Verse: Ladies and Gentleman of the leisure class of 2007, I have a piece of advice for you. No matter what a hotel tells you, there's no women in the VIP room. None. Oh there's champagne and hookers in the VIP room, but you dont want champagne or hookers, you want women, and theres no women in the VIP room.
(Chorus) No women in the VIP room, No women in the VIP room, No women in the VIP room, No women in the VIP room, No women in the VIP room, No women in the VIP room, Theres absolutely positively no women in the VIP room.
I came to the above conclusion on my last trip to LA (you know the one where the rental car attendant couldn't even SPELL hybrid). I was staying on the VIP floor of a luxury hotel--the floor with the super secret elevator key. I did not see anyone of the female persuasion on that level except for Julia the housekeeper. I waited in the Starbucks line with men in business attire and of course I had the most complicated request---a chai tea latte with soy and a toasted bagel with lowfat cream cheese (you know a high maintenance, pseudo jew has to get their bagel on). I quietly ate my breakfast while those around me watched the ESPN channel and chatted business. After breakfast, I went to the retail shop and tried to look like I wasn't looking at porn while trying to find the business mags under all the men's eye candy. I suppose I could have stayed in the "female area" with mags like "O" and the ever intellectually stimulating "Cosmo" (how many articles CAN you post on how to give a guy a blow job?)! Anyway, I finally/excitedly found the "Robb Report--car edition". I walked up to the counter and set it down. The cashier looked at me and stated "Oh--he likes his cars doesn't he?" I looked around, then looked at my chest and became profoundly puzzled. Did she think that I was purchasing this for a male companion? She looked at the hot guy next to me and queried--"Would you like a bag for this mag sir?". He politely declined and deferred the question to me with the female prefix "ma'am" (any woman over the age of 20 is forever delegated "ma'am"--the most annoying thing in the world). The final insult to injury occurred when I called down to check out via phone that morning. The man on the other line answered "You are ready to check out MR. EAGLE?" Holy batshit batman! Of course he apologized when I answered in a voice with octaves so high I was either pre-pubescent or a woman.