In a recent column by John Ross I stumbled across an amusing tale of his encounter with a predator-woman whose attentions he inadvertently managed to attract. Since she started by sizing up his wallet in full view of her date for the evening, he has a little fun with her:

“What do I look like I do for a living?” she asked, throwing it back at me. This was getting better. I considered the question, and made a point of looking her over. I thought of Miss Adelaide and the Hot Box Girls, the antithesis of this woman’s understated elegance.

“You’re a stripper.” (Understand that preposterous as my “guess” was, I delivered it with a straight face, and there are more than a dozen strip clubs within a half hour of where we were sitting.) Her jaw hit the floor. “So I guessed right, huh?”

“I’M A MOTHER! I have two children!”

“And stripping pays a lot better than being a receptionist, so you can work fewer hours and be with your kids more,” I said as I laid some bills on the bar to cover the cost of the chili. “That makes perfect sense to me. StripperMom,” I said, nodding. “I like the sound of that. See you later, Scott,” I said as I put on my coat. “Bye, StripperMom. It was nice to meet you and your boyfriend.” I stepped out into the damp air, jingling my car keys, feeling good, thinking of Jean Simmons, and wondering what eventualities I might have set in motion. I was certain I’d run into StripperMom again.

John plays hard, boys and girls, so wear appropriate safety gear if you try to follow along at home. Not for amateurs!