My Sister and I Drove Past a House of Ill Repute

My sister and I passed a whorehouse on the way to Peoria.

It’s called  Uncle Bernie’s Special House of Massage and we saw a huge billboard for it on the side of the highway.

Note –  I removed the actual name as to not give them any publicity or chance to send a nasty legal threat.

I practically yelled out as we drove by, “That’s a cathouse!” How was I so sure?

The billboard was pretty clear. It’s open 9am to 12am. There was language that suggested men could come and get amazing relief. There were cartoon hearts dancing about. Plus, there was an image of a gentleman achieving orgasm on the right hand side. (last sentence may not be true)

Since I can’t show you the billboard (I don’t have it) you’ll just have to take my word that it was obvious.

My sister didn’t believe it, and why should she? Certainly a brothel couldn’t just advertise out on the highway like Pepsi or Jesus. So I asked her to Google it.

She found a whole website of reviews. And then she proceeded to read them aloud. It was both awkward and hilarious.

Each review described in vivid detail what the patrons ordered up, how the women fulfilled those requests, and what rating the men gave to the specific acts.

Now, I want to make sure I don’t delve into morality here. I have no opinion on prostitution and I think we should leave this up to the women to judge. Of course there’s a real issue of sex-trafficking currently, and I would never make light of that travesty.

Judging from the reviews, the women working here seemed to be white and “rural” with bad blonde dye jobs and a lot of eye shadow and body glitter.

To me the most interesting part was simply how brash they were about advertising. When I toured around the country I saw dozens of massage parlor on the highway. Most were positioned close to truck stops. If it’s clear to me from just driving by, obviously the community knows the score. Also, the police.

Now, I hope the police have better things to do than bust up bordellos. But, what if a rouge cop is bored one day doing traffic stops? Could you imagine the call to dispatch?

Dispatch here…

Officer Jojoba checking in – I’m going undercover. (Note: I name officers after outdated hair products)

Copy, Jojoba. What’s your 40?

Uh, I’ll be infiltrating a local business establishment operating illegally.

Your 40, Jojoba. Where is the location of this activity?

It’s along here at Route 80. I suspect that women…

Do you mean Uncle Bernie’s, officer?

Hmm… Yes.

(rumblings in the background) Hold your position. Do not proceed.

Really? I’m pretty sure this is a…

One moment, officer. Repeat. Hold your 40.

(45 seconds go by)

Okay, officer. I just spoke to your commanding officer and every other agent on the force. They said that if you take down Uncle Bernie’s  they will be really unhappy with you.

Unhappy? I don’t under…

Some were pounding their fists into their hands and growling. Others were in the corner holding hands and praying that you get hit by a semi. Some were even shaking their fists at God and yelling “Why?!!!” towards the heavens. One guy put one of those bullet vests over his chest like Rambo and started heading to the car.

Well, I sure don’t want to make the fellas sore.

You do not. Now leave Marge and the gals alone.

– Fin –

You know who I feel the worst for? Licensed massage therapists. They go through a shitload of schooling just to have a group of hussies sully their good name with these shenanigans. Like at the annual convention I’m assuming they don’t sit together for lunch. Probably attend different workshops over that weekend.

And, no, I did not go inside. Please believe me.

photo credit: dotpolka via photo pin cc