Yeah, so, I went to Thunder Down Under.
For those of you who don’t know what that is, allow me to explain … it’s like Chippendales except with Australian accents. I think so, anyway. Actually, I have no idea what happens at a Chippendales show. Everything I know about Chippendales I learned from watching this.
Now, let me get this out of the way … I had a great time. A gaggle of us ladies went for a surprise bachelorette party at the Rraz Room in San Francisco. I had a blast hanging out with the ladies, drinking my red wine and grooving to the music while some dude peeled off his fireman costume. The show is terribly cheesy, which makes it quite entertaining. I laughed a lot, which if memory serves, naked guys do not like, but oh well.
I also found the show made for some fabulous people watching. It’s a strip show, but there’s more to it than just these buff guys with frosted tips taking their clothes off to an AC/DC song. First of all, there are like six of them and each one gets his moment to shine in a different theme.
“Is there a fire? The firemen are here.”
“Look at these smooth criminals. They are 1930s-style gangsters, ladies.”
“Let’s go back to the time of disco.”
“Save a horse, ride a cowboy, ladies!”
All the guys dance, then they all leave the stage except for the “star” of the theme, and he picks a lady out of the audience, usually a bride-to-be from a bachelorette party, and he sits her on a chair on the stage. Then he grinds on her and shoves his junk in her face, pretends to go down on her and then shoves her hands down his pants. Funny, guys pull this crap in a bar in the Mission and someone calls the cops, but on stage the ladies were cool with it. In fact, there were more than cool with it. The ladies in the audience wanted a piece of it.
Good for them. They are good lookin’ fellows. I, however, didn’t want a piece of it. In fact, I didn’t even want to be on the strippers’ radar. I have no interest in dancing with the strippers or touching the strippers or being touched by a strippers. I wrote about a bachelorette party I went to a few years ago in which a stripper showed up:
“I couldn’t get far enough away from him. I hid behind a houseplant. Seriously. But my obvious “Ewww, no thanks” body language just made that stripper want me more. He sought me out and dragged me out from behind the houseplant, lifting me up and the only way I could get out of it was to play along for a minute. Afterward, I ran to the kitchen and washed my hands and proceeded to stay in the kitchen until he left.”
It’s no coincidence I sat next to a plant at the Rraz Room. I was fully prepared to camouflage myself, and not just because my husband told me to keep my hands to myself. It’s just not my thing. More for all the other ladies. I ain’t judging. I’m just not interested.
But yeah, strippers dig me. I went to a strip club in Vegas with a bunch of guys and the female strippers were all about me. They thought I was a celebrity or something. I think they thought I was Daria.
Luckily, I didn’t have to duck behind a plant this time, the Thunders from Down Under were all about the birthday girls and the brides to be. Whew.
Sorry, there are photos, but I’m not going to share them, because they are definitely NSFW. I must respect the privacy of the awesome ladies who paid their hard-earned money to watch men take off their firemen costumes.
Well, OK, I will share one picture … at some point during the evening this happened:
And no, I’m not going to explain why I’m wearing a giraffe on my head.