On a filthy stage I crawl around on all fours like a dog in a thong, begging for treats. I’ll even do a trick. Maybe I’ll do a trick. If the treat is good, I might give you a better look at my nipples, or I might slap my own ass cheek or something. I’ll squeeze my breasts together for your entertainment. You can stick a buck between my tits. It’ll be great. Go ahead. I’ll even thank you for the privilege of entertaining you. You’re wearing the coolest hat I’ve ever seen. Where are you from? Oh, the people from there love to party. Do you love to party? I bet you do.
I’ve danced around on a greasy pole and now I’m making my rounds collecting tips. You see me crawling down the stage. I’m coming your way. You are going to tip me aren’t you? So why is your cash still in your wallet that is still in your back pocket? There are all these layers to get to the inside like those Russian dolls, the biggest on the outside but the best on the inside. Please hurry! My time on stage is almost over. The final seconds of this horrible alterna-rock song are counting down. Everyone else is waving their money at me. You idiot. Hurry up.
The proper thing to do at the stage is to keep your money out. Stack it neatly in front of you or keep it in your hand. It is fine and fantastic to just set it on the stage like offerings at an altar. If you are going to put it in my G-string, for the love of God, please fold it lengthwise. Remember, hot dog and not hamburger. Hamburger fold falls out too easily and then I have to pick it up anyway. Leave it on the stage, hand it to me, or slip the hot dog in the thong. Ideally, it would be folded symmetrically and placed directly and neatly next to another dollar already inhabiting the string of synthetic material I’m trying to pass off as panties. But I’m not that picky. Have fun! Get a lap dance.