The Hot Nerds

T'other day, I had occasion to contemplate and consider my future. My present job is contracted to come to an end in early September of this year, meaning I will have to seek alternative means of making my living in mere months. As such, I have to think long and hard about what I want to do next. After much deliberation, I was struck by the only logical choice- I'm going to set up an all-male stipping agency.

And a key part of our mission statement (at this point I'd like to throw a shout-out to co-owner of the agency, and Head of Irish Operations, Mr Cashin, and also Artistic Director in charge of Spoken Word Artistry, Ms Cox), will fall on our cornering of the lucrative "funeral strippers" market.

"What's that in Grandpa's will? Mandatory strippers at the funeral, really? Well I suppose it explains a lot. Now to get this bedazzled thong to the undertakers so he can be dressed as stipulated...."

Don't look at me like that. You've all thought about it, you're just pissed off that I had the guts to make a go of it before you.

"Wait a minute, this reads as though you've done more than just think about this. Have you d...."

Let me cut you off right there, disembodied voice in my head. Yes, I have done more than just think about this. Sadly, Gumtree refused to post my first advertisement. The Man tried to censor my future art, apparently objecting to my replacement of the word "dance" with "the art of erotic movement" in the context of a children's birthday party. Prudes. Undeterred, I went back to the drawing board to remove any potential red flags. What follows is a far more PC (less penis-y) declaration of intent:

Geek Chic Male Dance Brigade

Are you looking for a talented all-male "dance" troupe to provide entertainment at your event? Need athletic performers to captivate at your hen party? Children's birthday party? Bar Mitzvah? Funeral for a dearly departed friend, family member or beloved pet hamster? Then we are the guys for you!

We four returning kings are....The Hot Nerds!

More than just pretty faces and slick routines, we are gentlemen with rippling pecs and keen intellects. We honestly believe we are the men to avail of the lucrative niche of the interpretive dance market that is "geek chic".

"Did somebody call for I.T. support?" *cue music*

Nothing too racy, as we are classically trained and in the vein of such televisual phenomena as Flawless and....the other guys that dance.

Marvel as we effortlessly blend Swan Lake with the car chase scene from Matrix Reloaded to the accompaniment of The Imperial March. And be prepared to weep with joy at our moving rendition of The Nutcracker, through interpretive jazz hand chorus to spoken word versions of classic musical pieces by Barry Manilow, N.E.R.D., Daft Punk and more!

Let us bring the Magic to your Gathering. Set your phasers to stun, ladies, boys and everybody in between, because we're back in the hobbit. If it's hip to be square, then we are the droids you're looking for and we are tolkien no prisoners!

Reply to this ad for more details about pricing, performance details and exclusive group photos.
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And, in a promising turn of events for my future endeavours as an erotic entrepreneur, somebody did just that:


Hi,would you do a bar~b~q can I have more details please?
From: richard
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I knew what needed to be done:


Hi Richard,

Providing we can come to an agreement, we'll be there with bells on (we will provide our own bells).

As you can imagine, we would require access to an area in which we can privately dress, as our performance does require occasional quick costume changes. Also, we would need to ensure that flash photography is kept to a minimum, as it can interfere with the tightly choreographed routines in motion. Would any of your party class themselves as having even a working knowledge of Microsoft Powerpoint? This would be especially useful, as a slideshow presentation accompanying our routines can really make the whole thing *pop*.

In addition, I should ask if there will be any dogs present at the event? This is simply as Sebastian was once mauled by a particularly vicious Basset Hound- he was lulled into a false sense of security by its sad eyes and comically low hanging ears- and is, understandably, wary of all canines as a result. Thankfully, the panic attacks have subsided, and are unlikely to impact upon his mad dance skillz in any discernible fashion.

In terms of fees, we understand the trepidation in paying in advance prior to having met the performers. As such we are willing to accept full payment on completion of our roles at the event. Our standard fee charged for a private event of this scale would be £600. However, in extreme circumstances and depending on the scenario, we are open to negotating down to working for as little as three chicken wings, eight pork sausages and four miniature parasols.

We will, of course, provide our own baby oil and vaseline (simply a precaution, in the event of catastrophic nipple chafing).

These industry standard conditions being met, we would be more than willing to participate in this gala event of a barbecue. Although, we are legally required to inform you that we cannot, technically, classify ourselves as a "dance act". A court order stipulates that we refer to ourselves as an "advanced mime outfit, with mild erotic overtones".

I look forward to hearing from you once again, regarding further details.

Kind regards,
Deebs
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I left out any reference to nipple tassels, as I needed to keep the advert sufficiently masculine. I'll keep you updated on the negotations as they progress.

If these negotations do progress, I think it's safe to say that "Richard" is a serial killer with an appetite for Dance Dance Destruction, yet if he's willing to pay, I'm willing to cobble together a group to make this happen.

*****************UPDATE*****************

Confirmation-  we have a serial killer. Richard is a potential mass murdering monster. I know what meat he wants to serve at this barbecue- Hot Nerd meat! And not in a sexy way. This man has designs on our respective pancreases (pancrei?). His stomach is making the rumblies that only hands will satisfy. How many all-male advanced mime outfits (with mild erotic overtones) has he grilled over the coals, while donning a macabre chef's hat and whimsical "Kiss The Chef" apron combo? Dozens, I'd wager. In short, he's a ritualistic, cannibalistic, man-murdering barbecue enthusiast....possibly. I mean, how else can I interpret this?:


Hi,could you send me some photos,how many are in your act?every thing else sounds great. Richard
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Time to grease up or shut up. Hand me that camera, boy. We have a customer.

Panic

Start strong, keep the reader's interest and finish with a flourish.

Nah, you'll accept what I give you and you will like it. Dance, supposedly literate monkey, dance!

I'm going to offer up a stunning revelation, the likes of which could close out the week in any sensational soap opera (right up there on the dramatic spectrum of sensationalism alongside discovery of evil twin, marriage to said evil twin, committing murder of evil twin in complex self-defense plot twist and finally engaging in evil twin necrophilia....it's a dark vision of the televisual future when I rule all with an iron fist):

My mind panics and fucks up in curious ways under miniscule amounts of pressure. It's a finely tuned, fully functioning piece of meat-apparatus (giggle) under mild to extreme levels of duress, but as a general rule, its resting state is one of confused, hysterical terror (think puppy faced with a Hoover....of cats). As you will no doubt be aware by now though, this blog is no arena in which for me to provide specific examples of such duncery. Ha! Tuck yourself in and marvel once more at my continuing defiance of normalcy. My ongoing rebellion against sensibility. A dirty protest upon the walls of considered thought. The typed equivalent of stabbing oneself in the eyeball with a fork while trying to eat at a buffet (shout out to Mr Phil). Or inadvertently vomiting in one's own face after a night of excessive drinking (*citation needed*). Now, on with the show.

"I have an idea for Mother's Day...."

A simple request emerged from the ether of silence in Number 63.

"I want to get as many people as possible to ring my parents' place back in Ireland, and leave a voicemail wishing my mum a happy Mother's Day. You can say whatever you want in the message; tell a story about me, insult me....anything."

Straightforward. Problem being that I loathe talking over the phone. I lose all control over my ability to express even the simplest thoughts, stumble relentlessly over my words and trip hopelessly through whole conversations without making a midget's molehill of sense. The tension rose internally. Alfred Hitchcock was conducting the synapses while my heart beat to a John Williams score. I lifted the receiver.

"Hi, Mrs Kelly. This is Deebs, your son's flatmate. I'm just calling to say 'Happy Mother's Day' and thank you for giving us your son...."

So far so good. Turning a bit religious at the end there, as if I'm in the presence of The Chosen One, but it's salvageable.

"....with his lovely blue eyes and his....scraggly beard...."

Alright, probably shouldn't have turned to make eye contact with him there, examining his face as may a lovelorn cannibal. Still, nothing out of the ordinary said so it could have gone worse. Now just wrap it up and it's done.

"....so....er....happy....day....to you."

What in the ever-loving fuck? Was it too hard just to part without saying something unusual? Why "happy....day"? Fuck you, Alexander Graham Bell! Your invention renders me dickish and verbally uncoordinated.

That, though, is hardly going to have any long-lasting ramifactions on my psyche. No harm, no foul as they say. It's not as if I repeated my party trick of doing/saying outlandish things to let down a girl rather than just, you know, being up-front and clear about my intentions, or lack-there-of. Well, now that you mention it....

"I've hit women before."

I'm really not in the habit of abusing lady-folk. I cannot stress enough how much of a woman beater I am not. Equally, I cannot begin to place enough empasis on the lengths to which my mind will go to distance me from (nothing resembling so much as mildest) peril. There was a context to the remark within the conversation that led to my remark. There was not a justification for saying it. The horrified silence was reaching into a vast, timeless expanse of space beyond mortal comprehension. I knew I needed to say something to set the record straight. I am not the Tyler Durden of Female Fight Club. I had to retract that explosive soundbite.

"Yeah....it's been warranted. They had it coming...."

Another woman successfully spurned by the most abstract methods. If nothing else, my rejections offer with them a degree of finality that just saying "no" can never hope to match. There really is no coming back from those iterations. Far worse than simply Twirling about the place, poking girls in their ears and pretending it didn't happen. I was in receipt of significant flak for the cultivated mirage of my violent tendencies towards the supposedly fairer sex, from members of it.

"Would you rather hit a woman or a dog!?"

I don't hit women! We had established this. Nor would I hope to ever find myself in the, frankly ludicrous, hypothetical situation of having to decide between assaulting a girl or a canine. Honestly, I had to think about it.

"Dogs are only barely sentient!"

Neither are a lot of women I know! And it's not like I go around inflicting harm upon ficitonal dogs either. Well, now that you mention it....

"Never have I ever killed any animal bigger than a rodent."

Dateline- Edinburgh. January 2012. A cold and windswept winter's eve. The scene- a top floor flat, inhabited by students of a feminine origin and seemingly a conductor of all known weather ills. The gale was drawn to the place. And apparently we had exhausted all the sexy questions in the drinking game by this point.

I drank.

For those not schooled in the intricacies of this particular endeavour, this was a signal that I had, in my (remarkably) continuing life, on one or more occasions been responsible for the death of a creature larger than that of the rodent family. The murmurs rose in number and volume within the group.

"What did you kill?"

Not a woman. I haven't killed a woman.

A few years ago, when she was clearly very sick, and I was horrified at the merest hint that she would suffer in any way, I made the decision to put my dog down. I'm not meaning that I shotgunned her in her adorable, fluffy little face, oh no. I'm saying that I made the choice to carry her to the local vet and ask him to do the right thing. It was heartbreaking. Tears were shed. I loved that dog. That was my tale of animal woe. I'd had my dog put down. Did that count? No. No, that wasn't the same as killing her myself. My answer had been a sham. I was an accidental fraud. Set the circle straight, that's what I had to do. Either that, or communicate that, perhaps, in choosing to bring Mins (for t'was her name) to the vet, I still harboured residual guilt for my decison. I looked around the gathered assortment of characters (my two flatmates, six girls and I formed the nucleus), searching their faces for the correct route of clarification. Recant or tell the heartwrenching tale; there was no third option.

"I hit a dog with my car."

WHAT THE FUCK, BRAIN!?

"But....you don't drive."

Good point. I don't drive. Back down. Back away from the fiction, brain. Let sanity shine through, just this once.

"Yeah, it was while I was learning."

A collective gasp and groan of horror enveloped the room.

"What kind of dog?"

A reasonable question. What type of dog had I mown down on my imagined escapade? An invisible dog? A dog of the mind? Clarify for the nice people.

"A small one. A terrier."

Great. Yep. Why help yourself at all, mind? Pick a cute dog. Go on, make it the most adorable squished thing since someone stood on sliced bread. You fuckwit!

I've been reliably informed that backing out after drinking, and setting the record straight (pre-canine murder), would have been scarcely remarked upon. Revealing the true tale of pet loss would have been met with group-wide synpathy and an "aaaaaaaawwwwwwww" from the assembled lady (and even lad) folk. But no, I had to go and kill a false beast. Had the subject not been hastily changed by those wishing not to drown in their own tears at that point, I likely would have continued to speak of the adorably deceased creature that I had concocted for no logical reason.

"Yeah, there was a kid there too. Really cute kid. Holding a lead. No dog attached. Well, certainly nothing that could be classified as "dog" anymore. Yeah, poor kid, crying. Think he'd dropped his ice-cream in all the shock too...."

Fuck you, tangled, irrational thought processes!

****No women, children, animals or ice-cream were harmed in the composition of this post.****

The Ballad of Doobs

If you'll permit me the simile, employment is like a nun: at times daunting to approach, deserving of a healthy respect, and next to impossible to get into.

No, you didn't imagine that. I started with a nun sex joke. I felt it appropriate to lower the tone from the off. Any lingering respect for my character should be held at that level from the outset, because it shall get no better from this point. More likely, if you are one of those people who converses with me, you won't continue to be after this.

In light of my having made a somewhat successful return to the table of the gainfully employed, I feel it would be remiss of me not to broach the topic of that time I did that thing, back when I was still a creature of the day and a reputable sort (relatively speaking. I was still having imaginary nun sex, after all). Them were the days alright. I was in a long term relationship which was mostly consensual. There was a respectable, full-time job being held down in an office. My hats could reasonably be stored within a box, rather than numbering an amount to inspire mild panic in the spatially impoverished. I could even boast that the number of hairs atop my head could be considered respectable. There was occasion for me to wear a suit, and tuck my shirt in. I was a regular, productive member of society.

Also, I had an evil twin.

Doobs came about in the course of conspiring to avoid facing the horrors and travails of working life within the arena I found myself. More specifically, his genesis was rooted in my commitment to taking a week long Spanish holiday, as malicious doppelgangers are wont to do. Classic evil twin origin story stuff.

I tended to have my work for the week finished in 3 days. In fact, given her spectacular ineptitude, I tended to have my boss's work done for her in 3 days. There's a belief that states that people are continually promoted until they reach one level higher than their ability enables them to perform at. This is called the Peter Principle and I have long since espoused the accuracy of its tenets, largely based upon this experience. My superior had, presumably, been a committed employee of sufficient merit as to be deemed worthy of promotion to the lofty perch upon which she found herself. Yet (to take the bird metaphor and run with it here....fly with it?) she seemed now quite content to cling to that perch, staring at herself in the mirror and squawking gibberish without any true comprehension outside of her little cage. I'll admit this may have helped to colour my opinion of her as a person, but she was also a quite detestable creature. Perhaps outside of the role she was a lovely woman, full of joy, laughter, sunshine and rainbow coloured unicorns of delight and whimsy, but whilst behind that desk she was a behemoth of benevolence and torturous turmoil.

Nonetheless, occasional verbal sparring aside, I managed to contain my growing hostility towards her and not allow it to outwardly effect my performance....when I was in. Doobs was quelled and restrained.

She did once attempt to give me a verbal dressing down in front of the office for my allegedly poor punctuality, conveniently failing to pick up on the fact that we had discussed the difficult transport links delaying my arrival each morning. Apparently I was not working a full day, as my starting work 15 or 30 minutes later than regular would suggest, and thus letting the team down. When she took issue with me in such a public fashion on this occasion, all bets were off. I loudly corrected the several inconsistencies in her accusations and pointed out that I was, as we had previously arranged, staying late in order to account for the time I couldn't make in the morning. In fact, in doing so, I was working longer hours than stipulated and accepting it as unpaid overtime. Unpaid overtime that was made necessary by her handing tasks off to me at her day's end that were in fact solely her responsibility. And just like that she was put back in her box and instead requested a private word.

Foolish woman. She had released the Doobs.

From this point, I made a point of doing my work (and doing it damn well, might I say), accepting whatever else was placed in front of me, but no longer volunteering to help her and ease the burden of her workload. Given that she spent most of her time engaged and engrossed in personal phone calls (probably comparing and contrasting the cuteness of the cats she'd spent all day Googling), her workload could not have been all that severe anyway. Just enough to turn her into a stressed-out bitch-monster beyond rhyme, reason or choclate based bribery. And I was sitting on a ticket to Spain, booked before I'd even taken on this thankless job. I'd been hesistant about declaring it in the first place, as I was wary that it could queer the deal (sometimes, I just like to find excuses to use phrases that are in my mind at a given moment). Screw it, if they weren't going to acquiesce to my demands and grant me my holiday, I would have no option but to hand in my resignation. Given the devilishly restrictive deadlines of the massive project we were working on, I knew that the granting of my freedom would be unlikely. My resignation was typed up and burning a hole in my back pocket as I prepared to throw it in her fat, frumpy, ferret-featured face....like a gentleman. I requested a private moment of her precious time and we descended the staircase that would lead me into unemployment once more.

....but I do like money....

....PLAN B!

It was time for a fantastical tale. I surrendered myself to Doobs and let that bastard take the wheel. This is the point that any lingering respect will dissipate. Read on if you still think it wise....or if you already know the bastardry of which I am capable..

Boss Monster: "So, what do you need to talk to me regarding, David?" (chalk one up to overly formal speech in a work environment....and THAT name)
Deebs: "I felt I should talk to you to let you know that I'm going to need to take some time off work next month."
Boss Monster: *eyebrows raise quizically; first one, then the other struggling to match its incline* (this gave her the appearance of a confused and constipated child about to have the facts of life explained to her)
Deebs: "You see....er...."

****Enter Doobs****

Doobs: "It's my cousin, see? He's got problems. I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but he's got a drinking problem. It's been tearing the family apart. They tried to talk to him, a bit like an intervention, but he just ran out on them. Thing is, I'm the only one in the family he talks to. We're very close. And they want me to try to get through to him. Problem is, he's fled to his mum's place in Spain. I've managed to get him talking, but I'm going to need to go out to Spain for a week or so to try to bring him home to get the help he needs."

I knew it was ridiculous. I knew it was a low move to pull. More importantly, I knew it wasn't going to work. I would have known that much without even looking at her face, still contorted in that awkwardly bemused state. I reached for the letter in my back pocket....

....her face thawed, and released her from its ice-cold grip of apprehensive quandery, or stroke, or whatever it was.

Boss Monster: "Oh, I understand completely. I really do. A member of my family is an alcoholic. It's so awful. You go, and take as much time as you need."

OK, so this looks bad for me. I know that my conscience should have Jiminy Cricketed into action at this point. I should have found some way to back down. This woman had suffered through the horrors of alcoholism. She knew the pain all too well that I was attempting to fabricate. I could have sworn a tear was beginning to form in her eye. Abort! Abort!

Doobs was in control now. Deebs was captain of this damned ship. Doobs was not going to back down. Doobs was going on a holiday with my girlfriend. And that man was cold. He did not waiver, even as my boss came acropper with some personal troubles that reduced her to tears in work on more than one occasion. Even then she would periodically check in with Doobs, to see how this fictional cousin was getting on.

Boss Human: "Look at me, making a fuss when you've got your own problems to deal with.*wiping tears from her eyes* How is your cousin?"

Doobs: "It's a journey. One day at a time, but I really think he's getting there."

And you better believe that "cousin" showed convenient signs of relapsing whenever I needed a lie in.

But what if I don't have an evil twin? Deebs had a steady job, luscious locks, a long-term girlfriend, relatively promising career prospects and a puzzling inability to grow facial hair. Doobs was a hard-drinking cad with none of these things.

What if I am Doobs? Maybe Deebs is that guy whose body I stuffed in a cellar off Cockburn Street.

I have some deep thinking to do on this subject....twirling my moustache and laughing until my monocle shatters on the floor.