Grandpa and the Stripper
jackslash
Detroit strip clubs
A young man wanted to give his grandpa a special present for his 90th birthday, and so he sent a stripper to his house.
The stripper arrived at the old man's home, dressed in a sexy outfit. She said to the old man, "I'm here to give you a special gift."
"What can you give me?" asks grandpa.
The stripper says, "I can give you super sex."
Grandpa replies, "I'll take the soup."
The stripper arrived at the old man's home, dressed in a sexy outfit. She said to the old man, "I'm here to give you a special gift."
"What can you give me?" asks grandpa.
The stripper says, "I can give you super sex."
Grandpa replies, "I'll take the soup."
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Where's the spoon?
https://youtu.be/N3jx4WIUYy4
Old woman in a nursing home was running up and down the halls flashing everyone and shouting super pussy. An old man hearing the commotion got out of bed and went to the hall to see what was going on. The old woman rushes up to him pulls up her gown and yells "Super Pussy". The old man looks down and says "I'll take the soup". :)
Took me a minute... lol. Funny.
It began when my crazy friend decided that my dad, Charles, and another friend’s equally ancient father, Al, had been spending too much time nodding off in front of their TV sets. She thought it would be nice to spice up their lives with a birthday celebration that would include an outing to the nearest gentleman's club.
So off we went to Mr. J’s, an unobtrusive-looking Santa Ana bar, on a Sunday afternoon to catch the first show of the day. The timing was perfect, as far as we were concerned. There were the three of us (two daughters and their crazy friend), the two elderly gents and a club empty of everyone except dancers, bartender and bouncer.
The dads rolled into the club, literally: Al sitting in his wheelchair and my dad steering his walker. Everyone looked our way, but if our little oddball parade surprised anyone, they didn’t show it. We noticed some smiles, but the staff was professional, if that’s what one would call it.
The dads took a spin down to the stage, where they parked at the edge waiting for the show to begin. We sat several rows back, unsure what to expect.
Then the lights lowered and dancers began appearing onstage, strutting sexily, snaking around a pole and doing slow strip-teases. The dads weren’t sleepy this afternoon. They were laughing and nudging each other’s arms.
But my crazy friend thought they were missing out on part of the traditional strip club routine. So she pulled some $1 bills out of her wallet, and handed them forward to the dads.
Both put the bills in their pockets.
“No,” she said, “they’re for the girls. Give them to the girls.” They looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. Two Depression-era guys with a couple of extra dollars that appeared out of the blue? No way would they give them away.
My friend kept on trying. She asked each of them which dancer he liked (both chose Cheyenne) and announced she was buying them each a lap dance. My dad, the birthday boy, would be first. He put aside the walker and stood up, his arms outstretched.
Cheyenne wasn’t sure what was going on. Neither were we. Then my dad stepped in close and began gliding her around the club in a Viennese waltz. He had a grin the size of Texas.
Other parties were held for him that year, including a large family-and-friends gathering. He enjoyed them all. But I never saw that same smile again.
The day after our trip to Mr. J’s, the three of us took Dad out to lunch. “Did you have fun yesterday?” Al’s daughter asked. “I really did,” my dad said. “I don’t quite remember why. But I had a very good time, indeed.”