope, nope, nope…. no
“Who was your agent?”
Agent? You mean strippers have agents? Are strippers in a union? I guess they would have to have a good benefits package for sore knees, performance mishaps and such. Can they write off lipstick as a business expense?

Paris (formerly known as Cuticle Cutie) says the name of her agent, I miss it – It’s probably Cosmopolitans fault, but I wonder if strippers have one week off a month when they’re menstruating? My thoughts trail off as Christian and Paris leave the couch and head off into another room for a “massage”, I wonder once more if a pillow fight is in the works, the two of them look back at me sitting at the front of the shoebox and I’m sure of it. Make it a good one girls, let the feathers fly.

Skaank (who I have seen naked, incidentally) has been beautified and is ready to roll, we make our way out to the car and I tell her my strange tale, she turns to me and says “I feel a blog coming on”.
You’re damn right, baby.

The preceding was reason #44 for why I need an editor.

iPod played "Chris de Burgh - Patricia the Stripper" while posting