One blustery night in Chicago a few years ago, I found myself sitting in the front row of a frigid black box theater staring at a half-naked man—and not the good kind of half naked, the Winnie the Pooh kind. He was squatting with his back turned toward the audience so that we could see every square centimeter of his pale, fleshy butt and trembling, hairy thighs. Wincing, I watched as he wobbled back and forth, attempting to release the hotdog clenched between his buttcheeks into the bucket below. The show had been advertised as a “night of stand-up comedy.” I paid ten dollars to be one of the lucky girls in the audience. Sadly, this wasn’t the fi… Click below to read the full story from Esquire
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