Man Camper’s Day Off

Yesterday I took a tour of a town that is touted as having the most millionaires per capita in all of C-A-N-A-D-A.

It’s real purdyy here. After I took this photo I went to eat a AAA-Grade Albertan Sirloin (medium-rare), but given the fact that I absolutely fucking HATE pictures of Hey-I-ate-this-today-neat-eh? I have refrained from including the carcass in this otherwise thrilling post.

Junior Millionaire graffiti:

And behold the not at all stupidly-named local watering hole:

It was a nice day to just chill the fuck out and not slather on make-up and exacerbate my bunions. At the steakhouse, I even indulged in a slice of carrot cake (not pictured) while huddled in a corner booth, avoiding the eye contact of not one but TWO clients who had seen me naked (and disguised with Jessica) not twelve hours ago.

PS - I learned a new slang term, too:

RIG PIG: n, An oilpatch worker who has more money than brains. Usually are prolific alcoholics, drug abusers and are known to spend their remaining income on strippers and whores. Most drive full size domestic pickups with a lift kit and big mud tires.

Thank You?

I can’t believe that it’s been nearly a year since I’ve flashed my gash for cash. I left Melbourne last April. Since then I’ve been naked in the New states of Mexico and York where your pussy stays bundled up in its g-string.


She’s out and ready to smile at everyone. It’s an easy, breezy and beautiful way to make fast cash.

Last night, I was seated with a guy who was way too drunk for his own Canadian tuxedo (At the end of the night, outside the club, he will fail to make the three paces to the snow bank and instead piss down his Levi’s). I would have upped and left, but he had already paid for a dance so we were waiting our turn to get into the VIP booths, which had been occupied for what felt like eons. I try to pry a conversation out of him. For all my efforts, all he says to me, over and over again, is “you’re so sexy.”

Me: “So where are you from?”

Drunk: “You’re so sexy.”

Me: “I just moved here. Where can I find some tasty and moderately healthy food in this town?”

Drunk: “You’re so sexy.”

Me: “Thank you. And what do you get up to on your days off?”

Drunk: “You’re so sexy.”

Another drunk, although less-drunk man comes skipping in my direction with his hands full of whiskey-cokes, arms outstretched. With great enthusiasm, he spills some of the contents from his left hand onto my shoe, yelling to his fellow patron,


(google search result for ‘drunk canadian.’)

"Uhhh, thank you?"

It’s been a while since I’ve been paid pussy compliments from someone other than my mistress. I think I handled it pretty gracefully, no matter how crapulously it was slung at me.

Man Camp

I just survived my first night of Man Camp, Canada.

(not actually Man Camp, Canada but not unlike Man Camp, Canada)

It’s the only strip club for hundreds of kilometres in the middle of the oil fields.

Yes, there are a lot of meth heads.

Yes, I had loonies thrown at my bits.

And yes, I most certainly did made a fucking mint.

There are four strippers. That’s eight tits for thousands of hard-working souls who are starved for attention. I never thought I’d say this aboot my own kind, but CANADIANS HAVE FUNNY ACCENTS. Sometimes they sound Irish, other times Scottish, and other times like every and any character from Trailer Park Boys.