My legal name isn’t Avalon Vigglioti….but she opened a bank account yesterday.

One of my Ebanned clients sent a money order made out to Avalon Vigglioti.  I’m already quite a spectacle at the bank when I make my cash deposits in hundreds, fifties, and twenties (wearing a hot pink velour tracksuit of course!)  So I took my Phoenix Erotic Entertainer License, my Las Vegas Sheriff’s Card, my PO Box registration form, and the envelope the money order arrived at my PO Box in attempts to prove that I truly am…Avalon Vigglioti.

No deal.  BUT…you can open a business banking DBA account.  DBA stands for Doing Business As.  So I did.  I can now accept checks made out to Avalon Vigglioti.  I wonder how long it’s going to take for her to show up on Intelius.com?  And if I apply for a teaching job when I’m 50, do I have to claim Avalon Vigglioti as a name I have used in the past? 

Someone asked me the other day, how on earth a Scandinavian gal like me came up Avalon Vigglioti.   Avalon, NJ is a quaint beachfront town south of Atlantic City, north of Cape May.  It’s part of the infamous Jersey Shore that Philadelphians escape to for 10 weekends between Memorial Day and Labor Day.  I haven’t missed a week a the Jersey shore since 2001.  That’s the Avalon.

The Vigglioti: well, my husband has the classic hot-headed Italian temper.  So whenever he has a temper tantrum, he blames it on his alter ego: Vinnie Vigglioti.  Like Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde: it wasn’t him…it was Vinnie!   Before we got married, I was hesitant about legally changing my last name.  After all, my degrees, my certifications, and basically all of my accomplishments in the first 28 years of my life were in my maiden name.  So one day over margaritas, we decided to change both our legal names to Avalon and Vinnie Vigglioti.

The next day, we sobered up and realized that wasn’t a good idea considering my Methodist minister father had no clue I danced.  So I caved and currently bear a very Italian mafioso last name.  However, on our honeymoon though, we did everything as Mr. and Mrs. Vigglioti: made all our dining reservations,  introduced ourselves to the other newlyweds in Disney World, and even attended a timeshare preview as Mr. and Mrs. Vinnie Vigglioti.  We didn’t buy the timeshare, but the company sold our (fake) names and (real) address to a mass marketing firm…so Vinnie Vigglioti gets a ton of junk mail every week.

I got stopped out of POT at breakeven (minus $3 for commissions)  Even though I captured $2 of the move from $155 to $157, it was overruled by the volatility spike and the bid/ask spread.  Oh well, it could have been worse. 

I have maintenance day for the rest of the afternoon.  I really hate getting manicure/pedicures.  I can think of nothing that wastes time more than inhaling acetone while Ling sands my fingernails with a Dremmel.  Oh well, just part of the job….and tax deductible!

See ya at Christie’s on 32nd Street tonight!

 Thanks mainly to the propaganda of ugly, flat-chested, Barbie doll-hating feminists, a single question is being asked by more and more people upon seeing a well-endowed woman:

Are they real?

The controversy arises not because the woman’s breasts are discolored, lopsided, furry, hexagonal, or metallic, but because they are simply large (and/or well-rounded). One question: since when are plastic surgeons installing holograms? Ok, so silicone isn’t natural, but it exists for Christ’s sake. Fake breasts are real in the sense that they aren’t illusions or made out of tofu. They’re there, aren’t they?

But let’s ignore this illogic. Generally, what people mean is: are the breasts natural? In other words: did they grow on their own, or was there some kind of intervention by man? The answer: who cares? Since when is a cave better than a house? Or a donkey better than a Ferrari? Or wild berries better than dinner at a French restaurant? What makes something less valuable just because man created it? God dammit, do the breasts look like breasts?

No?

Ok, in that case, we have a problem. If you happen to be looking at a pair of breasts and notice something odd (like, for example, the breasts are looking back at you), you may have inadvertently stumbled upon the bad boob job.

The question is, how can you be sure? Were the breasts accidental freaks of nature – or was it worse? Were they the products of some sick practical joke? Or mad scientist? Or visiting surgeon from the University of Baghdad? Before you attempt to go near the breasts, you must be certain that the breasts are reliable. For your own safety, we now present: The ten benchmarks of real breasts you can trust:

1. They look like breasts.

The breasts should serve to make the woman look attractive as a woman. Not as an elephant or a space alien. Therefore, if you’re tempted to feed the breasts peanuts or to report them to the FBI, you may be dealing with a bad boob job.

1. They feel like breasts.

It’s hard enough to get a woman’s bra off in a hurry. The last thing you want to find are two objects resembling rotten grapefruits or broken light bulbs. Also keep your ears open for women who discuss their breasts using words like “prickly”, “jagged edges”, or “squishy”.

1. They’re attached to a woman.

Women have breasts, so it makes sense that women should be the ones who augment their breasts. Not men, not five-year-olds, not Fifi your pet bunny rabbit. A corollary of this point is that the breasts should be attached to the woman at all times. Beware of breasts seen jettisoned into outer space. What you thought was a woman is most likely a reptilian cyborg porn star.

1. They come in pairs.

Ever sit in a seedy bar late at night, smoke blurring your vision as you finish your last sip of bourbon, when suddenly a lone breast asks you to dance? If it hasn’t happened yet, one word of advice: dance. While your instinct might be to run, do whatever the breast says. Peaceful breasts always stick together.

1. They don’t rattle when shaken.

When you hear strange noises coming from a car’s engine, isn’t that a good sign not to have sex with the automobile? Of course. Similarly, strange noises coming from breasts are also a sign of danger. If the rattling comes at regular intervals, sounding more like a ticking sound, drop the breasts and immediately run for cover.

They don’t taste like metal.

6.      Getting friendly with an Eskimo woman shouldn’t entail getting your tongue frozen to her cleavage. Reliable breasts, both natural and artificial, have built-in mechanisms for dealing with extreme temperatures. Aluminum siding is not one of them.

1. When you squeeze them, they return to their original shape.

The ability to bounce back under extreme pressure is just as admirable in a woman’s breasts as it is in her character. Breasts with depressions, dents, or dimples can only mean one thing: they’re filled with sand or fiberglass and they’ve had at least one previous owner.

1. They rarely, if ever, excrete bright green fluids.

A bubbling, bright-green ooze is no more of a turn-on in the bedroom than it is in a nuclear power plant. Breasts which have had their safety-seals broken are not to be fooled with. Heck, if the breasts even have a safety seal I’d watch my step.

1. When their owner lies down, the breasts don’t remain standing.

It’s perfectly fine if part of the breasts are a bit stiff. However, if the breasts just refuse to make themselves comfortable, even in the face of a direct order, the breasts are simply not to be trusted.

1. The words “Made in China” are not stamped below the left nipple.

It’s astounding how many people inadvertently acquire sexual satisfaction at the expense of tens of thousands of Chinese political prisoners. It’s not only unethical to fondle a breast made in China, it’s downright risky. To be truly certain that a breast is of the highest quality, look for the “Made in the USA” label.

Once you’ve verified that a set of breasts have met these ten benchmarks, you are free to interact with them. This goes for all breasts, natural or not. Jesus Christ, if you can’t tell the difference, what do you care? Even if they are man-made, at least they’re being discreet about it.

So, what then is the proper response to a woman with unusually large, round, or perky breasts? Well, it ain’t “are they natural?” Instead, try a comment that shows her the respect she deserves. Like “thank you.”

June 16

So, Gino the day manager put signs up in the dressing room this week.

“I need lots of girls to work on Friday.  I am hosting a VIP Party starting at 6 pm.  Please be here and ready to work this lucrative party”

So, I carpool in with Jaynie the housemom.  I figure, even if this “VIP Party” is stupid like the last one….at least I can raid the buffet table.

So, I was right.  The VIP guests turned out to be the beverage distributers, the food service guys, the armor car guys who pick up the cash, and (this is the best) Gino’s friends!

Oh it gets better.

The buffet was set up in the pit by the back bar.  I didn’t eat much all day so I was STARVING around 6.  The guys didn’t show up til 6:45 no food til 7:30.  So I wait til the “VIP Guests” are done serving themselves…and they were all very courteous “Have some dinner, you need to eat!” 

I sit down at the bar to eat and get called to stage.  Great.  So I cover my food with my napkin (sign language to the bartender to NOT take my food away)  Of course, he dumps it.

So, I go and get another plate of food and sit back down.  Brian the bartender looks at me and says “I’m sorry, Avalon, but you’re not supposed to be eating from the buffet it’s for the VIP guests”

I ‘m holding my chicken wing midair, about to take a bite, as he reaches for my plate to clear it. 

Dude!  Do not take my food!  I smack his arm away.  “So you’re going to put it BACK on the buffet line?”  I ask him. 

“No, but I’ll get in trouble if Louie sees you eating it.”  Dude….do NOT throw away good food!

So I take my food over to a table in the back corner.  Louie, the general manager,  comes over and sweetly says “You’re eating all my profits Avalon”  Now….I like Louie, he’s a nice man, and very reasonable.

“Not really.  By my count…and I have records to prove this….I spent over 8 thousand dollars last year in this club on house fees and merchandise.  Gino’s friends and the liquor distributors haven’t spent a dime yet.  I think 8 grand covers the wholesale price of 3 chicken wings, a stuffed shell, and a few celery sticks…..don’t you??”

He nodded his head.  “I should know better than try to talk numbers with you.”

uh huh.

June 10

Boston people are so cool.

The Red Sox were playing the Dbacks this weekend.  I was totally expecting the average “Phoenix in June” crowd this weekend.  But WOW!  Am I glad I was wrong!

Apparently it’s next to impossible to to get tickets to a Red Sox game at Fenway Park.  So what do all those Boston fans with cash burning in their bank accounts do??  Fly to Phoenix, snap up some of the posh resort’s off-season rates, and hit the strip club after the game!

Christie’s was MAD crazy!!!!  I love when outta town guys come into the club.  Since Phoenix lapdance prices (a whopping $10) lag the current national average ($20) these tourists are in heaven.  Especially when I give them the opportunity to go to VIP for “only $20″ a song.  How cheap!  In their hometown VIP is 3 for $100!

So, what did Avalon do?  One by one I just plucked them off the floor and walked them upstairs.  The glow-in-the-blacklight fuschia dress helped to attract the eye to the tall busty blonde (OK, maybe it was the boobs, not the dress) who was “only” doing dances upstairs.  I had them lining up at the bottom of the staircase waiting for me to get done, so they could be next!  Cosmo had to tell them to sit down!

Being the complete dork that I am, this makes me think back to Macroeconomics 101.  The strip club is a perfect example of price theory.  When the supply of hot dancers is low (key word here is HOT) and the demand of wealthy customers is high…Avalon’s lapdance price increases. 

Now, I would NEVER rip anyone off.  Or “acci-purposely” charge for 5 dances when I only did 4.  Or make false promises about what happens in VIP.  That is just bad karma. 

What I WILL do is only dance upstairs in VIP for $20 a song.  If someone only wants to pay $10, I tell them to come back on a Tuesday night in July.  This one guy chuckled and said “You’re a quite a businesswoman.”

“I just look dumb” I winked and led him upstairs.