Hey, you, stripper-clothes guy. There I was, sipping a latté with my boss at a downtown coffee shop on a recent Thursday morning. My boss had her back to the window, but I had a perfect view of what appeared to be clock-in time at the strip club across the street. The parade began with that busty girl in the clear plastic platform shoes. She nearly busted ass running across the rain-soaked parking lot. It was one part sexy, two parts hilarious. Then came the dude in the SUV dropping off not one but two dancers; he got a peck on the mouth from only one of them, though. All this happened as I was trying to pay attention to some very important stuff that my boss was saying! And then you pulled up. From your backseat, you pulled out a whole closet's worth of skimpy clothes. I couldn't make out what they were, but I didn't see a lot of fabric on those hangers. So what's your job: washer of the stripper outfits? Luckily, when I interrupted my boss to show her, she thought it was as funny as I did. Next time I see you, stripper-clothes washer, I'll buy you a latté.
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