Friday, April 28, 2017

Every Little Thing She Does Is Tragic. Or, Bachelor Party Season Is Upon Us. Make Sure You Get Your License, I Hear They're Gonna Let Us Bag 3 Each This Year.

  The down-force exuded by the Owner is slowly crushing the will to live from his hapless management team. It's sad and frustrating to watch because you have this Deja-Poo feeling that the Mismanagers will turn their anxiety and venom loose on the Lower Classes, namely everyone else in the club. Floor Hosts being particularly attractive prey.

  You see the Owner wants lots of girls working here. All Owners, everywhere want lots of girls working at their place, even if there's not enough money in the club to sustain them. Strippers, while often not the shiniest coins in a purse, nevertheless understand about making money. And conversely, not making money.

  Why in the hell would you expect a stripper to come in day after day if she's not making any real money? You can't force them to come in, they're independent contractors. They can just plain go somewhere else, even if that somewhere is a far off state.

  This is a problem we're having right now. Several of our hottest dancers, girls that can get a job anywhere, are doing just that. Atlanta, Miami, Dallas, Vegas. These high end entertainers can go to one of these cities and make thousands in a single weekend. Cheap flights and cleverly constructed stripper support network can pare the cost down so that it becomes quite profitable to jet somewhere else for a few days, leaving our club with a few less gems in its crown.

  This enrages my Manager, Sir Lancer Hellquim Von Bitchinschnauzer, to no end. He has a club denuded of it's stars and an Owner ladling scorn and belittlement on him like scalding hot Chili Con Misery. I don't envy him one bit, which is why when Sleazy's Slug Den suggested I try out for a management position, it took me a minute to laugh because I couldn't believe they were fucking serious.

  I'd rather try to bang a bull walrus in rut season while slathered in fish guts and with a small anchor lashed to my yam-bag to limit my dexterity and hope for survival.

  Management? No fucking thank you.

  Speaking of management, how about backing up your Floor Staff with some sort of regularity? I mean you want us to be proactive in filtering the wasted and hopeless from our club but when we try to do just that, you often cornhole us, making what little bit of autonomy you trust us with absolutely fucking meaningless.

  Like tonight for example. I made a stop at the club to drop off some people from the shuttle and there was an Uber-cunt in front of the bus, disgorging a group of hammered spunk doublets who could barely manage to exit the vehicle without falling down and injuring themselves. I got out of the bus and told them that they were too fucked up to come into the club and that they might want to consider calling it a night.

  Sorry, but I have Liquor Control up my ass and a bar/wait staff who are incapable of saying 'no' to someone who shouldn't be served anymore, I'm not interested in another potential lawsuit endangering my livelihood.

  I explained the matter to the MOD and another Floor Schlub and then got back into the shuttle to drop off some patrons at their hotel, erroneously optimistic that the Mgr would back up my decision, especially seeing as one of these idiots couldn't stand on his own.

  But despite my optimism, after I drove off the mgr let them in anyway.

  Fuck you, StripperHerder, shut up and drive the goddamn bus.

  I don't know why I keep trying to do the right thing. It's certainly doesn't seem to be encouraged in this industry and most definitely is never appreciated. Whatever. Anyone can come in when I work the door from now on. Even if they have to be carried. And if I'm called out on my decision, I'm gonna get uppity fast.

  Speaking of working the door, I have no problem letting people in for free if I know there's a good chance they're going to spend a fair amount of dough. I'm not always right about this, but my track record ain't bad.

  On the other side of this coin is the common, garden variety 'worthless regular'. They're here virtually every weekend and they just show up to talk to other worthless regulars, staff they know but have never tipped a dime, to savor the one costly drink they're willing to pay for and hopefully glom a free drink off someone/anyone and to bum smokes from any other human possible.

  Let me give you one shining example of the classic worthless regular. I'll call him Clapstain because I'm sure he's had the drippy dick before. And let me take this opportunity to say that Clapstain has actually been my boss, back when I worked at Shelly's Shank Shack*2, when he was a manager for about ten minutes. He was a good guy to work for, but utterly spineless.

  That being said there are certain worthless regulars that I hassle all the time because I know they're not going to spend any money and because it gives me a great amount of pleasure to remind them that I'm not their friend just because we know each other's names.

  Clapstain is one of these. I've picked this broke ass twat up and dropped him off at the club no less than eight times in the past year or so. He shitting well knows about tipping because he works in the service industry, albeit in a mismanagement capacity. That being said ole Clappy has tipped me a total of $4 over this course of time, but usually bums smokes off me, thus negating any benefit I received from his $4.

  In addition to this, he always wants in the club for free. Getting into a club for free is a privilege, not a right and I fucking well decide who gets in for free*1 and those who get this benediction have earned it. Clapstain has most certainly not earned fuck all.

  The reason I chose to mention Clapstain as my stereotypical example of a worthless regular is because he got knocked the fuck out in front of our club the other night for reasons not entirely apparent. This minor fact didn't stop me from enjoying the thought of his coconut bouncing off the pavement like a petrified volleyball. I would enjoy hitting him also, although I at least have the grace to admit that I'd feel bad about it later.

  According to fellow Floor Snipe Grimsby, who witnessed the whole affair, Clapstain got "worldstarred" as soon as he exited a car and the sound of his assailant's fist striking his ear region was like a "Rocky Hitting The Side Of Beef" sound effect and Clappy went down as if a chainsawed cedar.

  Where he remained unconscious for the next minute or so. Which can't be good for you.*3

  My theory is that Clappy had bummed one too many smokes off of a guy, or had failed to pay him for some weed, but in honesty I don't care. I don't really like Clapstain. I feel sorry for him that he has an obsessive need to be around other people, none of which like him, and that he obviously doesn't enjoy spending time at home, savoring its lack of other-peopleness.

  By contrast I was just off for three days straight and only left my hovel 3 times. Twice for a store and once to watch a movie with a buddy. Perfectly happy on my own for extended periods of time. The only reason I'm not a recluse is because I can't afford to be one.

  But there is a whole tribe of Worthless Regulars and they come to the club every single weekend. If they spent a lot of money they'd be well known. respected and recognized. They'd be scene people. Players, Heavy Hitters. But instead they'll be unremembered as 'that guy I see everywhere sitting by two other guys I see everywhere but never anywhere expensive or exclusive.'

  A whole subculture of dudes who don't have $40 to their name, but are just familiar enough with the right people to make $30 of those dollars last them through eleven clubs. Every fucking Saturday.

  It just goes to show that working in a "social" industry can make one either antisocial with reclusive tendencies, or render them virtually incapable of enjoying a quiet night at home. Either way it maims its servants irreparably, marking them for life; carpet-bombing whole areas of life's pleasures.

  On the plus side, I've made, with my paltry hourly included, roughly $2000 in my last 5 shifts or 45 hours and a bit. This equals out to $44.44 an hour which I earned, for the most part, by not running someone over with the bus. That's my main contribution to the whole endeavor. That and occasionally carrying a struggling human out of the club.

  I do my ancestors proud.

  I realize, in closing, that the title to this installment has fuck all to do with its content and for that I can only remind my readers that coherency in this blog was never promised nor even alluded to. I choose to write mostly drunk and as a Murrikan, it is my constitutionally guaranteed right to defile myself by any means I find convenient and affordable. Vodka is affordable and user friendly and therefore an obvious choice. Russians are wise in this.

  My hangovers have become little more than being tired the next day. Obvious things my hangovers lack these days are: constant and often ambushy shits, headaches, feeling like absolute shite for the following 48 hours or more.

  I like being beer free.

  I do pictures now, drop the farm implements.

Nubs yinz real good,
-The StripperHerder

*1 I decide until my Manager screams at me in front of everyone and makes me look like a drooling fuckwit, that is.

*2 The same club as Sleazy's Slug Den, but I like making up new names for it. It's fun.

*3 An interesting side note to this story is that while I was arriving at work tonight, a man had wandered out into traffic causing a Cadillac to have to swerve to avoid creaming him. A Cadillac I therefore had to swerve to avoid crushing. That man who wandered out into traffic was none other than Clapstain.

 I shit you not.**

  **Someone should put him in the concussion protocol. 

Thursday, April 20, 2017

Great Moments In Stripperherding History, Vol I. Or, When In Doubt, Penalize A Floor Guy. We're Used To It.

  There really aren't any great moments in Stripperherding history, I was being deliberately misleading. There are the occasional small victories, medium wins and a lot of draws, but nothing earth shattering or of historical importance.

  Therefore everything I'm about to write regarding these so called 'great moments in stripperherding history' are complete and utter fiction. Like Superman, everything in the Bible, or the notion that humans and dinosaurs coexisted because the Earth is only 4,000 years old. Total goat drippings, folks.

  Before I start making shit up, I'd just like to take a moment to say that despite being fiction, some of the following material may be found objectionable by some readers and the views and opinions expressed herein may not reflect the corporate attitude of the StripperHerder's parent company, S.U.I.C.I.D.E ™.*1 and that reader discretion is advised.


1) Arnolf Beornsson: a member of the Varangian Guard during the later years of Basil II's reign, he frequently worked in one of Constantinople's top strip clubs, Pale Nights, on his days off from guarding the Emperor. One evening he procured a blond stripper for an influential member of the Fatimid Caliphate Ambassador's entourage and was subsequently tipped one gold Solidus for his efforts, making him the first white guy to be tipped by a black man in recorded history.*2

  We know this because of a runestone he left behind when he returned to his homeland, it began "No shit, there I was..."

                          Arnolf Beornsson and the Saturday night security staff at Pale Nights.

2) Big Jim Crowbar: Big ole Jim was an old school bouncer in a backwoods titty shack in rural Alabama called Josie's Place. This was a black owned and black staffed strip club/brothel in post Civil War America, and despite the legal rights bestowed upon these good people by the gubbamint of the US of A, the reality, especially in the Deep South, was a whole nother story altogether.

  The owner, Josie Freeman, was a canny ole gal who knew if the word got out about her little establishment, then sooner or later a pack of drunk white illiterate scumbags would find their way there and make no end of trouble for her.

  And she was right. They did. Luckily for all involved*3, her bouncer staff, which consisted of Big Jim, all 6'9" and 327 lbs of him, was there that night. When nine drunk bigots showed up with bad intent oozing from their fat, stupid faces, Big Jim informed them that the place was closed and that they should move along.

  Not surprisingly the hill-slobs didn't care for that very much and moved in on Big Jim with ax handles and hickory sticks, determined to show this uppity giant the error of his ways. So Jim, who was about as easy to intimidate as your average oak tree, unsheathed the four foot long iron crowbar he kept lashed across his broad back.

                                         "I reckon it's time I called on Miss Betty."

  It came out with a whistling sound. Do you know how fucking hard it is to make a four foot hunk of iron whistle as it cuts through the air? Try it sometime. Big Jim made it look easy. Then he took the fight to the ridge-runners, several of whom were just thinking to themselves that they shoulda brought a few more fellas and maybe a shotgun or two. Possibly a change of shorts.

  The otherwise gentle giant laid into the would be troublemakers with a fury that was both wondrous and terrifying to behold, depending on where you were standing at the time. He felled them by ones and twos, killing none of them and not even doing any permanent damage so skilled was he with his crowbar, affectionately named Miss Betty after a kindly white cook he had worked for.

  To this day Big Jim Crowbar still holds the Floor Guy record for Most White Assholes Knocked Shitless But Not Killed Nor Maimed In A Single Ruckus. In certain Floor Host religions he's venerated as the patron Saint of Mindful Violence.

3) Jean Luc La'Douche: It's pronounced Doo-Shay, by the way. Jean was the senior Floor Host in Port Royal's ritziest titty bar, The Gilded Clam, during the greatest years of piracy and as such, made enough money to retire in under two years.

   Famous sculpture of La Douche contemplating which member of a bachelor party he was going to cut first.

  The Gilded Clam was renowned among all seagoing men, probably the most revered brothel*4 in Western sea lore. Being as it was located in Port Royal, it's clientele frequently included pirates. Proper Golden Age pirates, with hooks, peg-legs, parrots, eyepatches and whatnot. Lotsa guns too. *5

  The point is that La'Douche was able to rake in so much side money off wasted pirates with loot to burn that it only took him nineteen months to go from pauper to retired, landowning man of leisure. He died of advanced syphilis three years later, but that fact doesn't diminish the brilliance of his accomplishment.

  He holds the all time Floor Host record for Quickest Retirement in a Non-Suck Category.

4) Private Erasmus Bentley III: Pvt Bentley was a Confederate soldier who achieved Floor Host fame during America's Civil War. Ultimately he didn't do his side any favors and in actuality may be at least partly responsible for instigating Sherman's March to the Sea. Which, if you remember your history, was real bad for the Confederacy. But in Floor Hosts' eyes, he was a fucking hero.

  His story goes a little something like this...

                                    "I'm gonna need you to put your cock away, General."

  It was early November, 1864 when Sherman and the Union forces he commanded made camp roughly eight miles outside of Atlanta in preparation to assault the city on the morrow. As was his wont, Sherman took his senior staff and some troopers out to a few local taverns on the eve of the campaign, to get really hammered and make fun of the locals, some of whom they would shoot the next day.*6

  Towards the end of the night, the group lands at Mabel's, the only strip club for miles around. Pvt Erasmus Bentley was on shift that night as the head Floor Guy. He set up a champagne room for Sherman's entourage while the General himself opted for a private room with Lilly, one of the club's top performers.

  The important thing to note here folks is that while Sherman paid for everything out of his own pocket, he didn't tip any of the staff one red cent, which rankled their humors. So when Sherman popped his wang out in the private room, Erasmus was on point. He barged in and told Sherman to put that thing away and that this was "No damn Yankee whorehouse!"

  Even though Lilly herself wasn't opposed to the odd blowjob if the money was right, Erasmus stuck to the unwritten Floor Host rule of, He Didn't Tip Me, Ergo The Cheapskate Clapstain Gets No Head-and repeatedly warned the General to put his little soldier away.

  This infuriated Sherman to no end. He'd been under a lot of pressure lately and needed some release, preferably a humjob, but denied that he reckoned that a ten mile wide swath of bloodshed, immolation and destruction would be a fair substitute.

  A scuffle ensued between Union officers and Mabel's security team and local supporters. The senior Northern staff made a wise choice to beat a tactical retreat, dragging a frothing Sherman with them who was screaming that he would have Erasmus's job because he knew the owner and that if he couldn't do that then he would carve a path through Georgia all the way to the fucking sea.

 Which he did, burning, looting, raping and not tipping a dime all along the way.

  To this day, Private Erasmus Bentley III holds the Floor Host record for Being A Team Player, putting he and his fellow Floor Guy's interests above that of his own country in the waning years of a losing war.

  All right, enough with that nonsense, as plausible as it all seems.

  Let's do a quick Q&A session before I sign off and find something better to do.


Q. What time did you get out of work tonight, StripperHerder?

A. Five Fucking AM. On what had to be one of the slowest nights I've ever seen at the club. We were nearly deserted by time last call rolled around. There were no after hour rooms and we barely had to urge anyone to go the fuck home when the music shut off. By 3:15 we were happily customer free and working on our after hour duties which we finished by 3:30.

 The Manager, Sir Stabcheek Von Zyklon V, clearly hates going home. Not sure what it is about his dwelling place that he abhors so much, but it's plain to me that loathes being there. Both other managers can complete the end of shift money/paperwork stuff in 20 minutes or less. Had either one of them been working tonight, I would've been home by 3:45-4:00.

  But not with Sir Zyklon. Nope. He'll corner an employee when they're in their car, trying to leave and talk to them for a half hour or more. His favorite prey is the House Mom, but lacking her presence, any victim will do. He'll chat about who knows what until whatever happens that breaks the spell, like someone hanging themselves from the rearview mirror, or a ballsy Floor Guy making up an excuse on the radio to get him back in the club.

  Add to this quirk the slow pace of his calculations and data entry, and we're lucky to be free within 2 hours of the last customer leaving the premises. It's aggravating, at best.

Q. Who's your current Arch-Nemesis since Vodzilla got fired.

A. That's easy. It's Ratty. She's a walking bag of shittiness and scam that stains our club and everything she comes into contact with like a particularly vicious chancre stains some reasonably innocent underwear. Ratty is a text book Hyde, although she doesn't let that stop her from being garbage even when sober.

Q. How many miles are on your vehicle?

A. 55,623. Or maybe a sixth of it's lifespan.

  I was going to write a bit more, but then suddenly decided not to. My unpredictability is part of my charm. What I'm really going to do now is change the Header and throw in some pictures so people don't get all bitchy and send disappointed emails.

  Hoping all your tomorrows are full of candy and unicorns and dead murderers,

-The StripperHerder

*1 StripperHerder Unlimited Industries Corporation International: Diversified Entertainment®

*2 A feat fewer than 100 Floor Guys have repeated since.**

**This is also fiction, relax.♥

♥ Although statistically you are far likelier to be tipped by a drunk white dude than any other race you care to name. Based upon my 20+ years of experience in the service industry, this is fact, not fiction.

*3 Except the white guys of course

*4 The brothel is the dirty, immortal ancestor of the strip club. Sorta. I mean ideally speaking. So anything before say 1950 or so mentioned in this post can be considered a brothel, but will be referred to as a strip club because it fits my narrative better.

*5 It takes a fair amount of balls to be a security guy at a place where no one is supposed to have a weapon. It takes groaning ox carts full of balls to be a bouncer where every last person is armed to the teeth.

*6 Although this may sound absurd to you modern readers, the practice was commonplace throughout much of history. Hostilities were considered to be postponed with the coming of dark until the world conveniently made it possible again to see who you were killing. Therefore it was not uncommon for the opposing sides to mingle, gambling and trading among themselves until the sunlight made them hate each other again. Similarly, high ranking officials from both armies frequently met for drinks at local establishments, whiling away the hours with war stories and debates about ancient battles strategies until it was time to go prepare their forces to slaughter the others.

Friday, April 14, 2017

The StripperHerder Presents: Another Post. Or, Everyone Wants To Be A Floor Guy.

  If I had to give our non-stripper staff a grade, it would be a D. Maybe a C- on a good day. Our wait staff is awful with a couple of gems, our kitchen staff is appalling with the exception of one cook, or barbacks are a fucking joke and our Doorgirls are next to worthless with the occasional flash of competence just to keep you guessing.

  Us Floor Grunts are fairly professional as hosts, but seriously lacking in both cohesion and tactical security mindset and mark my words-one day it's going to cost us dearly.

  Management waffles between totalitarian and completely ineffective which wreaks havoc with the whole "what am I supposed/allowed to do?" paradigm. Some days what was OK last week is now unacceptable and what is OK now was anathema last week.

  It's maddening.

  As I've stated before, the industry itself doesn't exactly attract Ivy League applicants, or people driven to work insanely hard to achieve a stated goal. It attracts the lazy, demented, alcoholic, and the delusional. Its ranks are filled with folks who are morally questionable at best and outright criminal at worst, with every stripe and species inbetween the two.

  This industry is either a stepping stone to a better career, or the rut in which you will someday die. There's very little middle ground. The occupation inherently fuck's with your moral compass, making True North seem a bit vague and every other direction more lucrative.

  It's a bitch and you're never, ever going to feel good about it. Unless you're a scumbag.

  With all that being said, allow me to go into some detail about what brought this subject on, or, as I like to call it:

                       I WANNA BE A FLOOR GUY.

  The barback position is probably the easiest job available at out club for the sheer fact that at least nominally, a barback doesn't have to interact with the teeming, swill-breathed masses lurching about the club. This alone is worth a substantial value because drunk humans are remorseless cunt-mollusks who taint everything they come in contact with, like a particularly virulent sea urchin. or the club's food.

  The mere thought of having a job that doesn't ever require me to interact with a fellow human gives me a giant hardon. The thought of being a lighthouse keeper to me is almost erotic in it's lack of having to deal with another homo sapien. So long as I had internet or a sufficiently large pile of books and provided they catapulted some fresh meat onto the island every now and then, I could stay there indefinitely, most likely writing about how much it sucked to be a lighthouse keeper and about how great it would be to work in a strip club.

  But that's just me. What I want to know is what are our barback's excuses? And how can they possibly think that anyone in their right mind would deem them fit for a job with much greater responsibility and trust when they can't even perform their meager duties with any skill, dedication or foresight?

  Seriously, what's the job description for a barback? Simple. Keep the bar stocked. Wash the glasses. Fetch the ice. Cut the citrus. Empty the trashcans. Clean shit when the shift's done. Occasionally mop vomit.

  Easier than beating a four year old in a fistfight.

  I'm not saying the job can't be hectic and assbusting, it can, especially if you're good at it. I've worked with barbacks who were the absolute backbone of a bar, it simply couldn't have functioned without them, period. They are so good at their job that in a small place like The Town™, bars literally compete to get their employment. Not even kidding about that.

  And then you have our barbacks, Gwinny the Dewlap and Jay-Z. Each with their own strengths and weaknesses. Mostly weaknesses. Like the shared inability to tie a garbage bag closed for instance. In an old fashioned way, I still sorta believe that a garbage bag should be tied closed by the person who harvested it for the dumpster God. Seems like a reasonable approach to an anti-spilled garbage philosophy, right?

  I think we can all agree on that. Except for Gwinny and Jay-Z. They can't be compelled to do it. Or I should say that they have yet to be compelled to do it. That's gonna change very soon as I have now had garbage dump all over me from an open bag as I did the barback's job for them twice in the past two weeks.

  The are now scheduled for a talking to. It will be unpleasant for them, but theoretically nonviolent provided they don't get too mouthy. If they do, things will rapidly deteriorate for them as we will be having this conversation in one of the two rooms in the building which is camera-free. To preserve the anonymity of the club, I'll refer to the room as The Box Of Pain and we'll say no more about it.

 Comparative Strengths:

  -Gwinny can recognize any major Sports celebrity and is totally up for blowing them although he'd deny it.

  -Jay-Z can rap along softly with any song played in the club that features no real musical instruments in it.

  -Gwinny......Shit. I got nothing else. I've been sitting here, completely stalled, trying to think of another credit or virtue I can attribute to Gwinny, and I'm kerfuckled. I can't come up with anything positive and I can't waste any more time trying for fear of saying 'fuck it' for the night and turning to video games or a halfhearted fap session.

  -Jay-Z at least has a friendly countenance and seems happy to meet and greet people, which is good for a Floor Host, but unnecessary for a barback. Doesn't make up for his utter lack of competence in every other aspect of his job, but I was struggling for positives and thought I'd mention it as it is the last thing I could think of.

  The common denominator among these two rats are that they've both asked to be promoted to Floor Host, the most venerated of the non-vagged*1 positions in the club. "Ha!" My Manager, Sir Hawkgaze Mecha-WarBrow XIII laughed, "Thine twaren't worthile to suckle the inner flanks o' mine swine, yet seek to tongueblast the coo I snaffled from the McCarthy's? Verily ye jest!"*2

  This is not an uncommon sentiment among the male non-Floor workers. They see the money we make and they want to make it too. Perfectly understandable. When I was the cook at a club, even though I made good money, I wanted to be a Floor Host as well. They made more, plain and simple. Got more head too.

  Considering we pay our cooks dick and they have to put up with stroke-inducing amounts of horseshit from our greedy, lackwitted wait staff, I can't blame any of them for wanting to be a Floor Douche. Anything to escape the thralldom of the kitchen...

  This is as good point as any to segue into comments on our wait staff. They ain't gonna be glowing.

  But I suspect you'd already guessed this.

  Let me fix another drink and I'll tell you all about it.

  So, we have had this waitress named......something. I know I gave her a name of some sort in a previous installment, but I can't remember what it was and since I have no archival database, whoopsy-fuck. Can't recall. Suffice to say she inspired the term 'latetress' because she was never on time and even when she did show up you still had to alert her whenever something falling within her job description reared its ugly face. Like someone wanting a drink.

  I'll call her Cindy Curdbutt for purposes of this post. "CC" to her friends.

  Apparently CC, who's all of 21, is the significant other of a convicted felon who is currently incarcerated. Why? Search me. Maybe because she's 21. We were all idiots at 21, even if we thought we had everything figured out. Admit it, you were an idiot. So was I.

  Anywho, CC ended up attacking a former entertainer of ours who'd been fired a long time ago, but who had magically showed up in our parking lot right at closing time. It was like two playgroud rivals meeting at the swings at three o'clock. Winner gets the slides.

  In this case the feud was over a Facebook picture of the inmate on the intruding bitch's homepage. This was ever a cause for war. Total warfare. Like try to ruin a bitch's ovaries warfare, end her ability to potentially breed wit yo man type of warfare. No skullduggery or showboating, just fistblasts to the cocksucker and tons of hair abuse. Like enraged weasels battling over nesting grounds, all twisty and savage, estrogenic-kill-rival-womb hormones overriding all common sense and dignity.

  The whole thing happened in sort of I don't really care that much about it induced haze. First thing I knew a bunch of regular malingerers started shouting, "they're fighting, they're fighting" (praise Allah), gesturing wildly at this car parked in the middle of the street, one of them filming on his phone. I looked over at the car and what I saw was the passenger side door open and what I can only describe as a cartoon-dustcloud-fight kinda thing where you just see a random fist or foot poke out of the doorway.

                                         Like this, but out of the side of a weathered Kia.

  So I didn't even know who was fighting and since it was in the middle of the street and not on club property, it fell neatly into the 'not my fucking problem' category. I told the malingerers, and I quote, "I don't give a fuck." And I continued walking my little stripper herd safely to their cars.

  When I got back the fight had spilled out of the car and the girl on top was making a spirited attempt to maim or kill the girl on the bottom. "Still not my problem", I thought to myself, then realized I can't watch a murder take place that I had the power to prevent, even if it might make the world a slightly better place.

  The cook of all people got there just before me and dragged the assailant off the assailee, while I stepped in and kept the assailee from chasing after her attacker when she got back up.

  At this point in time I literally had no idea who the combatants were. The bloody, angry thing I was holding back looked vaguely familiar, but then again I've worked with an astounding number of skanks in my career and it could've just been that she had a common skankine appearance.

  Long story short, since I've been typing for an unreasonable amount of time, the attacker turned out to be CC, furious with the aforementioned skank for posting a picture of CC's imprisoned soulmate on her ratched-ass social media page.

  Cheeky whore.

  And the result is CC got fired, thank the Hospitality Gods. she was as worthless as a scrotum on a supermodel.

  All right. I just noticed that I've typed a gigantic amount of words this morning, by my standards anyway, and so I'm going to close with this, half of which I'd done while bored on the shuttle last night and half which I'll have to come up with right now in order to complete the list.

  So, I offer to you, kind reader, a list of the Top Ten Reasons To Become An Uber Driver.

10) I get so lonely.

9) I like pretending my life matters somehow.

8) I enjoy golf and that says a lot about me.

7) It's a great cover for selling drugs.

6) I get horny from the traffic shaming I'm forced to endure. Can't cum without a car horn anymore.

5) I don't know how to drive but have always wanted to learn.

4) I revel in the Godlike power of traffic laws somehow not applying to me.

3) It's a great way to meet a rape-date.

2) I enjoy annoying people.

1) I fantasize about being curb-stomped by an huge, enraged shuttle bus driver who's seen one lack of hazard lights too many.

  Be a courteous driver. Road rage is a real thing and I am an advocate.

Drive Pissed,
-The StripperHerder

*1 Pronounced Va-Jed, meaning female.

*2 He hangs out at RennFaires.


Friday, March 31, 2017

Thank You For Making Me $600, Here's Your Reward. Or, Devil Music, Some Strippers Won't Dance To It.

  So as I may have hinted around about in this blog lately, I rarely do any "floor hosting" any more. I'm primarily just a shuttle driver with a bouncing problem for the club these days. I'm OK with this, in fact I more or less made it happen because I got sick of setting up $3000 worth of bottle service and champagne room and getting tipped nothing for my efforts. If I'm gonna get cheapskated, I'd rather it be over a five minute shuttle ride than over a transaction that would pay my rent for six months.

  That being said, tonight I got to Floor Host. I had a gentleman come into the club with three clients and he wanted them to have some fun. He asked about out VIP rooms and I gave him the grand tour and quoted some prices for him. He asked if we could comp some bottles and after having run it past my Manager, told him I'd throw in two complimentary bottle of our house swill and toss in an extra 15 minutes or so.

  "Golly that'd be swell." He says and we all mosey on over to the room. The total tab comes up to a bit over $2000 and he tipped me $100. By that time the late shift Floor Golems had finally arrived at work so I appraised them of the situation and left to go drive the Whore Wagon.

  When I dropped by the club later on to urinate, I inquired about the room and it turned out the guy had re-upped when his room was done for another hour. This time he'd tipped $200, which didn't surprise me, I've always suspected people don't like to tip me because I'm taller than them.

  To me, this proved the theory.

  Anyway, these guys had come in very early on an otherwise SLOW night and we didn't really have a lot of dancers to choose from. Of the four charming entertainers that spent the next two hours in the VIP room with them were two girls I had handpicked for them. One of whom I'd had to pluck away from a deadbeat customer on the patio, and another who really didn't want to be bothered with the whole thing because she had come to work to stare at her phone, not make money.

  When all was said and done all four gals had made about $600-650 on a night where they would've been lucky to earn $200 based on our customer numbers and demographics. Many of our strippers left tonight having made jack and shit, so a $600 night might've seemed, to a rational fucking person, a reason to be thankful, which in our ecosystem means ponying up some goddamn dough.

  Bear in mind that I'm an easygoing Floor Douche, I don't expect some sort of grand tribute as a recognition of the money I just earned you. I'm not a "10% minimum" kinda guy. I just would like some sort of sign of gratitude if I personally chose you over all other available choices to make some easy money.

   So what, dear reader, do you think us Floor Beasts made from those very same four dancers who'd grossed somewhere around $2500 tonight?

  A) $200

  B) $160

  C) $100

  D) $60

  If you guessed any of the above choices, you'd be wrong, you optimistic fuck.

  We made a total of $10 off those four dancers. Those wasted fucking dancers.

  This is the fiscal equivalent of shitting in someone's mouth and slapping their kid off the monkey bars.



  This is where this installment gets really amusing for me. I wasn't there when this happened, and if I hadn't heard it from two other employees, I don't think I would've believed it. It goes a little bit like this:

  We have this dancer, her name is Sticker and she is what is classified as a "Dust Bunny", or a dumber than average stripper. Seeing as how strippers in general set the bar really low as far as cognitive abilities go, to say that a particular girl is duller than average is seriously making a statement.

  With her intellectual capacities suitably described, I would like to say that she is also a very nice girl and that I never have to deal with any drama or fallout over her presence in the club. This may be because she just doesn't have the imagination to be more malevolent and shitty, but she flies way under the radar and is cute as anything you can think of that is super fluffy and cute.

  So apparently the other night she walked off the stage after one song, which is wrong because every dancer does two songs in their set. One is less than two, in case you were confused on the matter.

  Before I go further, let me explain how strip club stages work to you, my potentially ignorant reader.

  In the vast majority of strip clubs there is a main stage and usually some sort of subsidiary stage(s). When things are slow, there is generally one dancer on stage at a time and this is known as single rotation. On busier nights or when the crowd merits it, a club will go to double rotation, or two girls on stage at all times. And on nights like your average Saturday, a club will be running all available stages.

  The night in question was a double rotation sorta thang. The way this works is that on a girl's first dance the DJ will select a song from her musical choices, and on the second when a new girl comes on stage, the song will come from that girl's playlist. So every dancer has to dance to something that may or may not be her preferred form of music on her second song.

  Normally there isn't much need for concern as 90% of our Dancer Corps likes the same garbage, i.e. R&B, rap, hip hop, techno, dubstep of whatever that music is called that sounds like two fax machines raping each other.

  With me so far?


  So Sticker had her Rihanna song or whatever and following her on stage was Red Death, one of our very few hard rock/metal chicks. Red had been given 'Dragula' by Rob Zombie from her playlist and soon after it started, Sticker just walked off stage, baffling everyone who could be bothered to pay attention, such as our Manager, Sir Pulsing Headvein Thrombisich IX, who promptly flipped the fuck out.

  Sticker, gods bless her heart, walks to the DJ cage and tells him she wouldn't dance to 'devil music'.

  Thinking Rob Zombie songs are evil is a sure sign of Dust Bunni-ness if there ever was one. He is a caricature of evil at worst and a mediocre hard rock musician at best. I know for certain that Red Death has some Cannibal Corpse songs on her playlist and gods forbid poor Sticker ever had to be exposed to one of them.

  I find it comical that a woman who shows off her naughty bits for money has a problem with a song about a car.

  Fucking comical I say.

  And in closing, here's a brief tale of seven thankless fuckwits who were in the Big City looking to show their bachelor a good time. I don't know what their names were, they were white dudes and all wore baseball hats in the approved manner. As shitglobs*1 go, they were well behaved, i.e. no chanting of "TITTIES, TITTIES, TITTIES!", no unnecessary screaming and absolutely zero amateur wrestling on the limo bus, which I appreciated.

  Then Ass-Croft*2 asks me about free passes. In my normal noncommital manner I tell him I'll take care of you if you take care of me, thinking to myself "there's seven of them, I'll be saving them $70 at the door, not to mention the cab fare to the club. I'm thinking $40..."

  What I should have been thinking was $6, because that would've been far more accurate. This was 'taking care of me' in their native language and if I'd stopped caring about my employment, I'd have taken out my nondescript wang and meticulously wiped the five dollar bill and the one dollar bill all over it before tossing it in the general direction of the septet of cuntery who'd spilled from my fucking shuttle bus.

  Epic twattishness. And I don't use the word 'epic' lightly.

  I think I'm done. I wanted to get one more post up before April, and here it is.

  Maybe I'll do pictures in an editing move I can post as a whole new installment. Yeah, that sounds progressive. I'm gonna do that.

Eat the Bee,
-The StripperHerder

*1 Shitglobs: Bachelor Parties, see also Brit: Stag Parties, Cock Nights or something suitably gay sounding.

*2 Ass-Croft, my given name to the spokesdude for the group. The one who besmirched the Covenant.

Friday, March 24, 2017

Wot I did ON my slo nite, by A. Strpperhirder. Or, Your Beliefs Are Like A Steamy Pile Of Dog Squeezins To Me, I Don't Care For Them And Don't Want To Have To Step On Them Because They'll Be Squishy And Will Smell Of Shit.

  Slow nights suck. Time goes really slow, you know you aren't gonna make any money and anything you have to deal with that normally only happens on a busy night just seems doubly aggravating.

  This was my night tonight. I had barely punched in when I had to deal with a customer that refused to pay a dancer the full amount of money he owed her. I told him as he made a spirited attempt to flee the club that he was short a few bucks and would he mind paying the girl what he owed her.

  He revealed to me a couple of interesting yet irrelevant facets of his belief system, they went something like this:

A) He believed that dances were only X amount of dollars when they are in fact Y amount of money.

B) He also believed that Missy's Mump House was a better strip club and that "everything is better there".

  I told him I it didn't matter to me what he 'believed' our dances cost, it's posted on the walls of the dance room for all to behold. They're called signs and they often convey valuable information, such as how much dances cost.

  I also asked him why, if Missy's is so much better, was he here trying to cheat my dancers? which he didn't like very much. For some reason a lot of people don't like it when I infer that they may be a broke piece of fecal cheese. So he again refused to pay a measly $20 and I let him walk out the door and told him don't come back.

  Fast forward 10 minutes and there he is again, holding out $20 to me. We conversed a bit further but I'm not going to bother you with the details. Suffice to say he used the phrase "don't try to play me" and other things I don't really understand because I'm about as ghetto as a Scandinavian mountain range.

                   "I know what 'trap' and 'stack' mean, but you seem to be using them incorrectly."

  I'd like to think that when all was said and done, that he left the club slightly more educated about out price scales and that I walked away still mystified about certain urban expressions. Therefore I call it a win for both of us.

  Why some people think I will care about how much dances cost at other clubs is beyond me. If you were at that club then it would be relevant, but you're not, you're in this club and dances cost more here. It's like going into a shoe store and complaining that a certain pair of shoes cost more there than at another shoe store on the other side of town.

  Guess what? No one gives a fuck but they aren't allowed to say it. If you want the cheaper priced shoes, go to where they sell them, you broke, soulless genital cyst.

                                         "I am apathetic and filled with stinky mustard."

 But that's not all that was annoying about tonight. I had another "A" team/"B" team moment this evening. It went something like this:

  I was, as usual, driving the shuttle around, desperately seeking customers for our starving strippers to feed on, but had to make a pit stop back at the club to take a leak.

  I had just opened the door to the place when this little drunk guy who was trying to leave the club ran into my chest. He looked up at me and I looked down at him and then the bartender came around the corner and said that he was trying to leave the club without paying his tab and held up his driver's license.

                                "On second thought I DID forget to pay my tab. Oops."

  I smiled my most disarming smile and said "well you need your license back, right? Let's go take care of that tab and we'll get you all squared away, OK?" I was patronizing the living quim out of this dude, but he didn't notice, so wasted was he.

  The little imp merely nodded and headed off uncertainly toward the bar. "That's right, you're doing great" I encouraged him, grinning at the Door Girl.

  He refused again at the bar, not seeming to comprehend the whole 'money for booze' concept and I gently loomed over him, being all kinds of helpful. It was only $30 for chrissakes.

  He got all ballsy again and said "I'm not gonna tip her" to which I replied, "that's up to you sir, but the $30 is your bar tab and that's all we need." He would end up paying and leaving quietly and I was just going to walk to lizard when I noticed my fellow B teamer, Tektroll, waving frantically at me from the Counter station.*1

  So I wander over and he asks me if I could watch the Counter while he took care of something, no more than 5 minutes. I said sure because I like Tektroll and us B teamers have to stick together. But as I did so, I suddenly thought to myself, "hey self, aren't there two other Floor Sloths working tonight? "Yes self" I thought back to myself, "I wonder what they're doing since they are clearly too busy to walk forty feet and help a fellow Floor Stiff out."

  So I glance over to where the A teamers hang out when they're doing nothing, which is 90% of the time, and there they were, Seamus and Lo-Jaq, faces buried in their phones, doing fuck all.

  It was at this point when I realized how wide the whole "A team/B team" schism is here. The other B team Floor Guy was more comfortable asking me, who was actually doing something for the club and had to piss so bad my belt was getting tight, than the A teamers who were both doing absolutely nothing, forty feet away.

  Nice, eh?

                                          "Huh? No, sorry bro. Super busy here."

  In a related side note, when I called off recently due to a bad case of I Don't Wanna Work, I texted the M.O.D. and told him I couldn't make it in and that I had already tried all the B-teamers, two of which were already scheduled and the third I hadn't heard back from and that I wasn't going to waste my time asking A-teamers to cover my shift because we all knew how that was going to work out for me.

  Since they haven't managed it in almost five years, I feel like they certainly aren't going to start now.

  And you might be thinking at this point, well crap, that's gotta be it, right? What else could've possibly happened on such a miserably slow Thursday?

  Well there's one more shit-cherry on the cupcake, dear reader and it's something that normally only happens on a busy night.


  SO we have this one dancer, I'll call her Saber since she's named herself after a weapon of all things. Saber is what I refer to as a World Class Stripper, i.e. she could walk into any strip club on the face of the planet and instantly be hired. She's insanely good at her job and I'll admit she's one of the most trouble free dancers I've ever worked with. She doesn't get hammered every night and on the rare occasions she does, the girl can handle herself. She also doesn't dabble in the sordid world of intra-club politics/bullshit and thusly I've never had to pry her apart from whatever other entertainer she's currently trying to maim.

                             "Your wallet is so huge and veiny. I will pretend now to want it."

  She appears Asian, but is actually Merznakistanian if I remember correctly. She speaks with a heavy Russian accent, like a Bond Villain, and has all the naughty bits you can handle, muchacho.

  If this chick makes less than $150K a year, I'll eat a small child of the readers' choice while riding a a polar bear down Wall Street wearing only clownface and a chainlink jockstrap.

  But I won't have to do that no matter how much I want to because Saber hauls in money like sardines in a net.

 The reason I bring her up is because tonight, like many nights, she's lingering around after hours because some dumb prick with more money that sense is doing a seemingly endless chain of dances with her after we've closed. At $25 a pop.

  On a busy night I don't begrudge her this because we're going to be there longer anyway, cleaning up the destruction drunks leave in their wake and waiting for the manager to do all the esoteric money stuff that always takes him forever. Plus she can be a generous tipper from time to time, recognizing that every now and then she can be a lovable pain in the ass.

  But on a night where we could've been home very soon after club close, it sucked. And then she added a couple more coats of suck-gloss to the finished product, namely:

  Just sitting down right in front of us with this apathetic cumbubble, chatting gaily about stuff that doesn't mean anything, while the entire staff of the club sat abjectly fifteen feet away from them, clearly wishing they could go home after a disastrous shift, yet trapped until this fucking customer was out of the building and this fucking dancer was in her goddamn street clothes and also ready to GO HOME.

                        "What? Oh them? No, they love sitting around for free. As all my Minions do."

  Next part of the saga is that the customer had to pay with a credit card, which makes it so easy to tip someone, such as someone you've kept from their bed for an extra hour or more for example. Yeah, that kind of person.

  But Mr. Bubble wasn't that kind of guy. Zero fucking situational awareness in this one. He gladly signed a receipt for over $700 and didn't tip a miserly dime.

  What a cunt.

  Then Saber broke the tension with this question, "Does one of you (referring to us Floor Guys) want to run him to his hotel in the shuttle?"

  Insert chirping cricket sound

  Did she seriously just ask that? Best call him a ride and leave it at that. So she did.

  Finally the panty-whiffer's uber arrived and he left the club. That's when Saber unleashed her final suck-salvo. She sat down at the bar in her thong and bra and proceeded to light up a smoke and start talking about more inane crap with the bartenders, instead of, and I stress this, going to the fucking dressing room and fucking getting ready to fucking go the fuck home, where we'd all like to have been an hour ago.

  I don't care if she tipped a hundred, which I seriously doubt and am checking up on right now.*2 After the split it would've only been $25 each and I would've gladly paid $25 to just to go home at that point.

  Another $25 wouldn't have even put us over $100 tonight, it was like January bad. Utterly bereft of hope.

 It galled me. Both Saber's and Ass-Tonguer's total obliviousness to their inconveniencing of a bunch of already exasperated service industry folk, pre-beaten by a slow, unrewarding grind of a night and now forced to wait until she felt she had squeezed the last cent from him and he felt all avenues to Coitusville had been explored and found to be dead ends.

  Had it been me who was loitering in a business that had closed an hour ago*3, I would've acknowledged the unhappiness of the employees whether they had made it obvious or not, and let me be clear about this: I would've tipped them generously.

  Because I hate working for free and I'd expect every other human does as well and am sympathetic enough to understand this.


  In closing I'd like to say that if I'm ever put in charge of stuff, then by law, everyone would have to work a minimum of six months in the service industry. It would make the world (or at least 'Murrika) a better place to live in and if it didn't I'd execute a few more people, just for the hell of it.

  Meh. I'm done. I'm gonna go back through and reread this post for a final edit sorta thing, so if I feel like doing pictures, you'll know because you'll have already seen them by this point. If there are no pictures, it means that after rereading the post, I decided not to do any.

  Just wanted to give you a head's up about it because time travel can be very confusing.

Asmodeus is the wings benath my wind,
-The StripperHerder

*1 The Counter Station is the most static position in the club. Whatever poor, misbegotten wretch is saddled with this job has to mark the sheet for each song any given dancer does so that the club can take a goodly portion of the money from those dances. He can't leave his post unattended without risking a serious word-fucking by our manager, Sir Ominous Thunderblam VII.

  Experiments in trusting dancers to be honest about how many dances they performed have proven to be wildly unsuccessful. One might even use the term 'catastrophic failure'.

*2 Hey, this is Future StripperHerder coming to from Sunday morning. I DID check up on what Saber tipped that night and it turns out it was $25. So considering there were 4 of us Floor Grunts working, the extra money for over an hour of bullshit was $6.25.


*3 This is complete hypothesis because I would never do this unless I was friends with the owner and had been specifically invited to stay.**

   **I won't even go to a restaurant within a half hour of closing because I've worked in enough kitchens to know that it's a dick move and you'll be lucky if your food doesn't have some 'special ingredients' added.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

St Fat Prick's Day: A Postscript. Or, Some Day My Rage Will Consume As Many Uber Drivers As I Can Get To Before The Cops Kill Me.

  Before I get into the sordid details of my beloved Irish holiday, I thought I'd throw some facts and figures at you from other nights this week. You know, to build up the anticipation for some creative uses of the word fuck that will inevitably happen later on.

  Since it's fresh in my mind, let's begin with Thursday night, bullet point style.

⤏I walked 18 dancers out last night. Walking out a girl at the end of the night doesn't just mean watching her from the doorway to make sure she stays rape-free. No sir, we walk all of our entertainers right to their car door, frequently carrying their inexplicably heavy stripper bags for them.*1

  Often we have to deter lingerers in our parking lot from trying to talk up the girls. Usually a gruff, "she's off the clock, jizzsop. Come back tomorrow and talk to her when she's working and maybe bring some money this time" will do the job, but every now and then people force us to be more direct.

  Of the 18 (I counted) gals I walked to their cars, 3 tipped me. This is what's known in the industry as 'fucking shitty' which is a technical term I don't expect everyone to understand.

  I realize it wasn't the best of nights, but for fuck's sake, would a fiver kill ya? Who would you be more apt to tip, the guy who made you an extra hundred bucks, or the guy who blew the brains out of an armed mugger who had robbery as the most gallant of his intentions that night?

  This job can be dangerous. Security people are attacked, injured and killed all the time, but you never really hear about it because no one gives a crap. Bouncers are dicks, remember?

⤏Speaking of tips...

  America is the tipping capitol of the world. Tipping all sorts of professions is ingrained in our culture like no where else on the planet. (I'm excluding really corrupt, third world nations in this statement because bribes aren't the same as tips.) We're the polar opposite of most Asian cultures where tipping is seen as rude or unnecessary and just isn't done.

  Us Murrikans tip everyone: waitresses, bartenders, taxi/uber drivers, hair dressers, valets, Subway sandwich makers, limo drivers, strippers, door people and everyone and anyone who puts a tip jar out. Since I am dependent on tips to make over $6 an hour, I tend to tip generously and in a wide swath.

  Therefore when I go above and beyond my duties to make customers happy, I don't feel like it's too much to expect for them to show their gratitude in a munificent fashion. Fork over some goddamn cash you cheap, classless twat.

  What happened was this. I received a text from the club to go pick up Shitmouth or whatever his name was and a party of 10. The bar they were at was literally a mile away, so it's not like it was a major inconvenience or anything, all very routine.

  At least that's what it should of been, but Shitmouth was a real piece of work. When I pulled up to the bar he was at, he runs out and leaps onto the bus and starts yelling at me. Literally fucking yelling. "HEY MAN CAN WE STOP AT THE INSERT HOTEL NAME HERE AND PICK UP A COUPLE MORE OF MY WHOLESOME AND VERY QUIET PARTY?" IT'LL ONLY TAKE 3 MINUTES!"

  "SURE!"  I replied, getting into the spirit of the thing.

  So he and his people climbed onto the bus and proceeded to yell and scream at each other for the two minutes it took to get to the hotel. Once there, Shitmouth staggered inside with a couple of his cronies while the rest of the party stayed on the bus, where they annoyed me with their full volume zoo shrieks.

  Twenty three fucking minutes later, (I timed it.) Shitmouth comes shambling back to the bus, soaked in milky beads of semen.*2 I shit you not, venerable reader. Twenty three agonizing minutes I waited for this soulless prick, the innane cackling of his friends driving me slowly and inexorably towards horrific acts of violence.

  SO finally he's back on the bus and then we wait for another 4 or 5 minutes for the final three members of the group to grace us with their presence. I was thankful it was only a 60 second ride back to the club because I was developing an acute case of murderection*3 with the whole situation.

  In closing, the entire group shuffled off the bus, tossing me a "Thanks, buddy!" or a "Good job, man!" on the way out. What they didn't toss me at all was any form of currency whatsoever. Not a dollar, not a dime, not a peso, not a pretty seashell. One guy even had the notion that patting me on my head like well behaved Irish Setter was a fine idea.

  What I said to him was "Don't ever touch my head like that again."

  What I should have said to him was, "If you ever pat my head again like I'm some kind of service animal deserving of praise, you'll never jack your buddy off with that hand again you plaid shirted fuck."

  This half hour ordeal would've taken three minutes if they'd just all been in one place, filed efficiently onto the goddamn bus and let me drive them the 5,000 feet to the club.

  Not even exaggerating in the slightest, three minutes.

⤏A lot of people just suck. I realize that this is common knowledge, or at least it is if you're a realist, or have been pummeled into human hate pudding by the service industry, but I feel it bears mentioning again.

  I have revealed in this blog before that we Floor Scum have to clean the club every night, the least pleasant job of which is doing the Dressing Room. The strippers are a catastrophe in a glitter bra. The heinous acts of hygiene, eating and fucking about they commit in that poor room are too numerous and vile to print in this upstanding blog. I'm here to inform and entertain, not revolt and disgust my beloved readers...

   That being said here's a crude diagram of the bathroom in the Dressing Doom:

  Notice how the trash is strategically located a mere five feet from the sinks? Even for a tiny stripper it couldn't be more than 3 steps. Three. Fucking. Steps.

  Yet every night I'm blessed with the task of cleaning up this badger pen, there are always at least a dozen balled up wads of paper towel thrown onto the counter top and even more strewn across the floor all willy-nilly.

  How much of a shitball do you have to be to just throw your nasty wads of who-knows-what stained paper towels wherever you happen to be standing when a trashcan is literally five feet away from you?

  The answer is you have to be a big shitball to do stuff like this, and big shitballs come in all sizes.

  All right, enough about all that. You want to hear how my favorite irrational holiday went, no?

  That was the whole cunting point of this post, right?

  Well, satisfying your abnormal hunger for tales from the oily, tawdry industry I work in is my specialty folks. It's what I do. So here's the grim details:

  Tonight wasn't bad. 

  I realize that it's a bit anticlimactic after all the crying I did about the Douchepacalypse and whatnot, but it just wasn't anything at all like I was expecting. Nothing whatsoever like last year, which sucked huge amounts of flying custard.

  This Fat Prick's Day was pretty mellow and we made almost $300. So really, I have nothing to complain about outside of a couple a normal stupid things that may well have happened without the aid of a poorly conceived homage to the Earth's favorite drunks.

  This surprising tameness can be attributed to two factors:

1) The weather sucked and people didn't like it because they are pussies. Either that or they'd rather be dead than be caught wearing coat outside in winter.

2) Much more important to the chillness of the evening was the substantial amount of vodka I drank while driving the shuttle around streets littered with assholes and half digested reubans. Yes. I did that. I stopped at the only place in town I enjoy going to and had between three and five double vodka tonics. I wasn't really counting.

  This isn't typical behavior for me, but I figured what's the worst that could happen as I piloted my land whale through a minefield of human rectalness. Death, I suppose. But it probably wouldn't be mine and chances were, even with a few belts in me, that it wouldn't be my fault anyway, so I got all "Irish" and shit.

  Well on that disappointment, I'm done. I have other things to do. Important, meaningful things that will enbettermify the whole world and shitforth.

  So fuck off.

Call Me Maybe,
-The StripperHerder

*1 Seriously. Why do they bring cinder blocks to work? Your average stripper outfit's weight is measurable in fucking grams and their shoes aren't much heavier. If you're to the point where you need 35 lbs of makeup, it's time to retire. I'm constantly baffled by the weight of some girls bags.

*2 OK, I may have embellished a bit about the spuzz, but I'm pretty sure he was doing blow and sucking cock while he was up there.

*3 Murderection: Lit Murder-Erection, also known popularly as a Kill-Boner, Stab-Stiffy, Death Helmet, Battle Rooster, Chaos Cock, War Bulge