Disclaimer: As the title suggests, the following material may be inappropriate if you are subjected to a hating ass boss and/or co-worker, girlfriend, boyfriend, librarian, or are underage. What age? I’m not sure exactly, but if you suspect that I’d tell you, “You know you’re too damn young to be worried about some strippers, go fucking study,” look away now.
Actually, it’s not the material so much as the various images of strippers that accompany it. Oh, YouTube users: Don’t you realize imagination is increasingly becoming a lost art form? Let us try to preserve what little is left of it. Anyway, click on down if none of the above bothers you.
Now that we’ve gotten that all out of the way, I can get to my gripes about this song. Fortunately, Keefy was kind enough to introduce this gem into my life. Problem is, he’s based in Alabama, and as a native Houstonian I am disappointed that my brother, best friend, and my favorite lesbian failed to bring this song to my attention.
I sent a mass text to each of them: “Hello all. ‘I about to hit the club and dance like a stripper. Ain’t got a nigga, I’m throwed off that liquor. I’m ’bout to hit the club and dance like a stripper.’ This song is like the story of my 20s. This is amazing. Must blog about it.”
Brother: “O my goosh n u say Im ghetto.”
I said in my response that he still is, and though I left this part out, you can see why. I say that with love. The lesbian said, “Lol late boots.” I let it be known that the shade is, none of those hoes told me about the song. Wait, let’s take a second to revel in me finally using some gay speak fluently and convincingly even if the language in question is seven years old. Alright, we can move on.
My best friend said, “You should [blog about it]. I knew you was a bird.” Haters (let me get away with using it this time) gon’ hate, and apparently, not tell you about songs they know you would appreciate. I could also fault some of you readers for not sending me new ignorant anthems to dissect on the site, but since my updating schedule as been hit or miss in recent months (shut up, I’ve already admitted it just now, don’t remind me), perhaps you figured I wouldn’t get to it. Or as Lauren let me know, “I assumed you knew.” Don’t ever think either, y’all.
Please continue sending me music. I’m homesick and you know I have to do morning, afternoon, gym, evening, and pre-late night writing jigs to pass the day. 90s R&B and my collection of southern rap classics can only do so much. Besides, lately I’ve been assigned to cover topics like Michele Bachmann, Herman Cain and Governor Walker, Texas Ranger. “Dance Like A Stripper” is a splendid reminder that one can subjected to stupidity and survive (if not revel in it a bit) so long as it has a nice beat that helps you work out your thigh muscles.
I can’t let songs like this pass me by. They remind me of sweet things my friends used to say to me. Like my first good friend from Howard, Aliya, who once told me, “Yeah, Mike, you dance really sexual. Like it’s the first of the month and rent is due.” If I’ve repeated that numerous times, oh well. It continues to mean a lot to me. Some of y’all would be offended, but I’m not. I read about strippers in North Dakota pulling in $2000 a night. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to go practice in the mirror. In this economy, you’ve got to stay ready.