Helen the Stripper with No Bones

Helen resides in an Alabama strip club on the outskirts of town. Greasy men gather and salivate at the rubbery, hose-looking silouhette shimmying up and down the pole. As if some kind of fleshy blob, Helen the Stripper with No Bones writhes in agony as her body squeaks up and down the shiny pole. One man accounted on his experience in the VIP room with Helen as a “one-of-a-kind experience.” “It was like they found a damp towel in a dumpster outside and hid one of those Sharper Image massagers inside of it and then placed it on my lap”, he said excitedly. “Have you guys ever been to the Sharper Image? I ain’t even allowed in there because I tried cleaning the dirt off my feet in one of them foot baths.” Another man compared her to a walking gas station hot dog that had been sitting under a heat lamp for seventeen years if that hot dog was in turn wrapped around the handle of a urinal in that same gas station’s bathroom and forced to use its own grease emitting meat-pores to maneuver up and down.