Dear Guy at Backstage at the House of Blues in Atlantic City

I am here to see Lost in Paris, and maybe to see the gogo dancers as well.  But mainly Lost in Paris because they are kick some serious ass.  Yes, my friends and I are wearing suits, because we are in the middle of being awesome.  Perhaps we are overdressed for this lounge, but so be it. 

I have just returned from the bar with a nice cold glass of Diet Coke, because that's how I roll.  It's a good thing too, because apparently you have cleaned them out of all the Yagermeister and Red Bull they have.  From the looks of your outfit, you are celebrating your newly completed sponsorship by TapOut.  Kudos to you, sir.  If what you wear is anything like the saying "you are what you eat", then apparently you went out and ate a warehouse full of Summer's Eve, and then you bathed in it. 

You must also think that every woman on the dance floor needs some liberally applied douche, because you are grinding up and down their legs so fast they are in danger of friction burn.  The only reason you and the lady you are currently performing outercourse on are not currently engulfed in flames has to be the fact that you are sweating so profusely that you look like Gary Busey when he was told that there were no more drugs left in the world.  I've seen basset hounds hump a leg with more grace, and they slobbered less too. 

For a bit, I thought some poor woman had actually left with you.  Then I realized that you were dancing very intensely in a corner, directly in from of one of the gogo dancers.  At least, I assume you were dancing.  You just kind of writhing around while holding your pants up with one hand, staring directly at the dancer from three feet away, never blinking, never smiling.  It was seduction at it's finest.  If you hadn't stopped to get another Milwaukee's Best, she certainly would have been yours.

You probably think strippers like you, too.