My Short, Happy Career as a Strip Club DJ Mar 29 '10    Write an essay on this topic. Tweet The Bottom Line Garth, I also thank God for unanswered prayers  My shortest career was working for Coca-Cola in Chattanooga loading their trucks up with two liters and twelve packs. The two guys who started with me came over from RPS and thought it was a breeze, but not I. One 8 hour shift had me hurting a week afterwards and I never went back to collect a paycheck.   My Sis and Thank God he’s now my ex-bro in law went to pick it up, but since I’d never filled out an application they didn’t have a check to give me.  I was to make 5.25/ hr but if I lasted 90 days they’d jack it up to a generous 8.61. Standing around selling tacky men’s clothes at Hamrick’s seemed a much better proposition at the time.  The 2nd shortest career I had was working as a strip club DJ at a dive off Dixie Highway in Louisville. The outside was painted in a shade of pink that made it look like someone yacked Pepto Bysmol on the building during the day, but it looked a tad bit better under the lights at night. I spent many an hour and a pretty penny looking at beautiful Michelle and lotsa’ not nearly as pretty women’s there, so to get paid for popping in a few CD’s of their choosing on slow nights seemed like a dream.  And the first night it was. I popped in whatever they asked me to play, and most would tip me a couple of bucks for doing so. It seems I could have played whatever the hell I wanted, but making the girls happy seemed the right thing to do. I’d been regularly driving a few home, often stopping at White Castle or Waffle House on the way back for something to eat, so they all knew me. (Not to mention my side business as a Hotel Van Driver hooking them up with bachelor parties.)  What I didn’t count on is being security at the joint telling thugged out Mo-fo’s they’d need to take their tough guy acts someplace else. For this gig I didn’t’ fill out an application, it was all the t*tt*es I wanted to see and all the draft beer I cared to drink. (Which really wasn’t that much, to be honest.)  So when two black convict looking dudes and their wigger friend started talking crap to a dancer I secretly thought was a dude, I didn’t want to get involved. H*ll, knowing “her” “she” probably started it. Lord knows “she” talked enough crap when I was a customer.  “Let The Door Guy handle it” I said.  Well, doorman was on one of his many “smoke breaks”, most likely taking care of some other dirty business that required muscle in the back office. I was to be his backup, but I wasn’t wiling to have a cap busted in my a** to look at titties when a cover wasn’t charged there anyways. I said,” No disrespect, but I’m just about the BS and the music”  “What kind of Va-Jay Jay are you?” the manager lady said.  “I guess the virgin kind, ‘cuz I aint’ about to get f--ked by these three d--ks”  “Well, you’re fired then”  “Fine with me, no hard feelings”  “Nah, free draft for ya’ as long as you keep taking care of my girls. But I gotta’ fire ya’ for looks ya’ know?”  And with that I went home until it was time to pick up Michelle, who brought me out a shot and bought me a half dozen White Castles to munch on the way home.

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