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Stalking The Ruins In Search Of Appropriately Soft Cloth: The Shit-Ticket Wars Devastated My Neighborhood. Or, The Cannibal Gangs Are Really Starting To Get Frisky.



  Even after all the chaos, killing and pointless atrocities, I still can't believe it was the lack of toilet paper that sparked the madness which utterly destroyed my neighborhood. Not the lack of meat or readily available protein. Not the memory of bread. Not the absence of Coca Cola.


  In the end it was the inability to adapt to wiping our cooters and/or assholes with something other than plush, quilted toilet paper that sent the populace over the edge.


  Turns out the average American can deal without having burgers or kielbasa and sauerkraut for much longer than they can deal with the trauma of wiping their excretory bits with something other than what they were accustomed to.


  The killing started within 36 hours of the total loss of bathroom tissue. People who used to barbecue together and have block parties now savagely murdered their neighbors and friends for those sweet, sweet shit tickets.


  Gleeful butchery as long simmering disagreements over hedges, property lines and jealousy over lighting arrangements boiled over into all out intra-street warfare, with the underlying triumph being the seizure of your slaughtered neighbor's stash of quality ass-wipe fodder along with whatever of their other possessions took your fancy.


 
  Luckily for me, I adapted to the post-toilet paper world readily as I had a handy supply of t-shirts which no longer fit as well as dozens of socks with holes in the heels or toes that I had never gotten around to throwing out.


  When I ran out of those, I adapted again, utilizing old porn mags and vintage Hit Parader magazines to wipe my butt. The came the curtains and small squares of bath towels. Then stray dogs when I could catch them.


  I used whatever I had to to get by. I grew immune to remorse. Corpse hair works in a pinch, better than oak leaves by far.....


  Some folks failed to evolve, they couldn't swallow the shame and just stopped wiping altogether. They became pitiable creatures, plagued with any number of anal related hygiene problems. Generally very irritable and likely to attack with little or no provocation. As time went on, I found it best to just shoot someone who was walking funny as they were usually insane from their backdoor torments.



  I survived the turmoil be the simple expedient of having food, not really being concerned about what touched my sphincter in a cleansing aspect, and shooting every single cunt who tried to use the walls outside my door as cover as they tried to breach my reinforced door.


  I may not be able to see them, but even trained people are predictable in the available cover they choose. The only problem with their available choices are that my .45's don't recognize single walls of lathe and plaster as substantial obstacles and I have had great success just shooting these desperate fuckwits through my walls.


  The strength of your access points is critical to your survival in these marauding times. Your defense is only going to be as good as you controlling access to your space. And if you're faced with motivated and equipped enough antagonists, your best isn't gonna do unless you live in a completely self sufficient, impregnable vault.

 
  Good luck with that.





  Speaking of home defense, the Cannibal Road Gangs around here are starting to really come out of the denial closet and just flat out admit they're going to eat you if they can catch or shoot you. While I appreciate their transparency, having to constantly fight them off is taking a toll on my ammo supply. Sure, they collect their dead for pot roast so I don't have to smell them and that's nice. But it's not like they're doing it for me.


  I'm not opposed to the idea of cannibalism per se, in fact I have stockpiled many dry rubs and marinades in preparation for the day I must feast on long pig or die. That being said, context is everything and while having to eat a fallen comrade for survival is an unpleasant prospect, actively hunting down other people for food and enjoying the act seems a bit excessive to me and I hope at some point another option becomes available other than suicide.


  In all honesty, this new world which we find ourselves in: post toilet paper, post law enforcement, post morality, post easily obtainable food, post vodka, does have it's own pleasures. I can't lie to you and say that I didn't enjoy killing all those feral scumbags that tried to kick down my door and take all my stuff after filling me full of lead.


  I did.


  I was defending my cat. I love her but to a hungry stranger I can easily see how delicious she looks. I can't be having any of that. If anyone's going to eat her, it's going to be me. And I'll cry while I do it.



  But that's the world we live in nowadays. Full of tears and greatly lacking in air conditioning.



The Former Herder of Strippers,
The StripperHerder
















Quarantine Diaries. Or, There Is Considerably Less Mad Max Style Vehicle Combat Going On Than I Was Led To Believe Would Occur.



  Quarantine Diary, Day 79



  Everyone has an idealized vision of themselves. A version of them that they know they could be if they just had the drive and commitment to hone every facet of their being into this perfect self. A tiny, TINY portion of the human race actually accomplishes this, becoming their ultimate self. An even smaller portion pulls this off without planting the seeds of their own future destruction.


  I myself, for instance, have an idealized notion of myself as some kind of road-wise Mad Maxian nomad survivor/warrior who lives by his wits, his .45's and his motherfucking reliable-ass Toyota 4x4. Dealing out justice with his well maintained firearms and high level marksmanship. Escaping road gangs by clever improvised pursuit countermeasures, sheer driving guts and vehicle capability; harvesting precious gasoline whenever possible.


  My Apocalypse cat, Fuji, by my side. Stalking the ruins. Eking out an existence by sheer grit and and a plethora of useful skills. Our senses and instincts making us stronger than the sum of our parts.


  The reality is that when society breaks down and ravenous, desperate people begin going door to door and taking by force whatever they can take. When killing becomes something that happens without consequence except those you make in your own mind. When the only thing that stands between you and any single fucking thing you own is your ability to defend it.


  That's where the mental avatar of myself as a freebooting, vehicular-centric warrior/survivor goes in the shitter.


  While I'd LIKE to be a Road Warrior, forever prowling the wasted landscape in search of gas, ammo and spare parts in my fearsome armored and sweet looking 'Yota, I have none of the requisite skills required to survive even to the point where some Road Warrior kinda shit becomes plausible. I can barely change my oil, much less diagnose and fix a serious problem. I get frustrated easily and and tend to take it out on stuff that's pissing me off, causing more damage than what I was trying to fix.


  In reality, I see myself more as an 'Dying Towards the End of the Second Wave' kinda guy. You know, someone who has survived the massive first wave die out of the human race by the simple expedient of having enough water and grub to last more than a month. And who was prepared and successful in defending their stuff against those who'd run out and were willing to take what they needed from anyone they could.


  About four to six weeks after supply chains have completely broken down, power grids and cell service is out and water service is a thing of the past, there will a humongous 'First Wave' die-off on Earth, primarily in dense population centers. I don't have the numbers and to be fair, they're all just estimates and model projections anyway. No one can accurately calculate the death toll because a break down of systems combined with a population of these numbers HAS NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE.


  No one can predict the chaos that will ensue.


  It will be like God kicking over the universe's biggest anthill. Shit'll get crazy fast.


  What I will say is after this First Wave, things are going to get WAY MORE fucked up. While I have the wherewithal to potentially survive the First Wave, I will undoubtedly succumb to the Second Wave. This is where people with the initial supplies and resources to get by until now begin running out of stuff and having to make critical decisions.


  Choices such as:


-Do I simply start killing people for their shit?

-How many canned goods are a human life worth?

-Am I hungry enough to eat a dog?

-Am I hungry enough to eat another human?

-Am I hungry enough to eat another human without some decent marinade or dry rub options?

-Is life without electricity, vodka, hamburgers and online porn even worth going through the trouble?

-How can I take out as many people who have wronged me as I can before circumstances kill me or force me to kill myself?


  These will become very important options to some folks before their inevitable demise.



  While I'm willing to stand amidst the chaos and defend every last can of Hormel Tamales that I have stashed despite how they taste, once my shit is gone and I begin to starve, I can't rightly say what I'll do. Never been there before, starvation that is. Been hungry, but hungry and starving aren't as close of neighbors as you'd think.


  Would I just straight up eat another human? Perhaps a tender feral baby if I could manage to trap one of the clever little devils?


  I'm hoping I never get hungry enough to find out. but, truth be told, I do keep a secret supply of soy sauce on hand for marinade in case I ever have to eat people cutlets.


  And remember folks, if you're going to start using humanity as a food source, for fuck's sake use the whole animal. Don't be a wasteful cunt.


  Render the fat for lamp oil and waterproofing. Harvest the skin; it makes great leather and scares other people silly. Bones have too many uses to list. The point is, as with the Native Americans and bison, people aren't just meat so don't treat them that way. Have some fucking respect, ya fuckin cannibal.




  So thinking long term, in the unlikely event I live that long. I've been considering possible business opportunities in a Post-Everything America. I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, things don't look great. But in the end, I came up with the following ideas:


Uncle Herdy's Sharp Sticks™: I know, it doesn't sound great right now but branding is everything and as worldwide ammunition supplies dry out and mass production ceases, a sharp stick starts looking more and more attractive. It was the weapon of choice of tens of thousands of years because it's a proven two step system: A) Stab pointy end into enemy. B) Repeat as necessary. Or even, for advanced users. C) Throw the fucking thing.


  Even idiots can use one.


  I feel like if the end of civilization advances to a certain point, people might start looking more kindly on an expertly made Sharp Stick. Hell, if we regress far enough they may even become a sort of status symbol:, like


  "Hey. is that an original Uncle Herdy ya got there?"


  "Sure is. I had to kill SO MANY people to get it, but it was totally worth it! Stabs like a dream, bro!"



  Another equally promising idea I had was Darwin Jerky™.*1 In other words human jerky marketed to people who don't want to believe they're eating human flesh and are completely prepared to buy into the narrative of me somehow still having a cattle ranch somewhere with cows on it or some such nonsense. Nobody without a small army has cows anymore. Certainly not in enough numbers to make a commercially available jerky.


  But with enough smoke flavoring, red dye and milled texturing, I'm confident folks will love it and any doubts they have will be rapidly alleviated by their hunger pangs going away and that adorable flavor I've concocted out of various shit laying around. And maybe some heroin I found.


  Whatever. A small business man will need an edge in Post-Everything America. If I can get people to eat my brand of human meat sprinkled in heroin while masquerading as a pork or beef product, I'm gonna do it.



  We'll have to see how far society breaks down before I begin implementing my business plan. I'm probably gonna label it "Organic" just in case a few hippies survive the imminent madness. Broadest commercial appeal and whatnot.





Everything's gonna be just fine, you just wait and see.

-Uncle QuaranHerder











DARWIN jerky

Don't Arsk What's IN It

























*1 DARWIN is my abbreviation for "Don't Ask 'Really, What's IN it'?"


  

A Blogger Adapts To A Post-Strip Club World, Or, Quarantine Diary Of A Guy Who Used To Herd Strippers.




Quarantine Diaries, Chapter 62


  
  In the wake of the Meat Riots and the ensuing chaos that resulted, I had ceased to forage for the time being and lived off canned goods while the remaining populace enthusiastically slew one another outside my windows. Once the quiet crept back again I poked my head out to see what there was to see, scavenge what there was to scavenge.

  Who knew bacon, or the lack thereof, would be the straw that broke the camel's back?

  Turns out eight days was exactly how long America was willing to wait for more bacon before they lost their shit and began the true demolition of our society. Toilet paper was one thing, I guess, but allow the bacon supply chain to break down and everyone starts gunning down their neighbors all willy nilly.

  Fuck with bacon at your peril is the lesson future generations should take away from this.



  Every day brings new challenges and wonders. Today for instance I saw two babies fighting a raccoon by a dumpster over half a pack of Now And Later's that was crawling with ants. I chose not to involve myself but I was quietly rooting for the raccoon because those babies looked savage and gross. I didn't like babies much before they were feral and competing with rodents for sustenance and I certainly don't like them now when they're competing with rats to be the dominant nuisance species.

 
  The Meat Riots, while horrific and barbaric, did make the streets quieter. Mostly that's because of the rise of the Cannibal Cults, but you take the good with the bad in this quirky post-civilization world we live in.

  

  In related news, my neighbor has recently gone full cannibal and while I try not to judge, I can't help thinking "I really hope he's getting enough fiber..." I'm trying not to be a diet-shamer here, I mean it's the end of civilization, eat whatever you can get your hands on, ya know? If you've decided long pig is the answer and you're comfortable with it, who am I to judge? Just the other day I saw a stray beagle and thought to myself, 'I still have half a bottle of Korean barbeque marinade that probably isn't totally rancid yet, I should shoot that fucking dog and somehow eat it or something.'

  

  Problem is I don't know how to skin an animal and harvest its meat, nor would I want to if I thought it might’ve been called 'Bandit' or 'Loki' or at one point wore a bandanna or sunglasses in a humorous family photo.

  

  But clearly my neighbor, who looked like Paul Rudd before the Apocalypase, has figured out a way to trap the feral Girl Scouts that briefly ruled our streets and were a threat to every living creature that dared to dart from building to building in the shadows. Hoping against hope not to hear the distinct hunting calls of "Dosi!" and the return calls of "Doe!" closing in from all directions.


  I learned early on that if you're out foraging and you see a pristine box of Thin Mints, run motherfucker. Run. They're already all around you and they move fast, coordinate better than Green Berets and haven't developed the higher concepts of mercy or compassion in their small, animal brains yet.

  
  Somehow "Larry" has figured out how to snare the clever little  things since they've all but disappeared and Larry is the only human I currently know who's putting on weight and frequently has the smell of fajitas emanating from his door.

  
  I'm just putting two and two together, doesn't mean I'm right or that he's wrong.

  
  Wouldn't want to seem like I'm shaming anyone for doing what they had to do. God forbid.

  


  So my latest drama is with the Church of Steve The Savior, one of the foremost new Cannibal Cults that I mentioned earlier. You see, three days ago, I shot two of them dead through my door as they tried to leave a pamphlet that I clearly indicated I didn't want. I felt I was being more than clear by shooting them through my door and to be fair I did have to listen to one of them slowly choke to death on his own blood for like five minutes which was really annoying.
  

  Then, not ten minutes later as I was surveying the damage done to my door by me refusing their literature, two more of them entered my building without permission, openly ignoring the clearly posted NO SOLICITATION sign, and there went the rest of my magazine. Like fucking ammo grows on trees nowadays, sunshine.

  Silver lining though, their obviously ambushed corpses have dissuaded all the meek predators from coming anywhere near my door, although the smell is, admittedly, less than ideal.

  It's all about tradeoffs in today's new reality. In order to combat the stench of the rotting Cannibal Cultists outside my door, I ambushed a landscaping truck and stole a bag of quicklime, which I sprinkle daily on the corpse warning-heap outside my door.

  It helps a bit but I fear Summer's gonna be a bitch. I'm trying to decide if I even want to live in a post-air conditioning world or not, although in the end I suspect that it's all just a matter of when I run out of vodka and who might blow my brains out as I attempt to steal their supply of coping juice.

  That's where I'd put my money on how it all eventually goes down. I'd give it 2 to 1 odds of being headshot while attempting to flee with pilfered booze.

 
  Other notable contenders in my death pool include:



-Masturbates to death: 3 to 1 odds. I certainly realize the hazard it poses, but am willing to Face The Dragon every single day until it rots me from inside and one day, during climax, my entire midsection explodes and I expire before the last of my ejaculate and half digested pork n beans can drip off the ceiling.


-Eaten by neighbor, Larry: 5 to 1 odds. I'm probably too gamey unless he gets really desperate...


-Instantly commit suicide the moment the vodka runs out. Don't even try to steal any. Just paint a wall with my thinky-bits: 6 to 1 odds but trending upward.


-Run down while foraging by ravening bands of former Uber and DoorDash drivers who have donned bondage gear and now engage in an interleague sport based on mowing down pedestrians with rat rod Kia's and Corolla's with meat plows welded onto them: 12 to 1 odds. If it isn't a Prius or Tesla, you can hear it coming. Then you simply wait for the right moment and implement PLAN ONE.*1. If it's an all electric gang, the odds go up to 16 to 1.

-Taken down while foraging by unionized packs of stray survivor dogs who’ve fallen back on their  lupine heritage in order to survive a world where they are both predators and a possible burrito filling.: 20 to 1 odds. Not only do I have a special understanding of canine language, I can just shoot them.

-Killed by a post apocalyptic Road Gang’s Sub Boss while trying to protect my canned ravioli and Dinty Moore supply. Not even the Big Boss, but his mohawk’ed and chaps-wearing sodomite commando. Again, not judging. If I’m OK with cannibalism, butt sex, whether consensual or not seems sorta ‘not really my problem either’: 25 to 1 odds. I'm expecting this and have reserved several rounds of .45 Colt, which regardless of sexual preference will still put enormous holes in you, even if you have a mohawk or are wearing leather pants.

-Nuked:100 to 1 odds. It's not unrealistic to think that some top ten global powers have considered unleashing their nuclear arsenals. In layman's terms this means there will never be a better eighteen minute window in which to savage your genitals with no lasting consequences.



  
  I'll keep you posted on the outcome of my death pool as long as I'm able. But....you know. Probably won't be available to post a dying message with the pool winning method, so be conservative with your wagers.





  One of the members of my community is running a "food truck". And by that I mean he built a fire under a dumpster full of rainwater and boiled a few corpses in it with some lemon rinds and half a cup of salt. If I could leave a Yelp review it would read something like this.


  "I wasn't expecting much when the dumpster rolled out in front of my building, It didn't smell appetizing at first and when the vendor punctured the slime layer that had formed over the surface of the "stew", things didn't get much better.


  However, appearances aside, the stew was actually pretty awful. It tasted like how I always imagined soapy bath water that had been used to render down the fat of old people's cadavers would taste. That being said, this IS a review so therefore in the spirit of fairness I will say it was very meaty, the portions were exceedingly generous and served in a limited edition tactical helmet, which I thought was a nice touch.


  Was it worth one can of baby shrimp and one can of french cut green beans? Yes, but only because the 'while supplies last' tactical helmet soup bowl promotion, which frankly was genius. Would I eat from this dumpster again? No. Not unless a new wave of National Guard are deployed here and the helmet-bowl promo comes back."

  2 STARS





  Yours til next time,
-The StripperHerder Who Herds No More And Kills Religious Freaks and Would Be Ravioli Thieves






 


 


 
*1 PLAN ONE: Pump rounds through it until it stops moving.

 

Welcome To A Whole New World: Post-Titty If You're A Glass Half-Empty Kinda Reader. Gasoline Powered V-8 Madness And Vehicular Carnage If You're An Optimist Like Me.



  Here's the deal, despite the title I make no promises or binding agreements about the actual or theoretical content of the following post be it in regards to titties or any other subject matter mentioned in the title or forthwith.


  That's actual lawyer talk, I looked it up on a website so it's 100% true and legitimate.


  What I will state, in a Glass-Half-Empty sorta way, is that I wish things would go all Mad Max, preferably minus all the bondage and fetish gear if possible. If not, whatever. It's the end of civilization and there's no dress code like there would be in a civilized place. So wear what you want as long as there's some built-in weaponry with which you can kill people for their gasoline.


  Because that seems to be the point at first.


  Although arguments could be made that in this iteration, toilet paper will be the resource that ultimately breaks our society, I choose to put my faith in vodka and ammunition as my source of future wealth (both of which are Armageddon-Proof) And while I believe that this may be gospel, I'm preparing to wipe my ass with smooth rocks or ruined socks, while not having to resort to pistol-whipping a resource plunderer because I chose a clean ass over lethal self defense rounds.


  Water will somehow become important later, don't worry about it as long as those V-8's are being fed and mohawk'ed road bushwhackers are being bested and shot fulla buckshot, arrows and cleverly launched tire irons.


  Remember your "Pretending It's NOT the End of Society" Road Agent Training:



1) It is perfectly okay to waste 3 gallons of high test fuel by firing up your Blower to outrun Wasteland Twats for ten miles so you can harvest thirteen ounces of crappy 82 octane fuel leaking from a wreck by catching it in a filthy, dust streaked salad bowl. It makes perfect sense.


2) Weapons are everything, so load as many of them onto your person as you can effectively move under the weight of. Don't deny yourself any weapon system based on your probable ability to lug it around. Fuck it. If you can cram it into your V-8 Interceptor and effectively use it, it's worth the fuel cost.


  Remember, this is the shattered remains of civilization. It is Post cellphone, Post social media and Post instant communication. Ergo, if no one's around to record something happening otherwise, then as a Remnant Road Authority of whatever questionable gubbamint is left, whatever you say happened becomes fact by the simple expedient of everyone else involved was either slagged in a high speed motorway accident or failed to cut through a limb before a perfectly explainable vehicle explosion took place.


  They're all polygamist methheads anyway.



3) Methhead Road Cunts will always veer off when faced with an insane, sunglasses and glove wearing broken spirited cop whose family is dead by other, unaffiliated Methhead Road Cunts, most of whom rode motorcycles.


  Which is idiotic in a vast-open-space scenario with range weapons.


  But you can't stop them from doing it. Until you shoot them, that is.


  Which is super easy. They're just....really easy to hit and take down.



4) Don't trust children. Listen, the Apocalypse happened and we've moved on a bit. But there's tons of orphans of this circumstance who've gone feral and plenty more who will eventually join one wild pack or another as a matter of survival. This is one of two eventualities when parentless children are left unfed for prolonged periods of time. They either perish or join cult-like bands of other idiot kid survivor groups, each with it's own religion based on nonsense.


  Trust me when I say their social support network is MUCH deeper than yours and and when all hope is lost, my money is on them to come out on top.


 

5) When you run out of resources because what passed for government has finally collapsed, it's 100% OK to take whatever gasoline, tires, blower parts, air filters, teeth or any other resource you can scavenge from any other vehicle on the road that may happen to look bodged together or has anyone with goggles in it. Goggles are illegal. So are any other vehicles without a valid safety sticker.


  The manual says DO NOT run them off the road. PURSUE them until they crash and assist them if given a chance. 


  Assist them doing what is open to interpretation based on the wording. It's taken as a given the the good folks of a post-nuclear-exchange law enforcement jurisdiction would never go all Road Pirate and wreck cars for fun and profit. It's unthinkable.


 


   Fuck. That's all I have to say for now. What can I say, I'm out of practice.



  Still got the shitty, abrupt ending down pat though.


  Some things you can't unlearn.



 Your Future Twerk Rancher,
-Unky Herdy!
 


 
















A Unpublished Turd I Have Polished Til It Almost Shines. Or, My Draft Folder Is Like A Refrigerator Packed With Leftovers


  The bulk of this post was languishing in my draft folder like a tub of forgotten yogurt that had got pushed to the back and was hidden behind some ancient pickles. I'd never given it a title and therefore when having a look at this folder, it just had the sentence, 'I told myself that I wasn't going to blog tonight, I was going to work on the fucking script'.


  So assuming it was one of the many, many "drafts" I have which consist of either a title or a sentence, but never both, I haven't looked at it in over three years.


  But I'm glad I did, there's definitely some classic Herder in here. I suspect it may have never seen the light of day because I was clearly shitfaced when I wrote it and upon sober rereading, it may have seemed a bit extreme.


  However, this has seldom stopped me from publishing anything. I figure the worst has already happened and I have nothing to fear but the scorn and hatred of the majority of the Earth's population, which frankly doesn't bother me much.


  I'd say this goes back to 2016-17. It's safe to say I was more than my usual level of angry with how the night went and for better or worse, here's what I wrote:







  I told myself that I wasn't going to blog tonight, I was going to work on the fucking script.


  But I lied and tonight conspired against me in any case.


  It all boils down to three simple words:


  

Daylight. Savings. Time.






  Or, in service industry speak: Bend Over Servant, You're Getting It Right Up The Arse.*1


  And we did. We did get it right up the ass. Seriously, words simply can't convey how utterly shit-filled the extra hour us poor hospitality slaves have to work on this idiotic convention of time. Why the hell couldn't DST happen on a Tuesday? Or a Wednesday?


  I'm guessing because of massive lobbying by the liquor and beer industries who thought to themselves, "Hey, one more hour a year to sell booze to already schnockered people? Fuck yeah."


  To us in the beer serving community, there's nothing worse that a Saturday night (Sunday morning) two AM becoming one AM again, like a time machine powered by vomit and fuckcuntery on a religious scale. Able to actually shift time so that we unfortunate few could know an extra hour of suffering.





  The main problem with tonight, and I'm gonna speak plainly here folks, was guys who got dances with our entertainers and then refused to pay for them.


  Let me expound on this a bit because I feel inspired by tonight's events to wax eloquent on the matter.


  If you're a dude who goes to a strip club and receives dances from a stripper and then decides not to pay for them for whatever reason, any one of the following things should happen to you because you're a mealy-souled rat fart of a human being. And if, God forbid, I ever get in charge of this land, these will be LAWS...



1) Your head gets sewn into a dead dogs' asshole with a clever snorkel system run from your mouth through the dog's body and out it's mouth so you don't suffocate to death before the canine carcass has a chance to really start decomposing. Being as you were bound hand and foot at the time, you'd have the option of spitting out the mouthpiece in order to try to eat your way to freedom, or you could just pay the girl the stated price for the dances she did and walk away completely dead dog free.



2) An incision is made in your scrotum through which a tasty trail mix is packed, which will hurt a lot. The better part is that after that, if you still refuse to pay what you fucking owe, some snug underwear will be placed on you and crammed with starving gerbils who will smell the trail mix and gnaw through anything to get to it.


  Shoulda paid for your dances, hair guy.




3) Your wife, sister, daughter or mom will be forced to grind her nonny against my loins in a degrading manner while I fondle whatever the hell I want as you watch, and afterward, I won't pay her for her time.



4) You are locked in a room for an hour with thirteen armored strippers who've been burned before multiple times by cheapskate little spuzzchuggers just like you. They'll be armed with 15" black rubber cocks and all you'll have in your defense is your weak, twatty little lies. Your time there will be painful, emasculating and possibly crippling if not fatal.


  And you'll deserve whatever you get, you vomitous wretch of a man. I hope you die in a manner that is anally related.


  Or you could just pay for your dances.



5) If you still refuse to pay, you'll be released on foot in a desert to run for your survival against all of us Floor Knights in sweet-ass post apocalyptic war-buggies. But we'll give you a spear because we don't want it said they we're not sporting chaps. My buggy has machine guns so I hope your spear arm is really good.....




6) You'll be slathered in consecutive layers of oatmeal which will be allowed to dry in between coats. The resulting body cast of no less that twenty two applications of hardened oatmeal will imprison you inescapably, at which point we release five hundred hungry rabbits into your cage, betting on how long you'll last when the majority of the oatmeal is gone. At which point we release the starving badgers....


  Or you could just pay for what was given. Seems like a pretty easy decision.



  And that's what passes for 'waxing eloquent' in this horrible blog. You should all be ashamed of yourself for reading it. I know that I'm ashamed for writing it.





  Process of writing this, night two...



  Had the same problem again tonight, fucking loser who wouldn't pay for two dances. The stripper was trying to get him for four, but the Counter said it was two, so that's what I tried to get. Since the club's legal team has made it very clear to us that we're not to get handsy with anyone unless they start it, we have very little in the way of options, especially when it's a matter of less that $100. The cops really don't want to be bothered with all the paperwork and are often busy at the time of night when this sorta crap normally occurs.


  Basically we can appeal to their better nature and try to work a deal for whatever we can get. This almost never works. Our ability to get the money is directly tied to how cooperative the customer feels like being.


  Until we remove the cameras from the front half of the club, this ain't gonna change.






  OK, back to 2020. Clearly I was feeling very uncharitable toward a few customers that night. To be fair our problem with this facet of the industry falls exponentially when we have a LEO working the door with us, but this post was obviously from the Dark Times.


  The Dark Times was a several year span wherein the municipality in which we operate decreed that no off duty officers in their employ are permitted to work at titty clubs anymore. Because it was bad for the image of the department of all things. Don't get me started.


  Every other booze den in the Town™ had cops working with their security staff on a weekend, but not if there were bare breasts involved. That was where the top brass drew the line. Tits. Go figure.




  So that bit o'cheese is what I'm going to allow myself to get away with as it pertains to accomplishing something.


  Victory is mine!





  I'm going to be republishing some more older material now that it makes no difference.


  I hope some folks enjoy reading about themselves as much as I did writing about it.



-Unky Herder






















*1 I realize that I've been writing in single sentences so far. It doesn't bother me but I know some readers may find it childish and regressive. And to those readers I say............kudos. It's time someone called me on my bullshit. Impactful or not...




A New Post To Thank My Benefactors. A Brief History Of My Titty Club Security Background. Previously Unpublished Shit.



  I'm flattered that some folks have stepped forward and donated some cash to what they deem has been a worthwhile cause. I never had any intention of monetizing this blog, in fact, my content pretty much barred me from any sort of realistic sponsorship, so I just wrote because I liked it and a lot of other people seemed to enjoy it as well.


  Other humans telling me they enjoy my blog or how they'd sprayed coffee across their computer screens when reading a new post makes me happy. Making people laugh is a rare gift and if I've delivered over the years and it's worth it to you, there'll be a way to show that at the end of the post.






  In my career I'v worked at seven different strip clubs across two states in addition to two bars, three music venues and on one very creepy night, a sex club. Any other bullshit I've written in this blog about moving to another state was merely an attempt at misdirection after the cat got out of the bag at my latest club for reasons I'm still not comfortable going into.



  That being said here's situations I worked with at each and every strip club in no particular order:



1) Tammy's Titty Trailer: Worked totally solo. Couldn't even count a bartender to have my back. I was a lot younger back than and didn't fully appreciate the level of risk I was taking on for what wasn't much more that minimum wage. Was way too neophyte to plan or execute any sort of money making scams and would've sucked at them any way. I didn't carry a knife or most certainly a gun.


  Wouldn't even consider doing the same job today without both....


  I was lucky enough in my ten or so months at T3's to have not come across any situation I couldn't handle. I preferred not to put my hands on people, but I got very proactive when I figured it was going to be necessary for me to do so. The local PD were nominally sympathetic, knowing I worked alone in a sometimes less than desirable environment.


  In truth the most vicious fights I broke up in my time there were between dancers, not customers. I had tiny crack-dancers willing to stilletto-stomp a weaker rival in order to obtain valuable market share. It was a tiny club with a small clientele and competition was fierce.




2)  McCracky's Ass Overload: I don't know what I was thinking. This was a straight up ghetto strip club on the outskirts of a major PA town. I was the only white guy on security and I was hired because with me on the Door, it made the club seem less threatening to potential white patrons or at least this is what I was told.. If this is racist, don't blame me, I didn't hire myself.


  I was thrust into a world I wan't really prepared to deal with, but you either adapt or you run away. I learned quickly to just say 'fuck that' to everything. Everyone has some sort of story at the Door, everyone knows someone, or so they think.


  This led to a lot of confrontations because I was a minority in this situation, but my team had my back like you wouldn't believe. This was, without a doubt, THE most proactive security team I've eve worked with. If there was a problem, which there frequently was, they would descend on it like the fucking locusts on unsuspecting crops. They protected their white boy because they knew I was in over my head, culturally speaking, but respected the balls it took to show up day in and day out. The unit cohesion and response of this team ended up instilling in me unrealistic expectations of how working in clubs would be everywhere.



  And I was wrong as fuck. It's often a symptom of being young.





3) Naked Allure: The have-it-all strip club outside of a major midwestern town that features all kinds of special shit to those willing to spend money. They have solo stages, crazy champagne rooms, a Dungeon Room, private catering, blowjob nooks and cocaine vending machines. As a cook there I made about $500 a week there in shift pay, but employees (including entertainers) were required to tip me to make their food, so I was making good money.


  Most of which I spent on drugs because I wanted to fit in.


  Since I was a talented cook, I was very popular with the employees and clientele. Since I didn't sell weed and coke, like the other cook, James, I was eventually cut to one day a week. James couldn't cook his way out of a wet paper bag, but at this particular club, drugs were more important.


  Shame too because it was easy money. I even traded some sauteed shrimp for magic mushrooms one time...



4) Lisa's Labia Buffet: The worst club I ever worked at in regards to how I was treated by management, dancers, customers and especially my fellow Floor Guys. At this club if you weren't the two 'VIP' Floor Dicks, then you were the lowest form of life at the club. EVERYONE was valued higher than you, even barbacks and cooks. Hell, the toilets at this club were shown more respect than the average knuckle dragging Floor Ape. My contribution to the Owner's wealth was appreciated at roughly the same value as a gallon of ranch dressing, more or less.


  And I was treated accordingly.


  Management either screamed at you, failed to help you in any way and never, ever took your side against a Dancer no matter how much evil the bitch had perpetrated. Even if a Manager wanted to help you or sympathized with you in any way, the Owner would reach out from his orbiting Whore Star and eradicate any good outcome.


  The Strippers here could broadly be divided into two groups: A) the hardened ghetto criminals who ran the club and B) all the other strippers who were terrified of them. There wasn't much middle ground. It didn't matter how blatant these PMS13 members were with their scams and crimes, they were able to act with utter impunity thanks to the whims of the all powerful Owner and his fearsome floating Death Ray.


  The worst part for me was the Floor Staff. In all regards but one they were pretty decent to work with, the one glaring exception being the fair division of tips at the end of the night. Holy fuck did I get ripped off there. I'm gonna go out on a limb and estimate that in the bit-less-than-a-year I worked there, I probably got cut out of about $2,000 or more a month. All that by the two Floor Thieves that exclusively ran the VIP area, where they wallet-raped customers and their fellow Floor Guys alike.


  I still shudder when I think about some of the shit I saw and did there...




5) The Aluminum Goat: What a sad fucking place. Typical shithole titty joint. This was the first job I landed after returning to my home state after having lived elsewhere for a year or so. I didn't like the job, I didn't like the people and I most certainly didn't like the pay, $9 with no tips. We weren't even allowed by the Owner to accept tips if a dancer tried to do it. If he caught us doing it, we were fired just like that.


  The most ironic thing about this club was that it was controlled by a local biker gang. Everyone knew it, no one talked about it and the members purposely didn't hang out there because they washed their money there or whatever the case may be. I certainly wasn't asking.


  Where the irony comes into play is that the last guy I worked for before moving back home was a higher-up in a rival bike club who ran security for several area establishments. Ergo if the "management" at the Aluminum Goat had found out who I worked for up until I relocated, I would've probably ended up in a dumpster because they would've naturally assumed I was an enemy informant. I mean, I looked like a biker to be sure. It would've been a natural assumption to make.


  Glad they didn't ask a lot of questions.


  The only thing good to come out of that experience was meeting one of my best friends. So, totally worth it.



6) The Velvet Gauntlet: Probably my favorite strip club I've worked at overall. The money wasn't as good as some other clubs though it was better than most. This is because the Owner didn't put up with crime, scams or similar bullshit*1. He's old school and doesn't want to run a place infested with lowlifes, predators and the run of the mill scumbags that comprise the majority of most strip club ecosystems.


  The sense of team there was very strong and the trust level between management and staff was the best I'd ever experienced. The Owner wasn't some aloof figure, a source of fear and anxiety in his occasional visits to the club, he was hands on, right there with ya and willing to get his hands dirty. Sometimes even too willing.


  I remember some donnybrooks with bachelor parties where amidst the fray I'd look up and be like, 'where's the King?' and lo there he was, knee deep with his Floor Staff dealing out crisp jabs or full nelsons like he didn't pay us to do that for him.

  As a career Minion, ya gotta respect a leader who leads from the front. In this respect, this Owner was absolutely unique in my seven club experience. By contrast, in three out of the seven titty bars I worked at, I never even met the Owner, much less fought side by side with him.


  There's a bond that forms between men as they fight drunken rural bachelor party members amidst the diesel fumes of a cheap convict/party bus lent a garish glowing quality by the mandatory strip club neon lights. I'm not going to have the gall to compare it to actual combat or warfare, but kidney-punching or arch-stomping a wasted fuckwit who's trying to choke your fellow club staff is both satisfying and noteworthy.



7) Herb's Ribs and Clits: Rural fun for horny guys everywhere! The only Topless BBQ joint I've ever worked at. By state law you had to be at least 14 to get in and you could bring your own moonshine and prostitutes, provided you didn't offer to sell either one to other patrons.


   Herb's was a significant waypoint in my career. It marked the club where I decided that jeans, engineer boots and skull rings are holding me back from making slacks, wingtip and necktie money and all for nothing. I'm not a fancy person but being reasonably intelligent, possessed of a decent vocabulary and a willingness to use it, I talked my way into better jobs from this point forward.



  This marked a change in my life where I went from mobile-homeless, to buying shit I didn't really need because I could. It's a symptom of the formerly poor, buying shit you don't need but have always wanted, just to give the middle finger to life.


  At least you finish with something....



  In time you you get past this as well, hopefully, and realize that life is all about perspective and where one finishes in regards to where one started and what directions they may or may not have taken in the course of a life lived.




  This is all metaphysical bullshit and should be considered questionable at best by all who read it.




  Thank all of you who chose to support me with some contribution towards my non-homeless future, I certainly appreciate it and promise that I won't buy vodka with it. For the most part.



 




 Yours in continuity,
-The StripperHerder













*1 Crime, Scams or Similar Bullshit: The way most strip club Dancers and other positions such as Floor Staff, Management, Bartenders and Doorgirls make their best money. You find drunk enough prey, you pounce.









Happy 9th Anniversary StripperHerder! Or, A Farewell Post To Thank All The Loyal HerderHeads Around The World.



  In the immortal words of some guy who said them, 'That's it people. Lights out. Show's over. Go the fuck home.'


  I don't know who to attribute that quote to, I'm sure many, many service industry have uttered equivalent phrases before, so there ya go. I'm feeling a slightly higher than usual level of apathy towards this post which will be one of the last StripperHerder posts I write for the foreseeable future. I have other shit to pretend I'm being productive on.


  Ergo this is what's known in the world of satire/hatespeech as a bittersweet ending for me.


  I've been writing this misanthropic pile of literary ratshit for 9 years as of this past Wednesday*1. When I look back on it, I can't believe I kept it going that long. I suppose I owe a debt of gratitude towards the tawdry industry of strip clubs in general for the massive amount of inspiration it constantly squeezes out onto you like a Cleveland Steamer or a Portuguese Breakfast.*1.


  I mean, fuck, you've read the blog (presumably), you get what I'm talking about even if you haven't experienced it yourself. In fact that's why many of your read it in the first place, so you can experience all the vomit, despair, drugs, drunkeness and stupidity without having to leave your home or smell any of it.


  I'd've certainly read this blog by now if I hadn't chosen to take the red pill instead.


  As much as I bitch about it, overall, I have few regrets. It paid the bills, it made my life interesting in an ancient Chinese curse sorta way and I met a lot of really cool people, most of which I'll probably never see again in my life. Except maybe by accident, perhaps in a liquor store or county jail.


  I have several competing narratives as to why I was fired. But in the end it makes no difference so I'm not gonna start spawning StripperHerder conspiracy theories by getting all into them. It's pointless.


  The fact is that in the last couple of years of my 'herdin career', I was like the first time skydiver that got up there and decided "fuck this" just as the boot of their instructor propels them out the hatch and into the wild blue yonder.


  I just happen to have a couple of months before I have to pull my ripcord...



  So anyway, it is what it is. It's something that needed to happen that I didn't have the balls to do on my own.


  I really have to reiterate my thankfulness at all you folks from all over the world who have taken time from your day to read my titty-centric tirades. I never for one moment suspected I would gain the readership I did from this unpromoted and strictly word-of-mouth blog that I added to when pissed off about my occupation.


  It's flattering to know that people from Italy, Canada, Germany, Russia, France, the UK, Australia, New Zealand, Poland, Scandinavia and Netherlands regularly read my negative drivel. I try to make it amusing rather than ponderous...


  I'd like to take a moment a give a quick acknowledgement to ITALY, a country much unconcerned about the Plight of the StripperHerder until maybe a year and a half ago when they came from nowhere to become my second highest readership by nation in a matter of 12-15 months. Surpassing such 'Herder strongholds as Germany, Russia, Canada and the UK in less than a year for the most part.


  I felt like Elvis must've felt before he became obese and opioid dependent then died on a toilet trying to force out some partially digested cheeseburgers. Fucking glorious.


  I regret that this, like all Good Things, must come to and end. I have a bunch of unfinished drafts which I may or may not eventually finish. I also might put out a coffee table version of my blog, complete with uncomfortable pictures. Who the fuck knows? I didn't plan any of this and had no real ambitions for where this turd was going.


  So keep you eyes out, I don't know what coming any more than you do, but if something were to materialize, I'll announce it here.


  Other than a quick mention of my other modest blog, Dark Lord's Journal


https://darklordsjournal.blogspot.com/



  there isn't much left to say but thanks for the reading, comments and support and have a Stripper-tastic day!



-The StripperHerder




















*1 Or two weeks ago in lazy-writerspeak





*2 If you're not sure what either of these terms are, you know, look em up.