Dumpster Dive: The Best Day of My Life

I've never enjoyed something more thoroughly, and I probably never will.

This is not a story about my wedding or the birth of my children. Don’t get me wrong, those days were great. But they weren’t the greatest. No, the best day of my life happened about a dozen years back, on the floating compost pile lovingly known as Manhattan Island. It started out as an innocent Saturday night. My friends and I polished off a handle of Jim Beam while playing Monopoly, then ran to the bodega for beers and Powerball tickets, then ran back to the bodega again for more beer and some of those peanut butter filled pretzels. Those aren’t relevant to the story, but they are fucking delicious.

Standing in line on that second Miller Lite tallboy run, I noticed a very intriguing sight next to the cash register — coupons for free admission to the Sapphire Gentlemen's club. We weren't exactly getting a lot of dates at the time (see Saturday night description above), so it was a tempting offer. One that we would have to hotly debate with our internal moral compasses and carefully weigh against our personal ethical standards.

Approximately 35 seconds later we were in a cab, getting screamed at for spilling domestic pilsner and farting all over the backseat. After scraping together enough pocket change to tip the cabbie a modest 4% (he shouldn’t have been nagging us so much), we hopped out on the corner of 60th Street & 1st Avenue and proudly presented our complimentary passes to an unenthused bouncer out front. After one friend (who shall remain nameless) was sent home for trying to get in while wearing sweatpants, the rest of us survived an unnecessarily aggressive pat down and were welcomed inside.

We walked in on quite a scene. Every table was packed and the crowd was absolutely pumped. It was a sharp contrast to the usual dark and depressing vibes you get in those places (or so I’m told). Never wanting to miss a good party, our group decided to congregate at the bar and wait for a table to open up. After nursing a couple of $28 vodka sodas, we finally snagged a seat near the main stage. Jackpot.

Things got a little blurry at that point. Dollar bills flew through the air. Friends disappeared into poorly-lit corners. Complex conversations about Taiwan’s independence were carried out with the waitstaff. But over the course of the next hour or so, one thing stayed constant. There was a schlubby 50-year-old man, dressed like a nerdy accountant (sorry Tom), sitting alone at the table next to us. He hadn’t moved once. No trips to the bathroom, no lap dances, no orders from the bar. He was just kind of hanging out, checking his phone, and looking at his watch from time to time. 

We all thought it was a bit weird, but in case you haven’t noticed, no one in my friend group is regularly winning any popularity contests. Maybe the guy had nothing better to do with his night. We'd all been in that boat. There are worse ways to kill a Saturday evening, I guess. They had a fairly decent buffet.

Anyway, after sneaking a few glances his way just to make sure he wasn’t going to blow the place up, we kind of forgot about him. But then the night took an interesting turn. 

Suddenly the music began to play a little louder and, looking around the club, it was noticeably a lot more crowded. Before I could shout what the fuck is going on? loud enough to penetrate the incessant 2Chainz bass thump, the DJ answered my question for me. “Gentlemen, it’s time for tonight’s featured dancer. She’s the star of over 600 of your favorite adult films, Brazzers Hall of Fame inductee, and the winner of ten AVN Awards. Please put your hands together and welcome to the main stage… Asa Akira!”

At this point two things became obvious:

One, it was an unusually busy night at the Sapphire because a super famous porn star was next up to climb the pole. 

Two, this was the moment Awkward Accountant had been waiting for all night. Or maybe all his life.

As soon as Ms. Akira appeared on the stage, Awkward Accountant stood up, hooted loudly, and pulled a huge wad of $20 bills out of his pocket protector. He began throwing them aggressively in Asa’s direction and gyrating crazily, desperately trying to gain her attention. It didn’t take long. Attracted to the sweet scent of the cash, she crawled seductively to the edge of the stage and invited our hero to slip a few more bills into her G-string. Clearly delighted by the generous tipping, she began really giving our guy the VIP treatment. As the music of the first song crescendoed, she laid on her back, spread her legs, and pushed Awkward Accountant’s head down between her thighs, comically shaking him around like a rag doll. It must have been the best day of his life.

But this is not, in fact, a story about the best day of his life. It’s about the best day of my life. And the reason for that is what happened next. 

As Awkward Account was released from the Xenia Onatopp grip (yes, that is a Goldeneye reference) and lifted his head up, his toupee flew off and landed on the stage. 

Our guy was now completely bald and completely embarrassed as the entire club looked on in shock and amusement. Awkward Accountant grabbed the wig off the stage and, in a move that would give Anthony Fauci a stroke, put it back on as he lumbered to the exit all disheveled.

I think I almost suffocated from cracking up so hard. I loved it. And so did the bouncers. If you’ve ever wondered what it looks like to see a group of 400-pound linemen absolutely lose their shit laughing, just know that it is a glorious sight.

I wish I had the chance to ask Ms. Akira how she felt about the whole thing, but sadly I didn’t have the budget for that. All I know is that whenever I’m feeling sad on a particularly soul-crushing day at work, I think back to that moment and revel in the complete humiliation suffered by that poor guy. Best fucking day of my life.