Penthouse hookers

I forgot to mention there was a police raid at the Penthouse club near my house. My response is pretty similar to that of Chip, my favorite local blogger.

This kind of goes back to the all-too-common pattern of marriage as a fight over commodities. (I’ll never forget the woman who told me she would fight a divorce tooth and nail, not because she gave a shit about her husband or the effect of the divorce on her kids, but because “I’ll be goddamned if my lifestyle’s going to suffer because he can’t keep his pants zipped.” Interesting priorities!)

Apparently the wives of these guys called the cops because the husbands were blowing too much money on the strippers. (They didn’t seem to care that their husbands were going to the club, only that they were spending the huge wads of cash.) Husbands compulsively spending the rent on strippers is a not-unfamiliar tale these days, as you will know if you read tabloids.

Whenever I drive past the club, I occasionally fantasize about taking pictures of the license plates, running the tags and then charging a slight fee for withholding the information from their wives. But I never do, because I figure if hubby’s spending all his time at titty bars, that’s a marriage with enough problems already and they don’t need me adding to the mess.