While I was busy deburring endless stupid aluminum parts this morning with the crazy guy, the second in command of the machine shop walked up to us and said, "It's almost Friday! Got any big plans this weekend? Going to the stip club?!"
He's always asking me what I'm doing on the weekend, despite the fact that every single weekend I haven't done a damn thing except vegetate in front of my computer, nap, or watch TV. Of course it didn't really matter what I said because he simply launched into a deranged riff about strip clubs.
"You should go sometime. The stripper will sit right on you beer can, pick it up, and crush it with her ass-checks." Then he and the crazy guy laughed.
"And they have the pregnant ones who can squirt milk." He mashed his man-boob for effect. "And if you want you can go in the back room with her and milk her yourself."
"I'll pass," I said. More laughter.
Then, horribly, he began gyrating to demonstrate something a stripper had done to him while he was holding a sucker. "I was laying down and she was squatting over me like this," and he went into a partial squat as he gyrated. As he was reaching his demented crescendo, supervisor walked up to him from behind, but typically said nothing. I imagine he's come upon far worse stuff after working with these people.