Erin Go Bragh(less) in Jax

Tomorrow is Saint Patrick's Day. Since Emerald Isle and Wilmington already had their parades this weekend and the Jacksonville Chamber of Commerce has left its residents high and dry once again, most people will just end up hitting the bars and getting shitfaced while wearing green I'm Not Irish But Fuck Me Anyways t-shirts. Sensing this void, Jacksonville's premiere gentleman's club, The Driftwood, is offering up one of its most creative events to date.

If  creative = tacky + ridiculous

I must give credit where credit is due. The Driftwood (affectionately referred to as the Dirtwood) knows its clientele all too well. It is a grubby little hole in the wall on Hwy 24, just outside the main gate of Camp Lejeune and one short Tarheel Taxi ride away from the barracks. In a town where the men vastly outnumber the women, sex sells. If a guy can't get laid, looking at the boobs of an 18 year old girl who followed her Marine from Iowa only to get cast aside... well... that's almost as good as getting laid. Looks like tomorrow's festivities go a step further by catering to Jacksonville's love of all things UFC. In the few waking moments that Jacksonville's male population aged 18-29 isn't thinking about sex, it is entertaining homoerotic fantasies of pummeling another man in the octagon. Way to keep the bar raised high, Dirtwood!

I went to the Dirtwood once many eons ago. A group of us were sitting at a table just to the left of the main stage, running through buckets of beer. A young girl whose retainer gleamed when the strobe light display hit it just right was performing acrobatics on the pole. I noticed a slight swelling of her abdomen. "No way", I thought to myself, "maybe she just has a beer gut". I leaned over to my friend Laura, who came along for this excursion for her husband's birthday that we were celebrating. "Psssst...is she....?", I whispered. "Oh yeah. I am guessing about 5 or 6 months along" was her bored response.

Jesus! Not interested in seeing an on-stage miscarriage from the teenager still precariously twirling from the pole, I polished off my beer and hit the door, never to return again.

Guess who won't be at the Dirtwood tomorrow?