The last time I was in a strip club was sometime in the early 1990s. I was Christmas shopping, and stopped in during the lunch hour at a place called Trophy Room Cheerleaders, somewhere along Broad River Road in Columbia. I stayed, tops, ten minutes. The place depressed me. It smelled like come. The girl dancing looked sad and silly, and she had this vast mirror behind her, so it was a case of me watching her dancing for me. After she finished her bump and grind, the DJ muttered into the microphone, "I've had better at funerals..." That tore it; I left. Maybe I ought to visit a classier place next time the mood strikes. This cautionary tale suggests not.