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It usually begins when dude next to you starts asking the stripper if he can eat Skittles out of her booty hole or some other no chill bullshit cats do when they’re gone off that brown. Around the time you’re estimating how many degrees to move your chair north by northeast to avoid catching collateral elbows, Stripper signals Chick at the Booth who signals Manager. So when yet another associate of mine began taking cell phone pix in the strip club – with flash! Le Tron and them swooped in us locust-style with the stark grimaces, but I’m happy to say I convinced them the top of my friend’s skull never closed. (Panama Edit: I actually got kicked out of a strip club a few months ago because a friend of mine who was taking a selfie in the strip club (I don’t know why either) got accused of taking pictures of the strippers. I don’t really know how exhausting clapping one’s cheeks to a trap bassline is, but apparently it’s tantamount to pulling an SUV by a chain with your teeth, ‘cause every strip club I know has an area full of wiped out dancers taking a load off. And the worst part isn’t even the snake eyes you’ll get. When cash is raining down, there’s rarely any order.