A few of my friends randomly decided to make a trip to Chicago. Having been invited, I jumped at the opportunity. Our first stop was Pink Monkeys Gent
A few of my friends randomly decided to make a trip to Chicago. Having been invited, I jumped at the opportunity. Our first stop was Pink Monkeys Gentlemen’s Club.
Upon entering, the first thing I noticed was the overwhelming smell of sweet perfume. This didn’t last long. My nostrils soon felt like they were standing in the middle of 8 Mile in Detroit as a metallic smell caught up with me, leaving a stinging sensation that lingered long after we left. Once I had gathered myself and was prepared to venture deeper into what felt like David Bowie’s living room, the soothing smell of glycerin arrived in an attempt to heal my nose from the beating it had received only seconds earlier.
Unfortunately, my ears were next. Speakers surrounded the room, sniping my eardrums with a rapid succession of hard-hitting, low-frequency sounds.
Thankfully, underneath everything else were a few familiar sounds. One was something sizzling in the background. Steak, maybe. Laughter was also in the air. Not the evil clown laughter from a cheesy ’80s horror film I was expecting, but that of sleazy businessmen out on a meeting with their clientele.
Once I adjusted to the atmosphere, I could make out the backdrop of the room. This could best be described as a very large KFC bucket painted white and towering two stories to the ceiling. Embedded in the front were shelves packed with various types of alcohol. In front of it stood a toilet-seat-shaped bar, accompanied by the only girl not wearing a pink tail and a guy who was obviously enjoying his job.
A middle-aged man briefly blocked my view as one of the strippers escorted him into a back room. He wore a light blue leisure suit that looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks, matched only by the ten o’clock shadow on his face. Watching him stumble along behind her, I couldn’t help noticing how lost he looked.
Personally, I was more concerned with the KFC bucket. It had made me extremely hungry for chicken, so my first thought was to ask one of the half-naked girls for a menu. They had burgers and alcohol, but apparently whoever ordered the giant KFC bucket had neglected to consider that having chicken on the menu would be a good idea. Thoroughly disappointed, I went to the stage to join my friends.
While sitting there, I found the dancers to be quite bad-mannered. I think I was the only one to notice this, but they seemed to have no idea what personal space was. Also, I find shaking your butt in someone’s face to be a little on the rude side. Still, it wasn’t enough for me to lose my appetite, so I went to sit at one of the cocktail tables and order a burger.
While I was lost in thought about monkey tails and giant chicken buckets, the middle-aged man in the light blue leisure suit sat down across from me. I could smell the week-old whiskey when he told me his name was Tim Picard. I could also detect a modest hint of depression in his voice, although he talked at the pace of a used car salesman, which is oddly what I would expect from a guy with a really shiny comb-over.
Feeling a little out of place, I stayed silent while he explained that the only way to save my soul from the fiery pits of hell was to convert to his belief. All I had to do was buy the new edition of the book conveniently located in the inside pocket of his leisure suit. The cover came with faded patches and worn edges to keep up with the pants of today’s youth. All this could be had for only $20, coincidentally the same price as a lap dance.
He had apparently purchased several of those himself, so I assumed he was familiar with the exchange rate.
After I refused to buy his book, or, as he put it, enlisted in Satan’s army, he finally gave up on me and moved to interrogate someone at the next table.
Shortly afterward, a very nice half-naked waitress came to take my order. She spoke in a soft voice that made everything sound extra tasty. With so many options, I couldn’t make up my mind, so I asked her to suggest something. She recommended the Olive Deluxe Burger.
It was much better than I anticipated, and I would recommend it to anyone visiting Pink Monkeys. Admittedly, it wasn’t as good as the Colonel’s popcorn chicken, but I was trying to move past that.
Halfway through the burger, one of my friends decided to jump onstage and perform a little striptease himself. He was promptly escorted off the premises. Not wanting to leave my drunk friend alone in downtown Chicago, I asked for a doggy bag and followed him outside.
I’m not sure what I expected from the evening, but a sales pitch for eternal salvation hadn’t been on the list. The bartender seemed to be having the time of his life. The Bible salesman seemed a little depressed, although that may have been the difficulty of selling salvation in a room where everyone had already budgeted their twenties. The dancers had no respect for personal space, and the waitress was one of the nicest people I’d met in a long time.
Overall, once I got used to the smells and the atmosphere, it was a fairly pleasant place to spend an evening. Even if half-naked girls and Bible salesmen aren’t your cup of tea, the Olive Deluxe Burger is worth considering.
Just don’t go expecting chicken.