Bootyrockers, a gentleman’s club in Pinellas Park is planning on devoting an entire day and night next week to celebrating the birthday of Chuck, one of the establishment’s regular customers.
“It’s going to be huge,” said Diesel, the club’s manager. “We’re going to put it on our social media and blow it out everywhere. His name will be on the marquee, the DJ will play all his favorite songs and of course, the world-famous Bootyrocker Babes will all be here. This place will be packed and it’ll be the party of the year! You’re not going to want to miss this one!”
“Most people are going to miss it,” said Marzipan, a dancer at the club. “I don’t know who would be here that wouldn’t already be here anyway. For who, Chuck? Please. What’s the point? It’s going to be like any other Tuesday.”
“Maybe I just thought it would be a nice thing to acknowledge that the guy exists, okay?” replied Diesel defensively. “The idea that some guy who spends every day and night at a strip club in the middle of Pinellas County with no real friends is somehow pathetic and insignificant, that he’s going nowhere and wasting his life, that nobody even knows he played division two college football, that the title of manager doesn’t really mean much and the pay isn’t even all that great considering the hours and all the bullshit, that he’ll be a middle-aged alcoholic in a couple of years who’s destined to die alone just doesn’t sit well with me. So for one day, one lousy fucking day out of the year, we’re going to make this poor son of a bitch feel special, all right?!?”
Sitting quietly by himself at the bar, Chuck muttered, “My birthday is in March.”