Usually when I think of the World Cup I think of a week-long period in America when ex-frat guys pretend that they give a damn about soccer. ‘Dude, I’ve been a fan of Madchester Crewnited for years, bra!’ Which is why when my editor wanted me to travel down to Brazil for it I was a little hesitant at first. That and because I’ve been persona non grata down in Rio after an occult voodoo experiment at Carnivale last year created a staggering outbreak of the walking de–Anyway, that’s a story for another time.
But much to my surprise, I was greeted not by cleats, Umbro shorts and soccer balls when my cab pulled up to the stadium. Nay! Instead it was metal cleaner, cheap perfume and g-strings that did a worse job of covering anything up than the Nixon administration (that joke would’ve killed on Dick Cavett). That’s right, this was the Pole Dancing World Cup 2012.
I’ve spent the better part of the last six months travelling from
strip club to strip club venue to venue watching some of the world’s finest female specimens crawl across a metal pole like the climax of a Spider-Man movie, but the time had finally come for these ladies to put their panties on the line and dance, dance, DANCE! It’s like IHOP, but instead of pancakes, it’s a hefty, American-sized portion of silicone and pole grease. Plus, the great thing about a contest like this is that everyone’s a winner. And by everyone I mean everyone in the audience.
Must be off. I think the authorities finally realized that the fake mustache and glasses I’ve donned to sneak back into the country is nothing but a masterful ruse. Until the globe stops spinning next time fellow oglers!