Friday, February 17, 2017

Floor Guys: We Always Got Each Other's Back! Or, Sometimes You Gotta Take A Stand And Teach A Lesson To Someone Who Doesn't Care And Isn't Even Paying Attention.

  I'm the type of guy who believes firmly in the "I Scratch Your Back And You Scratch Mine" philosophy of life. It's a simple equation that has been fundamental to the development of mankind since we looked at the ground and thought 'hey, maybe if we worked together we can live down there instead of in these damn trees. I mean that's where the fruit falls when it's ripe, right?'

  People helping people with the expectation of being helped in return some day when one needs it is an integral part of society. It's like the barter system for services rather than goods and the fact is that without cooperation, human civilization would've never progressed beyond one monkey hurling bananas down to his buddies.

  So it's with that in mind that I kinda look at my job as a split society. The A team looks out for each other and no one else and thusly the B team is forced to rely on other B teamer's for their only source of support.

  This is in terms of covering a shift or switching start times for a fellow Floor Monkey. I've kept tabs on every time I've covered another Floor Hosts's shift or come in early for them. Currently I'm fairly equal with the B teamers because we help each other out. With the A teamer's however, I'm working out of what I'll refer to as a fucking deficit.

  In my time at this club I've covered 8 shifts for one A-Whole or another, and in return they have combined for a total of one shift covered for me out of of maybe ten times I've asked. They always have an excuse as to why they can't do it and sometimes the excuses are just plain weak as shit.

-"My Aunt is coming into town and even though she'll be here a week and I won't be seeing her on the night you asked me to cover, I can't do it for reasons I am unable to articulate at this time."

-"My dog seemed especially unhappy today and I am concerned for his well being. He recently lost his favorite toy to a chewing accident and has been glum ever since"

-"I can't tonight because I'm planning on getting my dick sucked by a stripper from another club and even though this will only take 5 minutes, I'll find other shit to do because it's more important to me than paying you back for your past help."

-"Man. I just don't feel like it."

  I get it. Coming in on a night you're scheduled off sucks. I don't like it either. But if I owe someone a shift, I fucking well do it because it's the right thing to do. You have to take care of those who taken care of you, if you don't then you're a piece of shit and should throw yourself off something high into some jagged rocks. Do everyone a favor.

  So here's what brought on this latest disappointment for me:

  I just wanted to switch start times with another Floor Grog so that later tonight I could come in at 9 instead of 7. I figured with the positive shift-karma that I had accumulated with the three other Floor Beasts working tonight that it shouldn't be a problem.

  But in this, like in so many other things in life, I was wrong.

  I started with McQuim, our half Irish, half Samoan bouncer. I've covered 3 shifts for McQuim in addition to coming in early for him another 4 times and staying late for him uncounted times to make sure the Manager isn't killed after everyone else has left, because McQuim lives an insane distance from work and "has a long drive, dude" when his work week is over.*1

  I don't care if you live 6 hours away. Move fucking closer, man. All I know is that I fully expected McQuim to say 'yeah, I got you covered, bro', but this is not what he said. He said he has to "have lunch with the wife's grandparents" and this is why he can't possibly make it into work by 7 PM to help pay back his karmic debt to me.

  I almost shat myself with anger. This is the same Floor Guy who just last week when we worked together, completely fucked me on the after-work cleaning duties. We agreed he was going to do trash and the dressing room and that I would handle all the other crap we have to do. Well first off, I did half the trash myself in addition to everything else. Then when the Manager, Sir Grumpalong De'Holdaylong VII comes down at then end of the night he says "why isn't the dressing room done?", I had to do that too.

  Mcquim was very apologetic about the whole thing. Apparently we'd had a miscommunication. What he meant to say was "do everything yourself, I'm fucking leaving now even though I'm the late guy."

  So bearing this in mind I figured it was a slam dunk to get McQuim to cover a measly two hours for me.

  And I already told you how that worked out for me.

  So I turn to Seamus and Lo-Jaq, hoping one of them might remember the five shifts I've covered for the pair of them and be prepared to scratch my mudderfekkin back in return.

  Insert sound effect of the 'wrong' buzzer from Family

  You guessed it fair reader, both of them declined to help a brutha out.

  And that being the final strike, this dumb Floor Squatch will no longer help an A teamer. I will only look out for my fellow B teamer's and I admit it took me too long to come to this conclusion. I always try to hope for the best in people and am seldom rewarded for it.

  Done with all that.


  Let me clear about something, I am not a subtle guy. I don't just blend in to a crowd, I stand out. Not much of a choice in the matter unless I'm sitting down.

  I'm big. I'm opinionated. And I'm not shy about voicing those opinions if I feel the situation merits it or I stand to gain something by speaking up. I have a very deep voice and I've been a vocalist in two metal bands in my day and therefore..

  If I yell at you you'll know it. There won't be the slightest doubt in your mind that you're being yelled, you'll be crystal clear on the matter. I very seldom yell at someone, but when I do, rest assured that it's a roar.

  That being said, I had a Latetress*2 ask me tonight if all the customers were out of the building so she could smoke*3. I said yes they are. The she asks me "so can I smoke or not?", obviously having not heard me.

  I said, slightly louder, "YES YOU CAN SMOKE."

  She gets all serious and looks me in the eye and says....I shit you not.....

  "Don't ever yell at me. You don't get to yell at me, pal. I don't have to take that from you."

  I'm sure some sort of blankness rolled across my face for a moment while my brain processed her utterly wrongful premise and misplaced audacity. When I did respond all I had to say was:

  "I didn't yell at you. If I had yelled at you, you'd fucking well know it. Smoke your cigarette."

  Among the numerous things I didn't yell at her may be included the following:

1) "How can you suck so much at such an easy job?"

2) "When a large measure of your job success as a cocktail waitress can be directly tied to how attractive your are, why is it that on you, your outfit looks like an inexplicably large mesh cheesecloth that your body is slowly oozing from?"


  Considering my mood after being burned by three Floor Grubs, I felt that I exercised great restraint in my reply to her cuntish remark.

  When I yell at people their fucking hair moves, like in cartoons.

  And finally,

  I had to cover the kitchen for two hours tonight because the cook was late. I should've just said no, it ain't in my job description. This club certainly hasn't done me any favors lately and I'm not feeling all that anxious to go out of my way to help them even more.

  What I ended up saying of course was "OK".

  The thing I especially liked about the whole deal was when Manager De'Holdaylong came up to me and the other early guy*4 and asks "So does one of you want to cover the kitchen until the cook gets here" full well knowing that I'm the only one of the two of us who's worked in a kitchen before.

  I'm assuming he thought he was being clever and managerial, but in reality we both knew how it was going to play out. He just got to go home feeling good about himself for not ordering me to do it, which I could have refused because I'm not a fucking cook, nor is it my job to do so.

  I should've never let anyone know that I knew which end of a potato masher you point at the spuds.

  Fuck me.

  That's all you get. I don't care about the pictures, I really don't.

Gratin Gluten,
-The StripperHerder

*1 Traditionally speaking, the "early" guy gets to leave when everything is done while the "late" guy stays after until the Manager is done with all his stuff. It's annoying because if we're unarmed, what the hell are we supposed to do other than get killed with the Manager? And if we're armed, why the fuck can't the Manager just buy his own damn gun and get a permit for it?

*2 Latetress: A server of food and drinks who is never on time for her shifts and sucks at it even when she is there.

*3 Club employees aren't allowed to smoke in the building when there are customers still inside it.

*4 My fellow B teamer and all around good guy who I'll call Tektroll because he's good at techy stuff and is a large mammal to boot.

Sunday, February 12, 2017

I Think About Stupid Shit And Ask Myself Questions I Already Know The Answers To. Or, Perhaps It's Time You Considered Retiring From Stripping.

  Sometime I realize that I lack perspective. My hatred and loathing of the drunk masses blinds me to some very basic truths from time to time and it takes a great effort of will to see beyond them to the underlying reality of the bigger picture.

  Which is the primary reason I write this blog-I allow myself to be blinded by trivialities into feeling like I have a shitty job, which I most certainly don't.

  The truth is I would hate ANY job I had within a few weeks and that it's probably not the job's fault, it's mine. I'm just plain sick and tired of working for a living. I've had a job almost constantly for nearly 34 years and it grates on me that I haven't used my meager talents to create something better for myself. Instead I've merely lived a life of low standards, happy that I have it better than so many people in the world and allowing myself to be a slave to the instant gratification that Amurrika is so adept at providing.

  I wallow in mediocrity, self indulgence and a lack of responsibility, all at the cost of having to work for a living doing something I mostly fucking despise.

  In short. I'm Murrikan as fuck.


  Now with that being said I often wonder about stuff that I encounter very regularly in the line of my job duties. My innate but somewhat withered sense of curiosity still pokes me in the brain every now and then and I find myself thinking about what's going on in other people's skulls that make them do the things they do.

  For instance:

1) How can you not know that your breath is so pungent and malodorous that it stinks up the entirety of a 28' limo bus with seven rows of seating? What the fuck did you eat? How can you not tell? This happened to me twice tonight and I only picked up two groups of people and one lone passenger.

  The first time was just one single guy who sat in the very back of the bus. Within a minute I could smell the dumpster-in-Jamaica reek of his breath wafting from the back of the bus, some twenty feet away. In another minute or two the whole interior of the giant vehicle was awash in his stale. rotten mouth fumes and I seriously had to roll a window down and gulp the precious night air. His maw was like a leper colony that lacked even the most basic sanitation in the middle of a god forsaken jungle.

                  "I know it smells like I at 30 decomposing rat dicks, but they were were actually meerkats.

  The second time was a group of fuckwit twats and it only took 20 seconds for the hot, fetid breath of one of those dildos to overrun the bus. It smelled like someone had shoved a greasy, day old cheeseburger into a corpse's asshole and then crammed the whole thing into a microwave for 60 seconds before tossing it in ranch dressing.

  The stench from the second guy lingered on in the bus for almost twenty minutes after I dropped him at the club, even though I had the windows down. Eventually I stopped at a ghetto gas station and bought one of those green pine tree air fresheners, which I freebased until my sense of smell was gone.

  Good fucking Lord people. Eat a goddamn mint every now and then you beer swilling cunts.

2) Why would you go to what is essentially an after hours club and not be willing to pay an outrageous cover charge? If it's the only game in town, it can charge whatever the hell it wants and you either pay it or go home. If money is that much of an issue for you, why are you even fucking out at all, spending it? Why not choose to stay at home and value drink? Or, even better, save the money and do something smart with it. Paying anything more then $3 for a beer is dumb as fuck anyway, so don't bitch about cover charges if all evidence points to the fact that you shouldn't even be out in the first place, you miserable shitcicle.

                                                      "We don't have $20."

3) Why do people insist on dropping names at the door? It never works. Only money works and it works every time. On any given Saturday night at least 30% of our post 2 AM crowd will try to drop a name at the door, hoping/expecting that the person will get them in for free. Or they feel that they are clearly important enough to not have to pay a cover.

  I don't care who you know and I don't care who you are, pay the cover or walk out the door and back into whatever broke ass life you were leading before you graced my lobby with your presence.

  On a personal note, since it's relevant to the topic, I never pay a cover charge, which absolutely makes me a hypocrite. On the incredibly rare occasions I venture out from my lair, I always go to a venue where I know the people who run it and the majority of the staff as well. I do this because I feel comfortable at these establishments and because they never charge me at the door because I won't charge them at my door. Scratch my back sorta thing.

  Also I never pay a cover because I NEVER GO TO A PLACE WHERE I GET CHARGED AT THE DOOR FOR THE PRIVILEGE OF PAYING TOO MUCH FOR EVERYTHING. Not saying I've never done it before, but it's not something I relish, even before the service industry ruined going out for me.

  I for one resent being gouged for drinks. I know what they cost a bar to make/buy and I know what they pay their bartenders to get it for me. Seeing as how I ALWAYS tip*1, the cost of paying anything over $3 for a drink galls the fuck out of me. I have better things to do with my money.

  The answer to all these musings is of course alcohol. Alcohol makes people do insanely stupid things and be able to perfectly justify them in their own heads.

  Eat a basket of fried raccoon assholes? Sure.

  Pay $20 just to get into a club? OK.

  Shell out $6 for bottled water? Why not? Yeah, you just paid for the entire case of water and the owner's third Porsche, but what the hell? You're drunk and thirsty, I get it.

  Luckily for me, I've moved past all that. I don't enjoy any part of going out to a bar or restaurant. I end up spending most of my time thinking about what I should be doing with my dough rather than spending it there.

  Such is life for the Service-Poisoned among us...

  Maybe it's time to hang up the pasties, darlin.

 You'r body's still OK to look at but you're face is like clown porn and not in a good way. Or maybe your face is still getting you business, but the body has become a liability. I know strippers who fall into both these categories and they all have one thing in common-it's time to retire, hon or make some serious lifestyle changes.


                                                               "What? I'm only 35..."

  I got the shit-business from one of our "senior" dancers tonight because I let a guy walk out the door who she says owed her more money. She is one of the more common dancers that this happens with because she stacks stupid amounts of dances on a drunk retard and expects him to understand and honor his debt to her. And if he doesn't then she relies on the Floor Squids to retrieve her money for her but doesn't tip accordingly.

  Before I go any further I'd like to point out that on the many occasions I've had the misfortune to be the nearest Floor Pig when she was having a dispute with a customer, I got her money, or most of her money, about 90% of the time. I can be very convincing when I want to be.

  She had stacked 15 fucking dances on a guy who was barely operating at a 3rd grade level because of his drunkenness. This amounted to $375 and she received $300 of it without me having to lift a finger. All the time I was overhearing her talking to the guy she kept mentioning the 'agreement' they had, and 'didn't he remember their agreement'.

  Your agreement doesn't mean fuck all to me, you slack tittied bird-frightener. He could've agreed to sign over ownership of Google for all I give a shit. What matters to me is how many dances you actually did versus how much money he actually gave you. These crazy bitches act like any drunken promise they secure from a wasted guy is a legally binding contract or something and as a Floor Peon, I'm legally obligated to obtain it for them. Virtually pro bono in most cases.

  So I let the guy walk. I'm sick of her 'he owes me for 15 dances' BS and she had already made $300 for 40 minutes of her time. If that's how you have to make a living in this industry, it's time to cash it in baby. Most dudes will fall all over themselves to hand money over to a super hot girl, when you have to start fighting over every dollar, your time is done. Move along. Maybe someone needs a "before" model for a cosmetics line.

  She screeched and moaned at me for a few minutes before shuffling off to the dressing room, all beef-curtain hurt at being shorted $75 for her dick-kneading time.

  Go die on a cock somewhere you wretched hag.

  Old gals can be either very tedious or very good at their jobs, just like younger ones. They tend to be more reliant on scams as their looks fade and their voices start sounding like gravel stuck in a food disposal. They've learned a large number of hustles to fleece the unwary and as their assets wane they're more likely perpetrate them than if they were still a young butterfly rather than an dried up old potato bug past its Sell By date.


  And on a final note, we've already hired a new Floor Guy to replace the 2 we've lost and the one additional one we're gonna lose when his new job kicks in. Management told at least one of the Floor Staff that we weren't going to be hiring ANY new hosts, but apparently that turned out to not be true.

  Supposedly the new guys is going to be 'one night a week and for fill-ins', but I'd bet good money that within 6 weeks he'll have a better schedule than me.


                                                          Faster that a speeding stripper......

   But then again I'm a pessimist.

Yours Truly,
-The StripperHerder


*1 Unless the service is super shitty. The trick to this is to tip fat right up front and let the bartender know there's more where that came from if they can just be bothered to remember your face and serve you before some other cheapskates. It's worth it in the end if you happen to be at a busy place.

Thursday, February 9, 2017

When I Asked The Magic Eight Ball About My Future It Said 'ANSWER UNCERTAIN, ASK AGAIN LATER'. Or, The Saga Of Lout: Botulism's Hired Gun.


  You ever get that fed up feeling after a particularly hard stretch at your job? The feeling that you would cheerfully watch most if not all of your coworkers slowly burn to death while a churning metal song plays at deafening levels so you don't have to be annoyed by their screams?


  Well golly. It must be nice to be less fucked up than me.

  I'm about up to here (picture me holding my hand at about forehead level) with my workplace. The job itself isn't that bad, the stuff that's actually in my job description that is; you know, crazy strippers, drunk twats, drugged out people, assholes, puke, belligerent thong pirates, etc etc. It's the stuff that isn't or shouldn't be in my job description that's driving me all apefuck.

                         "My goal is to fingerblast bitches until my digits are wrinkled and musky."

   I've had a fair amount of occupations in my life, I haven't always worked at a strip club like I would sometimes have you believe. For a sample, here's some of the jobs I have used to pay my bills over the years:

  Paperboy, Burger King, garage janitor, industrial maintenance, busboy, cook at 15 or so restaurants, delivery/collections/repo for a Rent A Center knockoff, warehouse, club security, more cooking, house painter, car salesman. I'm sure I missed a couple here or there, but you get the idea, I've labored in a lot of varied work environments before.

  And I have to say I've never worked at any sort of job before where it is commonplace for me to do other people's duties for them. Or where the rules of my employment change enormously depending on what mood my manager is in.

  For those of you who work in a stable, relatively sane line of work and may not understand what I'm talking about, let me illustrate it for you.

                                      "Hey Jim, Here's that report on systems analysis. 
                                                 Note that at no point does it refer to a drunk stripper
                                                  attacking a patron with a rocks glass. Odd, huh?" 

Bear in mind as you read the following that is has all occurred since my last post which was only nine fucking days ago.


  This one got me so pissed I just went quiet and calm. I passed right over the stormy waters of Rage and landed in Fragile Serenity, which is where I go for souvenirs right before I snap and do something barbaric and regrettable.

  Here's the tale:

  I was working the door last Saturday just after 2 AM, when it seemed like 5 buses had pulled up and disgorged 200 drunk people who had no cash on them into our club. And since it was cold out and most clubgoers are far too cool to wear coats or even a long sleeved T shirt, everyone was trying to crowd into the lobby at the same time and the doors were wide open which quickly made the entire lobby as cold as it was outside.

  I'd say easily 80% of these insidious morons had to pay the cover with a credit card, which makes the line move really fucking slow. The pressure in the lobby was building to critical mass and I was about to get overrun in the ensuing jackalanche.

                                                    "Next stop: TITTIES!!!"

  So I called for another Floor Creep to help me with crowd control and I made a separate line for cash paying people to alleviate the weight of bodies keen to get out of the cold. I've done this many times before, frequently at the behest of the very same Manager who ripped me a new one for doing exactly that this time.


  He screamed and raged at me in front of everyone, denied he'd ever let me, much less told me to do it before. "That's how people get fired!" he screamed, foaming at the mouth in indignant fury.

  And to frost his shit cake for good measure he made the last group of seven people whose ID's I'd checked and who had paid their cover go back into the line and pay the Doorgirl, 'like they were supposed to'.

  As if this were somehow their fault, like they had done something wrong, not me.

  Total and complete shit show. Degrading for everyone involved.

  Dynamic Management Team Alpha: Forward Without Foresight!

 2) I am a bartender, yet somehow it's not my responsibility to clean my own workspace after my shift on night when there's no Barback scheduled. I'm not sure why this is but I like it because I am a lazy wretch. I used to tip them for their trouble, but since the Floor Guys aren't allowed to say "I'm not doing that", I recently made the decision to stop tipping. It's like finding $10 on the floor every shift!"

                                "Slave for me, Floor Goat. Your labor is sweet to behold."*1

  I don't understand this. Surely if there is somewhere that needs to be cleaned after a night at the bar, it's the floor behind the bar. All kinds of crap all over and everything's sticky. THAT'S how you get ants.

  But at our club, even on a night when there's no Barback working, a Bartender need not worry about sullying her fine drink-serving hands by having to pull up her own mats and sweep and mop her own work-hole. Nope. The Floor Drools do it all! Now free of charge I guess.

  You see a strip club is the epitome of a Tip Based Economy, perhaps no other industry outside of casinos rely so heavily on tipping as a way of keeping the dough circulating. Everyone tips everyone else for everything.

  A waitress punches up a food order for me when one of our non-nauseating cooks is working, I tip her a buck or two. Sure all she had to do was punch four or five boxes on a screen, but I'm not allowed to put in my own orders and I appreciate her taking a few seconds from her day to order my grub. The I'll make my way into the kitchen and let the cook know that the order is mine and flip him a few bucks too.

  Yes it's their jobs, but I appreciate their effort. A couple of bucks ain't gonna buy much but it at least let's them know that I understand how the system works and I'm goddamn well on board with it.

  So, to me, when someone does something for you that's supposed to be your fucking job, you need to tip that magnificent bastard. This Bartender, until very recently, used to do that. But for one reason or another, she no longer does. Yet I still have to pull her mats up then sweep and mop HER floor every time I work with her.

3) "Since a certain security incident at the club, us Cooks are no longer allowed to to take the trash out on their own. So now we can't even be bothered to drag our trash cans towards the door or break down our cardboard boxes for the poor shitstains who are forced to do this part of our jobs for us. And by shitstains I mean the Floor Staff."

  This is one of the many things you encounter in your life that don't bother you the first time, nor maybe even the tenth. Like Abe's asspaper that I used to have to brush into the toilet every day I worked. But this has been going on for over a year and now...

  This motherfucking infuriates me. Never, in all the kitchens I've slaved in have I ever worked in one where the cooks could just leave their trash laying around for other people to clean up and it's OK. Management here can't be bothered to apply even the most minimalist notion of standards to our cook staff. As long as you show up for your shifts, all other failings are overlooked and ignored.

  Let me cite you the prime example. For the sake of protecting his identity in case he ever wants to run for political office, I'll refer to him as Lout.

                                                "It thawed right? It awful squirmy..."

  Lout had zero kitchen experience but could navigate the public transportation system, which was good enough for us! He wastes more water than the Ford Motor Company and has probably killed more people with his culinary weaponry than Mao. He just doesn't have a clue about anything food related, safety being right at the top of the list.

  To give you an idea about how bad Lout is at his job, here's a few gems from my experience with him:

-Lout doesn't know what venison is

-Lout isn't familiar with the concept of cross contamination.

-Lout don't like sanitizing stuff.

-Lout not know how to thaw food properly, him like ranching bacteria!

-He doesn't use date stickers.

-Him no like to clean out the screen on the dishwasher, derefore the whole back of the club smells like leftover food that been allowed to boil for a day or so. It smells much less pleasant than it sounds, I can assure you.

-I watched him make a buffalo chicken salad today. Saddest thing I ever saw. The order called for chicken breast rather than tenders and Lout dutifully cooked a six ounce chicken breast and fixed the salad. Then, when the chicken is done, he pulls it off the grill and proceeds to dice it. He then takes the cubed bird and throws it into a bowl of buffalo sauce, stirs it around a bit and starts plucking individual cubes of chicken out of the sauce and painstakingly placing them onto the bed of salad.

                                    Lout does not acknowledge this dish's saladness.      

  Again, for those of you who've never worked in a kitchen before and maybe aren't so good at the art of cooking yourself, let me list all of the things that Lout did wrong just one this one salad.

1) He used the same tongs he had turned the half cooked chicken breast on the grill with to fish the meat cubes of of the sauce he had drown them in. Now not only was the chicken itself contaminated, so was the wing sauce and therefore everything that went into the wing sauce for the rest of the night.

2) He cut the breast before he dunked it in the sauce. Wrong, bad Lout. You dunk the whole cooked breast in the sauce and then you slice it, not cube it, and place it on the salad. By doing this Lout's way, the chicken gets cold swimming around in the room temperature sauce, the dish looks far less appetizing than if the chicken was thinly sliced AND it makes a puddle of wing sauce from where all the excess sauce in the tongs drips down into the salad. On top of all that, it's fucking slow as hell.


  He has the filthiest knives I've ever witnessed. Fucking crusted with dried bits of whatever culinary nightmares he's Krugered that shift. He also knows absolutely zero about knife handling and care. He and the other cooks regularly use their knives to cut meat on the surface of the grill. This will ruin not only your knife, but your grill as well. And Lout not understand why knife no cut anything anymore....

  Utterly appalling.

4) He placed the completed salad under the heat line. Because intense heat is good for every facet of the salad experience.

5) After placing the salad under the salad destroying lamps, he sat his fat ass back down and went back to watching Superbowl commercials on his phone, completely indifferent to the fate of the unfortunate mess he'd just created.

                                 ***Subject Update***

  This is new since I wrote the above content:

  Lout has now mastered putting food into containers, ones without holes in them, when he thaws food products out. It only took twelve or so times and my Manager, Sir Whompalot Frenzymuff O'Smegmakin screaming at him for it to take.

  Now if he could just learn to put thawed foods into the walk in instead of letting them sit in water for the entirety of his shift, we'd be making real progress against bowel distress.

             Floor Team Logistics: A New Hope

  The whole Floor Staff situation at the club is changing dramatically. First Strider got fired, then over the past week, Keen Kenny Dean quit and another unnamed Floor Guy landed a job with the gubbamint that starts in the Spring. This level of change is unprecedented at this particular club, which is fairly hard to get fired from and is attractive enough money-wise to keep most Floor Squatches around.

  It'll be interesting to see how Dynamic Management Team: Blackbird handles the crisis. Do they hire a new guy? Spread the shifts around to some hungry B-Teamers? Make everyone work five shifts a week? Hire five new guys to replace three?

  Anything is possible with their quantum management style. I have no idea what to expect.

  The best solution of course would be to hire one new guy and move everyone to four shifts a week, us lowly bench team members included. That way, everyone wins and management comes our looking reasonably competent.

  Personally I'm just hoping that it all ends up equaling a few more shifts for this good 'ole stripperherder. I know my attitude can be really crappy sometimes and that I lack the will to change it for the better, but I can still work a mean door and sometimes, when I'm in the mood, I can be a charming motherfucker.

  That's it folks. Go to work.

-The StripperHerder

*1 No matter how many times I tried, this website would not let me change the color of this caption's font back to black. Just wanted you to know that. It's not an editing error.

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Wednesday, A Love Story. Or, The Death Of A Floor Guy: A StripperHerder Obituary.

  Here's how my Wednesday went:

  I strolled into work today at 6:55 pm, five minutes early for my shift. I knew Keen Kenny Dean was scheduled for today at 7 PM also and figured since he wasn't gonna show up til 7:30, that I should be on time so the poor, misbegotten Day Shift Floor Wretch didn't have to stay a moment longer then need be.

  I came into work in a good mood, not sure why because things have been so bad lately, but I was in non asshole mode, which is somewhat rare nowadays. I spent my first half hour wondering about how my lighthearted mood was going to get destroyed, wagering on imagined scenarios.

5 to 1 odds had it at Asshole Customer

3 to 1 odds had it at Inconsiderate Fuckstick Drivers When I'm Running The Shuttle

2 to 1 odds had it at Misplaced Manager Rage

Even money was on Annoying Stripper With A Problem I Didn't Care About

  As it turned out, Drunk Regular Scratching My Truck at 30 to 1 odds would've won the bet. A dark horse contender if there ever was one. But more about that later, I'm getting ahead of myself.*1

  Now where was I? Oh yeah, Wednesday. Right.

  So Wednesdays are when we do our monthly "Amateur" Contests. Not sure why we call them that, it's misleading at best, a bold faced lie at worst. The vast majority of the hopefuls that show up to these are just strippers from other clubs or migrant strippers. Maybe one in fifty girls is a legit amateur who, by her complete dearth of skills and awkward stage gyrations, clearly demonstrates her lack of experience.

  Their twerking is like the convulsions of a dying sea mammal.

  This was one of those Wednesdays. When we would open Pandora's Legs and see what was unleashed.

  The results were.....predictable. A pretty blonde girl won. Shocking.

  But there were other happenings in the club that night, like in the Men's Room. There was nearly a fight between a lone former employee and a group of Hispanic gangsters. We descended on the altercation and restored order because that's what we do: piss on fires.

  So as we're getting things settled down one of the G's is just whizzing right on the floor. He's so drunk that he's trying to talk to his brother and is letting it fly all over the floor without having the slightest notion that he's doing it. I'm sure in his mind, everything was going where it should have been going.

  Needless to say El Leprechauno had to go. I informed him of this and he flat out refused. Seeing as how I didn't want to get riddled with lead later on for a personal slight, I appealed to his brother to get him out of the club. I told him I'd prefer not to put my hands on his wee sibling if possible, because he's the size of a 12 year old child and because he's part of a family that I'm sure has murdered people before for lesser insults.

  But easy way or hard way, his brother had to go.

  He talked to (what turned out to be his OLDER brother) for a few minutes and then came up to me and said "Hey man I tried and he won't listen. Same thing as the last bar we were at. Do what you have to do." He gave me a nod which indicated to me that he realized his brother had fucked up and provided I don't stomp him into unnecessary amounts of cat food, his family wouldn't kill me in a drive by.

 Good enough for me.

  So I turned to his brother and said "All right buddy. Time to go."

  "I ain't leaving..." had just cleared his mouth when I spun him by the shoulders so his back was facing me, picked him up in a full nelson and walked him effortlessly out the door. I scolded him on the way out too, for extra style points.

  Oddly enough, he never tried to get back in the club, which is something nearly every person we throw out tries to do. He just skulked about, mumbling shit and yelling at the rabbits which populate our back lot.

  Fucking weird.

What else happened? Oh yeah. I think Strider got fired. This is a story in and of itself.

  Dedicated readers may remember Floor Guy: Codename Strider from this post:

  Well, here's the compressed saga of Strider, may he rest in peace.

  Strider is one of those Floor Guys who dates Strippers. That's what he does. He's not a banger, who just bones as many strippers as he can get his wang into, no, he gets all intertwined with dancers, becomes their boyfriend and is faithful to them. For the most part. You know, like a guy. Keepin it out of the zip code for fucksake.

  The contingency being that the stripper, who generally makes a lot more money than a Floor Guy, supports him. Paying his way through life with the promise of future recompense in some obscure field of art.

  And that was his situation with a dancer that left our club when she broke it off with him after five years or so. And well, there's no easy way to put this, she broke him. Dude just fell apart. Started missing shifts, doing no call/no shows and getting all fucked on on the shifts he did show up for. Messing up VIP rooms, being 4 hours late and sleeping at the club because he had nowhere to go.

  I tried to explain to him that he was letting her win. By going to pieces and failing to do things that every adult should be able to do on their own, without sponsorship, that he was demonstrating his reliance upon her and really devaluing his Man Card.

  "Pull the thong out of your cabbage patch and fucking well nut up, dude" Is one of the many encouraging statements I made to him. But to no avail. He allowed himself to be destroyed.

  I hope he lands on his feet because he's a legitimately good guy and I wish him all the best.


  A lot of people ask me if I pull a lot of tail from the club, or suffer from chronic blowjob syndrome administered by horny twenty year old strippers. I always laugh and say something like "More than you could know, my friend" Or "Yes. My balls are perpetually raisin-like." But this isn't true. Yes I've done the nasty with some entertainers here and there in my career, we all do it to varying degrees, but it's not standard operating procedure with me.

  And to explain why, I feel a list coming on:

1) I'm old. I just don't care anymore. It seems like a lot of effort. I sort of liken it to doing laundry in the 19th century: yeah sure you know someone with one of those sweet new washing machines, but they live 10 miles away in the next town over. So you have to hitch the horses up, load the laundry into the wagon, herd you six surviving children into said wagon and huck all that shit 10 miles over crappy roads to cut down on your wash time. Seems like an awful lot of labor just to cut down on your work.

  OR, since you live by a river, you can just do what you always did. Sure there's a lot of hand work involved, but you can walk to it and there are convenient rocks to grind and smack your clothing against.

2) I've seen the carnage that can occur when the fuck buddy/girlfriend? thing goes all grapeshot on a guy. It's ugly and I don't want any part of it.

3) I've reached that point that I thought was ridiculous when I was twenty, namely, I've gotten to the point where if I can't have a rational, relevant conversation with a girl in a pre/post-coital context, then I'm not really interested. If you had told me this when I was twenty years younger I would've laughed and made an old person joke.

  Now however I grasp the concept. Unless one happens to stumble into that perfect "All right you've fucked me and we've had our fun, now leave" scenario*2, at some point prior to and after sex, most girls will want to hang out and this will frequently involve talking. That's fine. I enjoying cuddling a gal who's recently made me jizz.

  The problem inherent in this is manifold:

    A) I have virtually no crossover in interests with a hot girl under 30.

    B) I have very little patience for the ignorant or stupid.

    C) Giggling is NOT punctuation.

    D) Most of the strippers I work with who are anywhere within a decade of my age have between 3 and 17 children and I can't stand kids. I don't find their stupidity endearing, I don't find their antics cute and I definitely don't want to end up raising one. Especially one who is NOT the fruit of my loins.

  My steamy loins.

    E) I have nieces older than most of the girls I work with and the thought of going all fuck-badger on someone half my age kinda skeeves me out.

  And finally. Our Dynamic Management Team really needs to pull it's head out of its ass. Like collectively speaking. They are decent at major decisions but weak as fuck about the fine details that can aggravate an already bad situation and endanger a fragile ecosystem.

  Let me give you some examples, because if you haven't worked in the Service Industry, you'll have no idea what I'm talking about.

1) Scheduling. It's a thankless job, I know, I've done it before. A successful schedule leaves everyone feeling vaguely unhappy, across the board. You can't cater to to your favorites without some sort of backlash and you most certainly can't keep posting new schedules after they actually begin.

  So if the schedule starts at 4 PM on Sunday, make a concerted effort to post the new schedule before that shift begins. It's really frustrating to not know if you're working in a shift that starts 8 hours after you've left you job. I've worked at many places that do the scheduling in 2 week increments, so I know it's possible to do.

  What happens at our club is that the weekly schedule begins at 4 PM on Sunday but frequently it's not posted until some time on Sunday evening, forcing employees to call the club to find out if they are working that day. If I were a Door Girl at our club, I would be pissed at having to field a bunch of unnecessary calls about whether or not someone is supposed to be at work that day.

  Seems to me that this is something that you might want to post on say Thursday or Friday night, like we used to do. But nowadays you're lucky to see anything relevant until it's already scheduled to begin.

  Doesn't make sense. Shouldn't be that hard.

2) Make the cooks do work that cooks are supposed to do. I used to tip the cooks for everything I ordered in the kitchen, even if I cooked it myself because I didn't want food poisoning. Now, since we've made some changes security-wise, the cooks don't even have to take out their own trash. Now, not only do they not have to haul all their waste to the dumpster, they apparently don't have to even touch their own trash. The Floor Guys do it all.

  So the fat lazy wretches can't even pull the trash cans that they don't have to empty to the kitchen door, nor can they break down their own cardboard boxes.*3 It's come to that. The Floor Douches do it all these days.

  It's one of those things that wasn't annoying the first time, nor even the tenth. But after a year of it, I'm goddamn well fed up. I've never worked in a kitchen that had such low standards for the people who prepare the food. I realize we don't pay them a great wage but what the fuck ever happened to pride in your job? Clean something. Use the fucking date stickers. Thaw food properly.

  It's not rocket science. It's shit you should know and do before you ever flip your first burger. To NOT know how to thaw food is to NOT be qualified to work in a kitchen as anything besides a dishwasher.


3) Stop hiring back dancers that got fired. This has never worked out in the glorified history of titty bars. They're still drunks, they're still junkies and they will still rip off customers and steal shit every chance they get because a whore doesn't change her thong even after the crust starts chafing her inner thighs.

  It'll be Deja Poo every time. We know this. We've seen it a million times.No one changes for the better in this industry and if they do, it never lasts more than 90 days. If I could think of one opposing example, I'd be writing about it right now. Once a Hyde, always a Hyde.

  That's about all I have to say at the moment. Check back in the next 10 days or so for something completely fictional, yet still centered on the theme of strippers. It'll be satisfying as fuck.

  Until then, use the forks.

Your favorite Piece of Shit Uncle,
Das Herden Stripein

*1 I'm actually NOT going to tell you any more about this because all you need to know is that the motherfucker scratched my truck by dragging the side of his truck against it. Story over.

*2 Which are much rarer that erotic literature would have you believe.

*3 We've recently gone "green". By that I mean we're supposed to separate our garbage into recyclables and nasty organic shit. We even have special garbage cans for the purpose. So now, instead one one big dumpster, we have two smaller ones. One is for glass, aluminum and cardboard and the other is for much less savory things.

  That being said everyone knows that a dumpster can hold MANY more cardboard boxes if they've been broken down flat rather than being left is a 'box' shape. But are our cooks or barbacks required to break down their own cardboard, such as in every other kitchen I've ever worked at?

  Nope. The Floor Twats do it all now. And it's becoming really goddamn irritating.

Sunday, January 22, 2017

Meet The New January, Same As The Old January And Recent Developments On Some Beloved Former Coworkers. Or, I Am Jack's Complete Lack Of Empathy.

  Every goddamn year I forget how much January sucks. I remember that they suck, but always forget just how bad they are until I have to live through one again.

  Like now.

  The days of $200-300 shifts seem very far away, like an island receding slowly into the distance as you cling to your flotation device and watch the fuselage of the aircraft you were just riding in sink beneath the surface of the ocean you recently crashed into.

  Then, just when it seems like all hope is gone, the first shark fin appears....

  That's what Janu-fuck-you-ary is like in the service industry. A profound sense of hopelessness that only deepens as the month crawls by on a trail of overdue bill notices. And what's worse is that January gives way to February, which is just as bad. February is like a pod of orcas showing up to fight the sharks over who's going to get to drag you to a horrible death.

   Assuming you survive Jan and Feb and haven't become homeless or chosen to dine on a .45, eventually March will show up and with it, flickers of life. With the speed of income tax returns nowadays, generally March will breathe a bit of money back into the place as folks scuttle from their winter dens and spend ill advised money on something with tits.

  That's where I'm at, esteemed readers. I'm treading water but something keeps brushing my feet and I don't like it very much.

                                  "Back off, dickhead. I'm gonna eat that Floor Host."

Recent studies indicate that some strippers are in fact, shitty sociopathic people. 

Story at eleven.

                                             "Don't let my pretty face fool you. I'm certifiably batshit."

  It turns out that I've worked with some real gems in my career. Oh I could tell you about the girls I've worked with who are lawyers, doctors and physicists*1 now, but that wouldn't make as good a story as those who've ended up like most people picture a stripper ending up, i.e. in a crime scene photo or a mugshot. The industry, as a whole, isn't known for attracting well adjusted, socially responsible people.

  It actually, believe it or not, tends to attract druggies, drunks, the lazy, those incapable of holding down a real job, crazies, victimizers, petty criminals, arch villains and miscreants of every spot and stripe.

  I should know, I'm one of them.

  The thought of having to get a real job again terrifies the living shit out of me. I wake up in cold sweats thinking about time clocks, limited days off and someone caring about when people show up for their shifts. I've been a night person so long, daylight, and the heavy responsibility it brings, is scary.

  So, getting back to the topic at hand, here's some crap some of my former charges have gotten up to since they've left the club.

1) Stabby: I'm sure I referred to her by some other name when I wrote about her before, but I can't remember exactly what it was and I don't feel like going through my archives to figure out what it was, so I'll call her Stabby because it seems even more appropriate now in light of some recent revelations.

  Apparently Stabby was involved in some sort of kidnap/attempted murder shit in good ole Methizona, USA. Not sure of the details, but someone almost died and Stabby and her buddy, Heroin, had a fairly significant role in it. From the rumor mill I've picked up that she's looking at around 30 years or so locked up. Thankfully the State had already taken her wee babby from her, or it would probably be a junkie prostitute by now as well. I'm sure she'll roll on anyone she can to cut a deal, but I sincerely hope that she goes away for as long as possible because I've seldom had the misfortune to work with a crappier souled human being.

2)  Gladys, Miriam and Chloe Mk VII: All three of these gals have received a shiny, brand new DUI in the last 3 months. They join a massive and frequently revised list of other strippers from our club who also lost their driving privileges this year. One of them killed a dog before flipping her SUV in a ditch, but I'm not gonna say which one it was to protect her dignity.

                                     "We're not allowed to drive because we keep killing people."

3) Chloe Mk IV and Aliyah: Both of your boyfriends were coke dealers? And BOTH of them were taken down at the culmination of a year long drug ring investigation? Golly. And to think that one of you only lost their Mercedes and Wave Runner while the other one lost a child they probably weren't all that invested in anyway. You both got off lucky.

4) Starscream: How anyone couldn't see that you were a 20 foot tall jet-robot-killing machine thingy I'll never know. Kudos to your plastic surgeon for the outrageous tata's. But I knew you were going to be trouble from day one and I was right. Now, unsurprisingly enough, you're wanted for the murder of Ironhide.

  I hope you fry for it.

                                 "HE OWES ME TWENTY DOLLAAAAAAAAHHHSSSSS!

5) Git and Whorsley: Again, I had other names for these two silly cunts but I don't feel like going through the two hundred some posts to discover what they were. Suffice to say that Git and Whorsley are two good looking chicks around 24-25 years of age. When I say they were good looking, I mean to say that Whorsley was decent to look at but her body showed the evidence of a recent war with a baby that she had clearly lost. While Git on the other hand, Git was stunningly beautiful. Not my ideal mind you, but a gorgeous girl is a gorgeous girl. Had a body to cry for.

  So what the hell happened to them you ask? Well I'm not sure about Whorsley, I've only seen her once or twice in the less that two years since she got fired and well, she's still alive and appears to still be making poor decisions.

  Git on the other hand is like one of those internet pictures you see of someone side by side with a picture of them after a decade of crack abuse. It hasn't even been two years since her and Whorsley got shitcanned and it's fucking shocking I tell you. I saw her the other night and she looked like a haggard, pioneer-style thirty-five year old, all edges and canyons shaded with a dull grey palette.

  Apparently she's discovered a way to burn the candle at three ends.

6) Foot Disease: Had a babby with a Floor Guy from a rival club she used to work at and is currently busy destroying his life. We get the details through the titty bar grapevine and they're grim. I feel like he has a large measure of blame coming his way for his failure to pick up on her obvious instability and for jizzing in her as well. Seems poorly thought out to me. She has bucketloads of crazy just laying around her apartment for anyone to see and yet I understand that sometimes you can't see them buckets because a pussy is in the way.

  It's called Twat-Blindness and it's a real thing.

                                            "Floor guys' souls taste like cheesesteak."

7) Vodzilla: Her only recent development is that she is still alive. Somehow.

  And in closing....

  I'd like to do one of my incredibly famous Lists about stuff I have absolutely no empathy about. It goes something like this:

1) "I'm Freezing To Death Because I'm Too Domesticated To Even Consider Wearing A Coat When It's Six Degrees Out":

  It's six degrees outside, you fucking invertebrate. Wear a coat. A sweater. A goddamn hoodie. Wear something besides a $75 tee shirt or a mesh halter top. Either that, or don't complain to me about how cold it is outside as I shove you out the door so the Manager can count the tills. I know how cold it is outside because I've been escorting strippers to their cars for the past 45 minutes but had the common fucking sense to put a coat on because it's six degrees out.

  You fucking harbor monkeys. I love to watch packs of you scurry from bar to bar as I drive by in my warm, angry limo bus. Leering out steamed up windows at a bunch of hypothermic suburban cunts scuttling about like some hairless rats darting from sewer grate to sewer grate. Your cheese is a $7 Bud Light, you fucking rat fuck.

  If, at the end of the night you choose, of your own free will, to wait 30 minutes for your fucking Uber rather than to get in that nice warm cab that will do the same goddamn thing for you, then that's your own problem, douche. Shoulda worn a coat.

2) "I lost my phone. This is a crisis that you need to be concerned about."

   That's where you're wrong, valued customer and I'll tell you why.

                                    "OH MY GOD, THEY'LL FIND MY KIDDIE PORN!"

  There has yet to be even a moderately busy night when I have not had some misbegotten helmet-muncher come up to me and launch into a story about how and where it lost its phone. By company policy I'm not allowed to scream "I DON'T CARE!" in its face, therefore I tell it to check with the DJ and thus the problem goes away for the time being. This is literally the only advantage I see in working the door, I'm stuck there so I can't help dribbling morons search for whatever stupid thing they lost.

  It's amazing to me that I've had the same phone for for almost six years now and have yet to lose it a single time. Perhaps this is because I'm not constantly on it, able to ignore my surroundings due to the fascinating world contained in my goddamn phone.

  Continuing on this theme, here is a short list of other things I've never lost at a bar:

1) My coat

2) My wallet

3) My sunglasses

4) A hat

5) Any article of clothing whatsoever

  It's really not that hard to keep track of your stuff. If you've ever lost things in a club more than once, you might be a complete lipdragger and should stop going out. Find a book with some pretty pictures in it and stare at it for a while instead.

3) "Your dumb ATM won't give me any money!"

                           "Dude. If I can't buy three more dances tonight, the prophecy will fail!"

  Sigh. It's ridiculous how often the ATM comes up in this blog, isn't it? Such a simple machine. It's only goal in life is to give you money if you just ask it in the right way. So tranquil.

  But not at our club, nope. Our malevolent ATM machine, clearly powered by the souls of executed child killers, lacks the basic human emotions to see that your drunk ass just needs to buy a few more dances. You just need a few more bucks and you're certain to nail that dancer. It doesn't care if you're hammered, in fact it has no way of knowing if you are or not other than 16 failed attempts to withdraw cash from your own account.

  It doesn't ask any arcane questions or prompt you to solve a complex mathematical equation to receive your dough, merely complete a simple set of tasks that you've successfully performed hundreds if not thousands of times before. The fact that you're too sauced to do them doesn't befront the machine at all, it just don't care.

  And neither do I.

  So with all that being said, I sign off for now.  Come back next time when I make a convincing case for something-something because of yada yada.

Gluten Nacht,
-The StripperHerder*1

*1 OK, the plural part was an exaggeration. I only know of one former stripper who is a doctor, one who is a lawyer and one who, I shit you not, holds a Master's in Physics. Whether she uses it for anything or not is unknown to me, but I saw the fancy paper and heard her talk some baffling talk.

Saturday, December 31, 2016

The StripperHerder 2016 Year End Special. Or, Another Shitty Post About Stuff That Doesn't Matter.

  I realize that some of you may find this difficult to believe, but I have been accused a time or two of being a misogynist. I know, I was taken aback too. Pretty sure there's a much more apt word to describe me and that word is misanthrope. Learn it, love it, use it.

  Apparently the people who have accused me of misogyny either haven't read but one or two posts of my blog, or are the type of human to only remember what they find most offensive, such as when I talk about a certain girl's private parts as looking like some sort of primitive bivalve constructed by a child out of a weird colored play doh and clearly making a spirited attempt to escape her pelvis.

   For anyone who's read even half my posts, it should be self evident that I hate almost everyone, not just strippers. I'd be willing to bet that I spend a nearly equal amount of time and energy telling all you fine readers out there about the drunk, shambling ball-scratchers that I have to deal with every day as I do the annoying, hammered dancers. Whether you as a reader choose to accept that fact is entirely up to you, but a fact it remains and no amount of victimized whining will change that.

.                           "That's a fact, son. Best leave it be. Never know if it has babies."

                                     "Nothing more savage than a cornered fact, boyo."

  So in an effort to alleviate the consternation of this small yet vocal minority, from this day forward, StripperHerder Enterprises™  LLC will be employing an ombudsman overseeing a crack team of literary anthropologists and satirmologists*1 who will ensure that I pick on both sexes 100% equally so as to avoid any excess feelings of pooty pang or butthurt.

  Therefore in 2017 it will be impossible for me to pick on one sex over another without receiving a crisply worded memo or a really mean spirited email. Thus I will strive to keep doing what I've always done: shit on everyone, myself included, with a fair and equal depth, pungency and consistency.

 Although some spattering is inevitable.

                                                     I hate run on sentences.

        She's going home with me tonight!

  No she's not. You been had buddy. She told four different guys she'd meet them after work and got money from all of you in advance, thereby negating the need to dispense sex acts in order to make a living. You were just dumb/hopeful/horny enough to buy into it. Shame on you.

  This happens pretty often. We notice a guy lurking in his car in the parking lot after closing and that poor bastard(s) is waiting for a dancer that is either:

A) Already long gone, or

B) Is prepared to stay in the club for as long as it takes the Floor Guys to chase off her would be john(s).

  Needless to say for my seasoned followers at least, I'm not real thrilled with this practice. At best it's not worth the minimal amount of money it adds to my weekly income, at worst it's going to get someone killed when some drunk fuckwit gets ripped off for $200 and decides to go all Wild West about it.

  And since it is one of my primary duties to escort our girls to their cars at the end of the night, this will eventually put me in the crosshairs. Unfortunate, since there is literally no way to stop dancers from doing this without permanently maiming them, which is unethical.

                                  "I WANT MY REASONABLY PRICED ANAL SEX, BITCH!"

                                  Looking back on 2016:

-Well done, you killed more celebrities than any year in recent memory and set the bar pretty high for 2017, I call that ambitious.

-You saw Trump elected and while that may spell the end of Murrika as we know it, at least we'll be living in interesting times.

-You were an abusive partner to my wallet, It's easy to slap around a beat up, ass-shaped piece of leather, huh?

      Meet some recent additions to the Dancer Corps:

Thundra: Shaped like a Stone Age Teutonic forest goddess, Thundra is a fantastically friendly gal who happens to be molded along the lines of an ideal Middle Age bride; strong as hell, capable of prolonged hard labor, nice wide hips, generous milk production capability, a general disregard of discomfort and adversity and a overall sense of 'it'll beallrightednedness around her.

  Awesome gal and a stellar example of great attitude

                                  Fact: Has more songs written about her butt than you do.

Milkweed: Super nice gal, admitted hippy. Milkweed isn't one of our hottest dancers, nor does she have one of the best bodies, but she has been graced by a stunning set of of blouse badgers and a sunny disposition.

                                                     "Just look down, honey."

'Lil Hatchet: Can't stand this bitch. Literally shaped like a tomahawk, all skinny with a sharp, prominent beak. yet much less fun to deal with. Looks like an unhealthy child with implants and a separate entity living on it's face that forces it to commit crimes.

                                     "Heroic firemen use me to smash through doors."

Princess Etheriel: Wears elf ears on the job. Seriously. Seems to do the whole cosplay thing as a gimmick but actually does it everywhere, 24/7. Possibility she may have talked herself into believing she's a fucking elf. Has geeks eating out of her hand despite the fact she's only a 6 on a good day and spends her free time journaling about trees and unicorns.

  Still like her, easy to deal with and she get's some of my obscure medieval references.

                                                     "I'm +3 to fun! YAY!"

Kuttya: I can never remember which former soviet bloc state that Kuttya is from so I just call it Twazbeckistan and it makes her quite angry. Which is fun for me. She is a difficult stripper to work with in that she is pushy, bossy and generally off putting to her cornered prey, but her body sees her through most conflicts even if her face is only along for the ride. Some men just respond well to an angry Russian accented women's voice telling them to do stuff they're not sure about and Kuttya has an incredibly tuned net for finding those weak willed jellyfish.

  I respect and kinda fear Kuttya because I imagine she's got some crazy knife skills from her past life as a Chechan operative or KGB sleeper agent, but mostly because she tips good and encourages her marks to tip us as well.

  I'm easy to please like that.

                                                     "You tip me now, da?"

  Hope you enjoyed it, you animals. As I've alluded to before, I'm currently working on a TV pilot loosely based on the Plight, so keep your fingers crossed OR send me a bunch of money. Your call.

Ave Marina,
-The StripperHerder

*1 (Latin) Literally 'satire measurement specialist ' or a person hired by a misanthropic blog author to measure the amount of satire and/or complete horseshit the blog produces.

Saturday, December 24, 2016

Vodzilla Lives And Wanted To Get In The Club For Free. Not On My Watch, Suzy. Or, Strippers Vs. Cars: A Continuing Saga Of Abuse And Neglect.

  Loyal Plight readers will of course remember Vodzilla, my former Arch Nemesis. I speak of her rarely anymore because she's someone else's problem now, not mine. She's such a mobile catastrophe that for our humble club, three times was the magic number for her to be fired and remain so.

                                  Vodzilla using her highly destructive  Belvedere Breath.

 Or at least for as long as Sir Osfried Vandalkoch IX remains in power. He thinks that he hates her at least as much as I do, but it's actually a lot less.

  She's a knock-kneed, corduroy-tittied, weird snatched bottle killing machine whose liver is clearly made from eldritch polymers brought to life by the snuffed flickers of spent sperm cells and the petri dish scrapings of locally captured hunnit-dollah bills, y'all. The really cokey kind.

  The day that she was fired permanently is one of the more revered Floor Host Holidays at my club, recognized by all major Floor Guy Denominations as reason to drink high proof shots and do primitive, stupid shit.

  Like constructing crude effigies and burning them in fields while we scream and shoot handguns at Nature.

  Oh how we drink and scream and shoot at stuff...

                                            "Oh, you want some, Nature?"

  Crazy bitch tried to get in the club last othernight when I was working the door. She fucking hugged me like we had been pals, and I've grown so soft in her absence that I allowed it to take place.

  Her goal was to get in the club for free, with her man-dude. at after-hours prices.

  Not on my watch, Suzy.

  Vodvertebrates pay extra.

  I triumph once more.

  I told her that not only was I not going to let her and her companion in for free, but that she herself was too fucking drunk to enter the club, which she was, and that she could go away as quickly as possible.

  She feigned shock and she did it well. I almost believed that we had previously got along well and that my behavior was an inexplicable and assholey way to treat on old friend, perhaps brought on by some sort of brief substance abuse issue on my part.

  Despite her alcoholism, that bitch still has a few tricks left up her sleeve and they are not to be taken lightly. She has zero problem finding dudes to nail her because she has a vagina and she's not afraid to use it even if she doesn't remember who was in it the next day.

  I'm gonna be super pissed if she outlives me.

  Strippers Vs. Cars, The Battle Continues!

                                                     "I washn't driving schmofficer."



  A third of the dancers I work with have one or more of the following issues with transportation:

1) Their license is suspended. Almost exclusively for DUI's.

2) They've wrecked every single vehicle they've ever turned a key in.

3) Their car got repo'ed because many of them don't understand the concepts of 'credit' or 'provable income' and therefore they regularly pay 19% interest or higher for their car loans and thus the poor cars get repossessed frequently.

4) For some of them, drugs are more important than anything else, including car payments/maintenance. Quite a few of these have figured out that there isn't much you can't barter for a blowjob and as a result they don't really need a car nor, in fact, money.

5) A lot of strippers are very hard on cars. They run into stuff. They don't comprehend the necessity of maintaining something if you want it to fucking last. They tend to think gasoline is the only liquid a vehicle needs to run. Some of them even believe in halogen fluid but can't seem to find a place to sell it to them.

  It is an exceedingly rare car that is purchased by a stripper and goes on to enjoy a long, fruitful life. And if it does, it's not with her.

6) The Sugar Daddy/Drug Dealer/Creepy Old Guy With Money that had been paying for their vehicle found someone else to service his lecherous whims and took the car away.


Five Reasons Why I'm A Shitty Floor Host These Days:

1) I hate people

2) I hate people

3) I hate people

4) I hate people

5) I REALLY hate drunk people

  Limiting my contact with customers limits the possibilities of them giving me money. I've learned to live with it and the other Floor Guys are generally happy with the arrangement because none of them want to do the jobs I do and I don't really want to be a Floor Guy anymore because of, you know, my hatred of other humans and suchforth.

  Another thing I despise is asking for tips. I would be a much better earner if I cared for pressuring dudes for tips. The closest thing I get to that is when people ask me how much the shuttle ride to the club is, I usually say "It's free and I work for tips." This normally nets me a small gratuity, but not always. Some people are just fucking stingy.

  My favorite is when I offer them passes to get into the club. I never mention any sort of price but instead will say something like "I'll take care of you guys and you take care of me". I might then do some math for them based on the number of guys in the group, "These will save you x amount of money at the door", hoping all the while that they'll tip me 50% of the total.

  Sometimes, when I've saved them over a hundred dollars, the last dude off the shuttle will hand me $10 like he's tossing gold coins embossed with his image to the plebians. I look at him like something unpleasant I found stuck on the sole of my shoe.

  "Gee. Thanks man. After I split this with the other Floor Guys, I'm a $1.42 closer to that Ferrari..."

                                           "Sweet! Only $1.415 million more to go..."


  One final note concerns both the above point and is a magnificent illustration of the ungratefulness of some people. It goes something like this:

  We had a guy come in to the club tonight wanting an hour room with two of our entertainers for him and his buddy. Sure I said, let's waste some dough! Easy as shit, right?

  NOPE. And I'll explain why below. Suffice to say for now, over the course of the next half hour I ran four of his cards no less than fifteen times with all of them being declined. Even after having talked to his bank twice and being told the transaction would be approved. The guy is frustrated as hell, understandably so, he just wanted to spend some of his own fucking money and it's guardian wasn't having any of it, declarations otherwise notwithstanding.

  I would like to point out at this juncture that this man had already written in a $125 tip for me on the advance receipt.*1

  SO, being the helpful, greedy Floor Host that I am, sort of, I offer to take him Downtown to an ATM so he could get some cash. And I do. Two ATM's in fact, neither of which would give him any money. Dude is way pissed at this point, and I give him a couple of smokes to calm him down as we talk about cocaine for a bit.

  The he asks me if I know about any payday loan shacks that may be open and I say yeah, but it ain't in a great part of town and he says 'take me there, I got you.' So thinking that he'd already agreed to $125, I start getting visions of a $200 tip, maybe more.

  So I text one of the other Floor Guys, explain what's going on and let him know there's a small but real chance that I'll be dead in ten minutes, but if not, then I'd be bringing some money to the table tonight.

  Yee-Ha and shit.

                  "So. You need a G or so at 3:30 in the morning? That can be arranged, my friend."

 I didn't get shot. Dude secured $1200 and the room was going to be $1000. Boom, I thought, $200 earned.

  And yet I was wrong. Got the man back to the club completely unshot and hustled him into the champagne room. Guy peeled of exactly ten hundos and asked for booze I couldn't provide and when I said I couldn't help him he said, "OK. Get the fuck out of here."

  Merry fuckin Christmas to me! These are the kind of situations I have to deal with that make me not want to deal these sorts of situations anymore. If you catch my drift.

  Two side notes about this scenario:

 - One of the other Floor Gus explained to the two dancers that the guy had fucked me out of a tip when I had gone above and beyond so that they could make a couple hundred extra on a mediocre shift. The girls tipped me a combined $60 when I walked them out and both thanked me sincerely, which I really appreciated.

  -Despite my miserable contribution, we did all right for a middlin night. Over $300.

  And finally

   Remember when I said I'd explain some shit below? Well, here it is, lest you miss it and write me angry emails...


   Chip cards, protecting your money by not letting you access it.

                              Withdrawal request denied! Our algorithms indicate that
                                          A person of your unquestionable moral fiber would
                                             never visit a tawdry clam hut and ask for $600.


  Our company has chosen to go with an already obsolete system for dealing with the rise of 'chip cards' in 'Murrika. Our system, rather than having a single transaction like all other sane methods, requires a chip card holder to sign two receipts.  I've never encountered this anywhere else before. But here you have a preliminary transaction where you must fill in any gratuities then total and sign the slip.  Based on what you tipped (or didn't tip) the transaction has to be run a second time for the actual total and a second receipt signed.

  The inefficiency of this system is staggering and the chaos it creates from drunk people who've never had to do it before is simply mind boggling. It's a testament to the fortitude and patience of our Floor Grunts that this primitive method even works at all.

  Further complicating matters is that strip clubs are one of the most charge-back ridden industries on the planet. The amount of credit card "charge back" attempts made against strip clubs are something like 1200% above the rate most industries face. As a result when a bank's security algorithms calculate risk involved with a transaction based on the number of attempted charge-backs, strip clubs are always deemed 'high risk'.

  This means that an inordinate amount of ATM cards decline when someone tries to use them in a titty bar. Since the introduction of the chip card in the US, the number of customers in my club who have to physically call their bank to release their funds has skyrocketed.

  It's a nightmare trying to explain it to a drunk fuck. Yet I have to do it several times every goddamn night I work the door.

  It's a special joy for me.


                                    "Totally get it, bro! Now explain it to me one more time."

 That's all you get. I have to work on pictures now or someone, somewhere will get all butthurt about it and whine.

 Point Towards Enemy,
-The StripperHerder

*1 The receipt you sign before you sign the receipt. It's very simple.