"stella ella ohla, tap-tap-tap, singin' es tigo tigo, tigo tigo tap-tap, es tigo tigo, baloney, baloney, with cheese and macaroni..."

"bananas... UNITE! peel bananas, peel peel bananas, peel bananas, peel peel bananas. slice bananas, slice slice bananas-"

While the acrid smoke sliced with surgical precision into my nostrils and a menagerie of coloured lights pierced the darnkess of the room, a notion entered my head that I couldn't escape. To risk vulgarity- as dancer after dancer stripped and swayed and gyrated and ground the air and mock-fellated, as pairs of jiggling breasts and shaking asses made their wildly cheered processions around the stage, I was puzzled. It wasn't thoughts of these violently thrusting body parts that filled my head so much as the idea that it was someone's daughter up there. Someone's kid. Could you imagine seeing your daughter in a strip club?

"Oh daddy... Daddy??"

"Oh baby.... Baby??"

While I'm an admitted addict of the surreal, I think I'll pass on that particular experience.

We humans believe ourselves to be so utterly advanced. We're civilized- not base animals or simple-minded cavemen or anything beyond remotely akin to the barbaric peoples of centuries ago, but we've really remained stagnant. The strip club is the same as the slave bazaar of the Romans which is same as the football field or wrestling ring or gladiator's colosseum. We bear in our minds and hearts the same basic wanton lusts- blood and sex.