Sunday, September 17, 2017

An Unwelcome Return To The Saturdays Of Old. Or, Cutting The Shit Eagle.

  You may have noticed, astute reader, that I haven't written much about Saturday nights in a while. The reason for this is because they've been so much slower than they used to be that I don't get much material from them anymore.

  Tonight however, buggered that paradigm right up its arse. All manner of remorseless horseshit trotted about the club tonight: hostile hillbillies, deranged dancers, wasted wankers, you name it-we had it.

  But before I get into all that bilge scraping, let's do this installment's FUN STATS, cuz I like em.

               This has nothing to do with FUN STATS, but I'll be damned if it wasn't gonna be in my blog.

-Number of females involved in physical altercations tonight: 4

-Number of dancers I've worked with who've died since my last post: To the best of my knowledge, 0

-Number of times my new Arch-Nemesis, Ratty, has gone all white trash cunt on a customer since her ill advised rehiring: 2

  I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO. I fucking well told the world that this would happen and by Odin's quim-primped beard I was right. We need to cut ties with this psychopathic walking chancre before she does or causes something irreparable to happen. Why Dynamic Management Team: LASER FALCON can't see this I just don't understand.

  Ratty is a fucking LIABILITY.

-Number of club patrons who lost their phones since last post: 89

-Number of dancers whose names I just can't remember, ever. Possibly because they don't tip: Many

-Number of strippers who quit tonight: 2*1

  Good Riddance.

-Number of times since last post Management failed to inform me of something I felt was important to the fulfillment of my job duties then yelled at me for not knowing it: 1

-Number of times in the past week the entrance area of the club has been swept of all the assorted garbage that makes it look like a patio in a refugee camp after a tropical storm: Twice.

  This is because although I work 3 days a week normally, I was too damn sick on Thursday to care enough to do it. No one else at the club is qualified to use a broom.

  All right, enough of that crap. You deserve better. Sort of.

  Enumeration of tonight's suckitude, By A. StripperHerder.

                                  (Some of which will be in the footnotes.)

  Hillbillies. Rednecks. Plow-Chasers. Sheep Rapists. Incestuous Dirt Prodders.

  Whatever your preferred term for them is, they can be a trial when they scamper on out into the Big City. Now before you rural folk get your hackles all tangled up in yer panties, let me remind you that whenever I refer to any group: Ghetto Kids, Suburban Cunts, Euro Trash, Dirty Hindi's, Celebrities and hell, even Strippers, I ALWAYS focus on the worst among them. Making examples of nice, polite people for the purposes of this journal would be counter productive as it is definitely a glass-half-empty sorta blog.


  So if I cared about anyone's feelings, I would go out of my way to say that the vast majority of the 'hillbillies' who visited our fine establishment tonight were very polite, well mannered gentlemen. Clearly raised by parents who instilled a traditional Do-Unto-Others perspective in their progeny that I have a lot of respect for because that's how I was raised.*2 Maybe its a Midwest thing, I don't know.

  That being stated, I will always choose to write about the worst of our club's visitors and if some of them in this instance happen to be Rednecks, well, I'm gonna write about Rednecks.

  Hell, to someone twat from LA or NYC, I AM a Redneck. Midwest boy here through and through.

                               "What? Sometimes your bathtub freezes up. Don't be a bitch"

  Anywho, we had a group of folks from a Midwest State famous for being a Midwest State and having lots of tornadoes. The were, by our urban standards, stump-jumpers. There were about eight of them, two of which were girls.

  So one of the guys decides to rip our "Welcome to the Patio" sign off the wall of our patio. I've always thought it was a stupid sign anyway, clearly you were on a patio, it has all the hallmarks: it's outdoors, flagstone floor, lame bar, and several cheesy 'cabanas'. It all adds up to "I'm on a patio" for even the dullest of patrons.

  So Big Jimmy Tractor Oaf pulls this sign off our wall and a dancer alerts my Manager, Sir Vulcanic Magmafist VI and he grabs me and we head out to investigate this heinous act. When we arrive, Baby Huey is holding the bent and destroyed sign like Lennie petting the fucking rabbit.

                                 "I'll pet that sign REAL god, George! REEAAAALLLL good!"

  Sir Vulcanic isn't happy and starts getting all angry-quiz on the wheat-golem, who's answers aren't satisfactory, nor even coherent. The whole time this is happening, Huey's much smaller buddy is running his mouth with fight words like he's Connor fucking MacGregor, not some little Pipefitter bitch who belongs in a women's welterweight Spin class.

  Sir Vulcanic was willing to let the rest of the party stay as soon as Lennie left without a struggle, but Dick-Mouth ruined it for the whole group with his shit-breathed assholery. Magmafist declared "they all gotta go" as he caressed his Mace dispenser lovingly.

  In the end, the cooler heads from the frontier party prevailed, which is to say, all the rest of them, even Baby Huey.

  As a closing to all this, when we had let the last of them out of the patio gate and went back into the club to do all the shit that didn't get done while we dealt with this ridge-runner insurgency, the douchebag and Lennie viciously attacked one of out landscaped trees, ripping several branches off it.

  So fucking lame.

  In closing, I'd like to describe to you, sensitive reader, one of my favorite punishment scenarios I'll inflict on every Uber driver I can get my hands on, if I ever become the Dark Lord of North Murrika.


              Cutting The Shit Eagle

  This is a form of execution I loosely modeled on a historically shaky Viking ritual known as 'Cutting The Blood Eagle'.

   According to Wikipedia:

The blood eagle is a ritualized method of execution, detailed in late skaldic poetry. According to the two instances mentioned in the Sagas, the victim (always a member of a royal family) was placed prone, the ribs severed from the spine with a sharp tool and the lungs pulled through the opening to create a pair of “wings”. There is a continuing debate about whether the ritual was a literary invention, a mistranslation of the original texts or an actual historical practice.

                                           "I told you not to steal that rutabaga..."

Cutting The Shit Eagle is a variation on the theme I came up with where someone is bound in a folded over position so his asshole is as close as possible to his face. Then a deep incision is made in his mid back where a high pressure air hose is inserted and turned on. This blows the contents of his colon all over his face and with luck, he'll choke to death on his own bloody feces and shredded mucal lining.



  If he isn't so fortunate he'll enjoy a long agonizing death made more amusing for the spectators because of the constant farting noise his tortured o-ring makes as excruciating amounts of PSI are pumped through it and an airbrush-like blood mist issues forth erratically, sometimes with significant chunks.

  It's like art for the Hospitality-Ruined and Uber-Discourtesy Overdosed.

  Well I think you get it, HerderHeads, so I will say no more for now.

  Fuck Saturdays,
-The StripperHerder

*1 The first one to quit was Concertina, who is (put on your shocked face) an unrepentant drugavore. In her opioid ravaged brain she felt certain that she had done four dances for a guy and that for certain, he owed her $100, which buys a fair amount of smack or crack.

  In reality she did one and a half according to the Counter. And since...

A) Dancers are supposed to wait until the start of a song to begin 'dancing'. If they get to the dance room midway through a song, they're supposed to wait until the next song starts before they 'entertain'. This ensures they aren't charging customers for 30 fucking seconds and calling it a "dance".

B) Concertina never grasped the concept of tipping the Floor Staff, no matter how much money she made or we made her. As a result Floor Guy enthusiasm for obtaining cash for her or counting a portion of a song as a "dance" in regards to her income is nonexistent.

C) The customer she was trying to swindle was a cop from a nearby area.

D) The cop guy was clearly not drunk, was extremely calm, compliant and didn't try to do typical shit such as walking determinedly out the door or punching me. He willingly remained with us at the door while we tried to sort the situation out and the situation turned out to be what the Counter said:

-Bitch did maybe a song and a half. 

-Dude owed her for ONE song, $25, but her gave her $40. 
-Delusional cunt felt it was FOUR songs, but was wrong. 
-Left in a huff complaining about 'pussy bouncers and shitty managers'.

  Profound sense of relief attained. One petty smack-a-ho down, scores to go....

The second bitch to quit tonight I'll refer to as Missing In Action, because her brain functions have been shanghai'ed by poppy extracts.

  It's sort of ironic that this loony snatch also decided to fuck with a cop, assaulted him even.

  It's also kinda weird that I've never really had a problem with this stripper outside of the fact she doesn't goddamn tip, which is a major irritant to me. Yet tonight she went total fucking Hyde, imagining herself 300 lbs heavier and bulletproof. Capable of unrealistic things, such as correctly spelling "Mercedes", or beating a street wise cop twice her weight in a bar fight.


*2 Not sure what went wrong with me, but if I had to guess I'd say it's the Service Industry and the cold, razor-like contempt for humans it breeds in it's slaves.

Sunday, September 3, 2017

Porn Stars: Sometimes They Can Be 50 Gallons Of Douche-Chunks In A 25 Gallon Can. Or, If You're Going To Make A Living In This Industry You Need To Grow Some Better Soul-Callouses.

  I'm going to start this installment with a new feature I call FUN STATS. It's not complicated so I'm just going to launch into it and hope that you, dear reader, can keep up.

-Number of dancers I worked with who have died since my last post= 3 that I know of. Two O.D.'s and one murder.

-Number of club patrons that lost their phone in the club since my last post= 546

-Number of times, since last installment, management failed to inform me of something I felt was important tothe fulfillment of my job duties, then yelled at me for not knowing it= 4

-Number of times I've been asked for money by complete strangers since last post= 63

-Number of times someone has said a variation on the theme of "Make sure you check his ID, he's only 12!" since my last post= 11,234

-The number of patrons who showed up specifically to see our last "Feature" entertainer= maybe 6

-Number of times my new Arch-Nemesis, Ratty, has gone all white trash cunt on a customer since her ill advised rehiring: 0.

  I'm even more surprised than you, trust me. But mark my words people, it will happen. She will explode all War-Twat on an unprecedented scale and the longer she manages to behave herself, the more catastrophic her rampage will be. Hope I'm not around when it happens...

-Number of times our Door Girls have managed to suck at their job since my last post= I didn't actually count but it's a lot.

-Number of Waitresses who have become Strippers since last post= 0

  Which is unusual in a two week span.

Number of club employees that drive the shuttle other than me= 3

Number of club employees that drive the shuttle who actually wash or clean said shuttle= 1. Me.

Number of club employees that have also driven the shuttle and who apparently enjoy leaving their nasty ass tobacco spit cups for me to find and dispose of: 2. Keen Kenny Deen (no longer at club) and Floor Guy Joker.

  Yes, you Joker. Shame on you. Next time it happens I'm going to beat off onto the seat before I leave.

  All right, enough of all that garbage. No one cares.

 Let's discuss Pornstars as club attractions. I mentioned them in this post's title, so I may as well talk about it.

  Depending on the level the club operates on and the whims of its Owner, a titty bar may at some point opt to hire a Pornstar to be a "Featured Entertainer". This worked out fairly well back before the internet forever changed the way people consume pornography. Back before sites existed where you could watch soul-killing amounts of free yank fodder, porn was sort of a big deal. To some humans anyways.

  And by 'big deal' I mean that you had to go through some sort of tribulation to get your hands on it. Maybe you ordered it from the internet. Maybe, if you're older, you had to mail in for it from the back pages of a skin rag.

  Or, God forbid, you had to walk into a porn store and buy it. Letting some complete stranger in on what you were gonna whack it to just as soon as you could get home with it.

  There were no great alternatives back then unless you had a Porn Cooperative among your friend base. An informal Pornography Exchange Program where properly reviewed VHS and DVD's could be traded for fresh material at a much reduced cost for everyone.

  Those were the days. When hordes of sex starved compulsive masturbators would descend on a club because their favorite fuck-queen was gonna be there, live on stage, her high capacity vagina on display for all to see.

  What could be better?

  Porn Stars like Ginger Lynn, Jenna Jamison, Tera Patrick, Lisa Ann, Janine Lindemulder, Jill Kelly and Chasey Lain. Actually famous for taking dick, even outside the industry. Girls like these could put a lot of asses in seats and sold pics of themselves posing with various losers all night for $20-30 a pop.

  Nowadays however, nobody cares about Pornstars. Most people haven't the slightest idea who any of them are, including us strip club employees, who you'd think would be better than average informed about these things. The advent of utterly free porn available at the touch of a button totally destroyed any 'mystique' porn had to it, eliminated any "quests" you had to embark on to obtain it, thus seriously devaluing it. Back in the day it was earned, not tossed about all over the interwebz like so much spanktual chicken feed.

  This is why I submit to you, my readership, that the Golden Age of porno is over and that very few people give a fuck about so called 'pornstars' anymore.

  As my example of this statement, here's how the last two Features we had went down:

Feature A) Sally Smith or something like that. Had done exactly one porn DVD and decided that she should go on tour because making one professionally produced pornographic movie in today's webcam and free online porn saturated world means you're a big deal.

  I got stuck minding her one night and my favorite quote of hers came from when she was talking to some random stripper. She said to this stripper, "Oh no honey, I'm not just a stripper, I'm important."

  Seriously, she said that. I shit you not. I wish I could remember her name. Suzie Snizzbert, maybe?


Feature B) A much better known 3-holer lassie, with dozens if not hundreds of adult videos to her credit. This chick had a following and it was roughly six dudes, one of which who's just a broke regular who loves all pornstars and has an encyclopedic and disturbing knowledge of the last 40 years of fuck-flick history. He's like a comic book fanboy, but much creepier, far more adept at clownface and way more likely to kill someone someday.

   Now I'll give Feature B, who I'll refer to as Assmerelda from here forth, some credit. She put on a decent show and really knew how to work a room. And by 'work a room' I mean she was exceptionally good at engaging a table of customers and pressuring them into buying her booze.

 Which she drank a lot of.

  Somewhere in between shots she managed to land a half hour room, which she was charging $800 dollars for. Since the guy payed with a card she was paid in the club's funny money*1, which she loses 10% on when she cashes them in. This was patiently explained to her by both the Manager and the Floor Host running the transaction.

  But Assmerelda went all Hyde*2 when she found out she was only getting $720 for the room. We weren't even charging her the way we would one of our own girls in that there was no 'club' fee attached to her rooms. We weren't taking a dime in "room rental", all we were doing is taking the standard 10% off the top because the guy paid with a credit card.

  If it had been cash, she would've received all $800 of it. If it was one of our strippers, she would've only got about $450 once the club got it's cut and then took another bite through the funny money system.

 It's quite the racket. But horny dudes are like sheep; when things get hot, they enjoy being sheared.

  But enough about her income, let's talk about how that crazy Felch Drain handled it.

  She went batfuck.

  Plain and simple.

  I saw the storm a-comin and I went out to check the parking lot for gun toting criminals, safe in the knowledge than it was better than being around the whirlwind of shitfaced snatchery that was about to curb-stomp any semblance of serenity it could find.

  Insulting and assaulting dancers, motherfucking everyone with a vagina or less than $4000 in his pocket. It got fucking grim and I managed to dodge the vast majority of it by preferring to risk being shot by heroin dealers, funny as that may seem.

   She reminded me of my ancient foe, Vodzilla, but her nether bits were far less Cthulic than Vodzilla's opium-addicts-nightmare of a vulva. Voddy's lady parts looked like bubble gum flavored gummi waffles inexplicably wedged between two stretched marked nylons full of pork based greek yogurt.

   In a perfect world, I would've been able to cage fight Assmerelda versus Vodzilla and charged $19.99 to watch it. Then I would retire and start buying and outfitting War Rigs, preparing for a Mad Maxian future which may or may not happen in my lifetime.

  Best to be prepared. Not in the real life sense of survivalism, but in the crazy-armored-vehicles-fighting-over-long-stretches-of-road sort of way.

  Just in case.

  In closing I'd like to mention that to be a success in this industry, you have to have a rhino hide. All facets of the service industry have to deal with human shittery, but the strip club segment really sets new lows for standards accepted.

  If you're going to freak out any time some drunk ballsack utters something reprehensible, then you're not cut out for this occupation. If you feel like some sort of crime has been committed when a stranger grabs ass, then you should flee.

  An environment, not your moral code, dictate what behavior is acceptable and what is not. Doubt that and try going to an Islamist state and squawk publicly about education for females or being gay and see what that get's ya. You probably won't like it.

  If your moral codes say that pretty much anything qualifies as an assault, a clam shack should be the last place you seek employment. The Floor Squad will back you up within legitimate parameters, but best not lie to us. We will get to the bottom of all kinds of tangled-ass shit but it may take us a few minutes, we're not wizards.

  If and when we find out through our various sources that you've been a lying, exaggerating bitch, we'll give you the Black Mark, lass. And you'll be on your own, adrift on a sea of your own connivance and snizzery*3.

  Don't fark with us. We see all, we know all.

  We are the Floor Creed. We are eternal.

  Fuck the pictures. I need to eat. I know I should do them and I still don't care because the vodka says everything will be all right.

  And I fucking believe it. It's transparent.

The vile overseer,
-Das StripperHerder

*1 Funny Money: For those of you new to this blog and ignorant of the strip club industry in general, funny money is how the club pays it's entertainers when a patron pays with a credit card. It works like this:

  You want, for some probably overly optimistic reason, to pay for a one hour champagne room with one of our lovely dancers who you feel like you've made a connection to. You wish to put this on a credit card because hey, what's $500?

  Seemed reasonable at the time I'm sure.

  But if you don't understand the system and the Floor Walker didn't take the time to explain it to you, then you may be surprised when the receipt comes for you to sign and the total reads $575. That's because since it is not "real" currency, the club can basically charge whatever it wants to sell you some of it. The industry norm in our tier market is 10-15%, but it gets higher in top level clubs.

  Therefore if you want to charge $2000 worth of VIP rooms at our club, it'll set you back a minimum of $2300. And here's the real beauty of the whole thing: when the dancers cash them in at the bar, the club takes another 10% from them for turning it into real money. So the club makes 20% right off the top of any VIP credit card transaction.

*2 Hyde: Again, this is for neophytes' sake here. Any experienced 'Herderhead knows exactly what a 'Hyde' is yet I feel compelled to mention it once again to accommodate new readers. A kind, easy going stripper is called a Jekyll. The raving, psychotic thing she becomes after nine shots is a Hyde.

  If you see one, best find something interesting to do in the opposite direction.

*3 Snizzery: A portmaneau of Snizz and Misery, or suffering caused by poor vaginal choices.

Thursday, August 17, 2017

Two Junkies Fighting Over A Chicken Bone. Or, Why Don't You Have Any "Real" Women Working Here?

  The first part of the title to this post has very little to do with the actual content of the installment, but I really like it and it's my blog so I'll write whatever the fuck I want and you can choose of your own free will to read it or not to read it.

  Because that's what Murrika is all about: choices. You can choose to be a whiny twatdrip who complains about every tiny thing that you feel is wrong with this society, while doing fuck all to actually fix the problem or by simply acknowledging that some things that you don't like are intrinsic parts of human behavior and will never change unless the population of Earth is reduced to three or less people.

  Or you can choose to accept that a large majority of the world's populace are self absorbed dick-sores who will never change because they are convinced that no matter what, they are right and nothing you can say or do will demonstrate to them otherwise.

  On this preface, let me dive right into something that I find so annoying and repugnant about today's USA that I can scarcely even write about it without feeling intense rage and loathing. I'm not even going to sugarcoat it or call it something it isn't, I'm just going to call it what it is:

  Faking A Fucking Allergy

  Just because you don't like something doesn't mean your allergic to it. Yet in today's everyone-gets-a-trophy culture, it's totally fine to say your allergic to anything you want to be allergic to and everyone somehow must buy into your bullshit or be a horrible person.

  Fuck that.

  By claiming you're allergic to anything merely because you don't like it, you're demeaning and marginalizing all those poor bastards who actually ARE allergic to it and by extrapolation, making their lives more difficult as a cultural backlash against false claims of allergies leads to everyone just assuming that people with real afflictions are just fucking lying.

  Like you.

  This is a despicable practice and it drives me bat-rape crazy. Case in point; I hate the smell and taste of cloves. I believe they are the fossilized turds of tiny demons. But I would never even consider telling anyone I'm allergic to them because it would be self serving bullshit. I'm sure there are folks out there who are indeed adversely affected by cloves, but I'm not one of them. I just hate everything about cloves and can't understand why we didn't wipe them out when we had the chance.

  Lest you think I'm ranting needlessly, let me cite you two examples of this detestable behavior.

A) Lilly, a friend's wife who is allergic to tobacco smoke. When I first met Lilly, within 10 minutes she mentions how she is allergic to cigarette smoke. I refrained from telling her that she is therefore likely to die tonight in my apartment because both her husband and I like to drink and when we drink we really like to smoke.

  Despite her crippling allergy, Lilly managed to not only survive being trapped in a small room with zero ventilation with two almost chain-smoking drunks, she miraculously exhibited zero signs of life threatening trauma, displayed no adverse affects from numerous cigs and, in fact, didn't even cough or mention said allergy again even once in six fucking hours.

  Given the data, I could only come up with two conclusions about her alleged allergy:

  A) She was fucking lying. Or,

  B) She was fucking making it up.

  But in today's Murrikan reality, it's apparently acceptable to just declare yourself allergic to anything you don't like and it's somehow expected that everyone plays along without questioning anything, no matter how absurd, or be labeled a fascist asshole.

  That's what I call Social Justice.

 B) I know a guy named Ray, which sounds like the start of a limerick, but isn't. A couple of years after he stopped smoking pot, Ray decided to become allergic to it. I say decided because Ray didn't quit drinking, he only quit smoking weed, at which point I might add, his drinking got really out of control.

  Just sayin.

  It's relevant.

 So one day there were a bunch of us camping and we all liked to drink and toke some bud. Except Ray, who kept reminding us that he had recently opted to become deathly allergic to marijuana smoke. So, out of deference to his claims, whenever we lit up, we'd politely moved a safe 50 yards out into the woods. You know, so Ray wouldn't die and whatnot.

  Anyway the night progressed and we all got really hammered and much fun was had. As it got really late and we were all sitting around the fire because it had become windy and crisp, I lit up a whopper joint I had rolled up earlier in the night and had been saving for an inadvisable time.

  Ray didn't even notice until it came around to him and when it did he started freaking out. "Arrgh! My throat's closing up" he gasped making really cunty choking sounds and manufacturing a big deal out of it. I waited until the doob had come full circle back to me and right before I took a huge hit, I looked Ray in the eye and said,


  I said this not because I'm a soulless, unfeeling prick who doesn't care about invisible afflictions other people may be plagued with, I said it because Ray was upwind from everyone else in the circle. A steady 8-9 MPH wind was blowing directly on his back and there isn't the slightest chance in Hell that any smoke from the joint or our mouths was getting anywhere near him. Certainly not in any sort of concentration that might've been harmful to anyone with an actual allergy to pot smoke.

  That was 13 years ago and it was my first run-in with a fake allergy declaration and it pissed me off. What's worse is that nowadays it seems culturally acceptable to just declare yourself allergic to anything that bothers you, whether or not it will harm you in any way.

  Utterly reprehensible.


 But enough about that. Let's talk about "real" women, shall we?

  What triggered this for me is an incident that happened a few weeks ago. I say 'incident' when I really mean I overheard a conversation between a drunk, dumpy female patron and my manager, Sir Wombat Vagitorius Von PrickenLance XII.

  The conversation went something like this, although I'm going to shorten it extensively because it was mostly reiteration on her part:

Dumpy Drunk Bitch: "I really like your club. I had a good time. But howcuz you guys don't have any real girls working here? I mean, you know, like 'real' women?"

Sir Wombat: "What are you talking about? All of these dancers have vaginas. I checked."

  I'm wildly exaggerating at this point. I couldn't really hear what Sir Wombat had to say because he mumbles a lot, frequently while walking away from you. What bothered me about this exchange was the Dumpy Drunk Bitch's point of view, mainly that somehow, because a dancer had a gorgeous body and a face that 90-some percent of the male population of this planet would say was "hot", that somehow she couldn't possibly be a 'real' woman.

  I'm sorry, but isn't that the height of misogyny? That somehow a female that a vast majority of the human population would regard as 'attractive' couldn't possibly be 'real'? Whatever 'real' means...

  To me a 'real' woman is someone who started out life without a penis. Hell, even a post-op transsexual is a de facto woman, if not 'real'. To me, Dumpy Drunk Bitch was suggesting that unless you happened to be a cheery, overweight hobbit clad in inappropriate shorts, there was no chance you were a 'real' female.

  I don't get offended about anything, so I don't care one way or another. But this points to a specific prejudice that is obviously a female bias, i.e. hot chicks aren't REAL. To men, hot chicks are real as fuck. So real that some dudes get all creepy and stalky, perfectly willing to hand over their wallets if it might mean a whiff of their panties.

  But to some gals who aren't "conventionally" attractive, it's open season on hotties because they are somehow less than human.

  Way to go, feminists!

  The last couple of things I'm gonna do like vignettes. Short and sweet.

-Junkies die a lot: we lost another girl this week to overdose. She wasn't a good tipper so I didn't allow myself to care, but somewhere deep inside I feel bad for her family. I'm sure they tried everything possible to get her off the horse, but nothing they could do would save her.

  That's fucking sad.

  But despite the sadness of it all I still maintain that the world is always a better place with one less junkie in it.

  Just the way I feel.

  I'm allergic to junkies....

 -The definition of comedy: watching five wasted 21 year old girls try to negotiate cab fare to a faraway town with an obstinate Nigerian unlicensed cabbie.

  It should be a Reality Show.

  Possible names for said show could be:

  1) 'You Pay Dearly, White Suburban Bitch'

  2) 'I'm Slightly Less Scary Than The Next Cabbie'

  3) 'Run Like Gazelle, Giselle'

  4) 'Cute Girls Should Ride For Free Because We're Cute'

-The Mercedes curse: If you're a stripper or have been considering becoming a stripper, don't choose the stage name Mercedes. It's a cursed name. Trust me on this. Not even going to justify my statement, just take my word for it.

  Avoid also: Melanie, any variation with "gold" in it, Lexus, most luxury car brands, Amber, Stephanie, royal titles and any name with four or more syallables that isn't 'Anastasia'.

  Well I'm done writing for tonight. I realize I haven't been consistent with pictures and their horridly amusing captions lately, but then again, fuck you.

  It's my blog.

  See Dick run. Dick run fast.

Rage ala Carte,
-The StripperHerder

Friday, July 28, 2017

Editing In Last Post.

  I'd like to point out that I did try TWICE to fix the font size on the tail end of the blog and that this fucking site won't let me for reasons unknown.

  That's all I have to say about it. Maybe some day I'll try again, but don't bet on it.

Thursday, July 27, 2017

We're Adrift In The Doldrums, Summer Can Eat A Giant Sack Of Members, God Help Us All. Or, Meet The Regulars, Pt 1.

Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

-Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Iron Maiden

  Of all the seasons I hate Summer the most. When I was a kid I loved it of course, no school, later bedtimes and whatnot. But now, as an irritable middle aged fuckstick prone to sweating for no apparent reason, I honestly cannot describe how much I loathe this season.

  WHY does it have to be so hot? There is no part of my genetic makeup that was conditioned to exist in anything over 75 degrees and even that for only a few weeks until Summer ran out and a better part of the year came around. My predecessors were all folk who were perfectly suited to living in a temperature range of 0-50 degrees for 90% of their life. And when it got too hot, there were glacier fed streams all over the damn place to cool off in or, failing that, at least some enemies blood to smear on their skin to keep the dreaded Fiery Eye from burning their milk white flesh.

  I'm talking about Vikings here, dear readers. My bloodline descends from Celtic tribes that were thoroughly raped by interbred with Vikings, tribes that didn't run fast enough when they saw some square sails on the horizon. Being as neither of these peoples were renowned for their resistance to sun and heat, they eventually produced creatures like me; total heat-pussies and sun haters.

  I prefer it to never be over 70, overcast with lots of rain and thunderstorms and suchforth.

  90 degrees plus with a swamplike humidity doesn't work for me. And it doesn't work for our industry either.

  The club has been S-L-O-W lately. There was a month or so period where it seemed like we were picking up steam and this culminated in the week where I made a fuckton of money in two nights and then......Summer ripped open it's top and offered up her juicy bosom to the masses. And they suckle like angry piglets, greedy yet happy so long as an easily accessible teat is in the offing.

  I hate them so much I wish I had a bigger font to write it in.

  Here's one specific thing that annoys the living shit out of me: our club is open later than all the others, on the weekends only. It's been almost 10 years we've had the same hours: open til 3 AM Sunday through Thursday, open til 5 AM on Fridays and Saturdays.

 It never changes.


  Nope. Complex.

  I say complex because I'm normally the "walk-out" guy, I escort the majority of the dancers to their cars when they leave in the wee hours. So I have to deal with the never ending stream of people pulling into our parking lot at 3:30 AM on a weekday thinking we're still open even though they've done this three hundred times before and we've never been open a single time UNLESS IT WAS A FRIDAY OR SATURDAY.

  They somehow fail to make any sort of connection between the instances of us being open or closed, or if there could be any sort of pattern involved that may be discernible to the average drooling fuckwit.

  Tonight was a prime example of this . Being a weekday, we closed down at 3 AM, like we have for the past 2600-something weekdays. But as I stood outside the club waiting for grumpy, annoyed strippers to be ready to walk to their highway death machines, I had to turn away an endless stream of jizz-brained would-be customers who figured we're open til 5 AM every night despite any supporting evidence.

  Boozed up useless clit-warts who would order wings and Red Bulls and fail to make their presence worthwhile, from a business sense if nothing else, if they could only figure out our baffling business hours!

  I literally turned away twice the number of customers as we had in the building when we closed, two thirds of which are pretty much regulars of one degree or another, who just assumed or hoped we'd be open til whenever they could be bothered to show up.

  I.E. when the other strip club they were at closed too.

  Fuck y'all with a porcupine, ass end first.

  Maybe this isn't something to brag about, depends on your perspective I guess, but I know when all my favorite businesses open and close, because in some specialized ways, I'm not an idiot. If I regularly patronize a business, usually a Chinese food or pizza place, but in less common circumstances my local hardware store or Ma and Pop grocery, I know their fucking hours.

  It ain't quantum physics and a bit of the good ole Trial And Error should've cleared the matter up for anyone who's not a yambag-dragging-beet-farmer.

  For fuck's sake.


  Here's another facet of cunt-brained behavior that drives me insane: in virtually club or bar there will be choke points, or "bottlenecks" in old school lingo. These are the narrowest points in a building, usually a hallway leading somewhere or something to that effect.

  So where do you think inconsiderate, situationally oblivious people hang out in the club? In the wide open space offered on our patio? In the normally uninhabited billiard area of the club?

  Huh-uh. The stand in clusters in the hallways, forcing each and every person to squeeze by or have to say "excuse me" to get through. This aggravates me to the point of horse-rape. Get the fuck out of the way you fucking mouth breathing snatch-hagglers.

  I'm done with being polite with these walking chancres. I just yell "Move" and bull my way through them and if they don't like it, they can file a complaint with my Manager who will likely laugh at them.

  I'm very charming.

  But enough about morons. I should've called this blog Plight of The IdiotHerder for as much as I discuss human stupidity.

  Let's talk about Strip Club Regulars.

  It's a whole thing unto itself.


  Regulars come in many varieties; the Nomad, the Baiter, the Lurker, the Whore-Whisperer, the Fetish-Twat just to name a few. Ninety percent of these species are useless to us Floor Hosts. They either have no money or are unwilling to spend what they do have, thereby making them utterly invisible to the Floor Yaks outside of maybe a brief, cursory handshake.

  So let's meet some of the patrons I regularly encounter in the execution of my duties.

 Wendell: Awkward, socially inept lonely guy, classified as a SAW even though he's of an age where he could be considered a SLOM Mk 1*1 Comes to the club for dinner frequently, but never talks to anyone. In my opinion Wendell is likely a serial killer who's chosen NOT to prey upon any of the club's dancers because he likes our quesadillas, or a cat-rapist who's building up the gumption to rape a human female and is planning it out very carefully.

  I could be wrong, but doubt it.

 Owen: A classic example of the Nomad species, Owen just goes from club to club and says "hi" to all of the people he met from going around to all the clubs and saying "hi" to people. He has no money, but doesn't really need it. He's such a fixture on the club scene of The Town™ that he never pays a cover despite the fact that he never spends a dime.

  After a while, Nomads become like extras in a movie scene. You let them in for free because they make the club look busier than it really is.

  The are special effects.

 Jubal: One of our regular Fetish-Twats who could be cross-classed with a Whale on a good day. Pretty generous when drunk. We Floor Grubs refer to him as The Flatland Strangler because his thing is choking girls in champagne rooms. He's very polite and straight forward about it and has yet to kill or even slightly damage a bitch, and he's been at it for years. He has girls who are his 'regulars' who seem to enjoy a little light throttling with their outrageous income.

  The point is that everything is consensual, mutually beneficial for all strata of the club ecosystem, and seems to leave all parties feeling pleased with the arrangement. He has lots of money to spend on his kink, and the dancers, the floor guys, the bartender, the waitresses and especially the Owner are happy to take his dough.

  He's a freak with lotsa money, and we're happy to have him strangling various choke-friendly gals in our environs.

 Chester: The name says it all. Chester the Molester. This creepy old fuck trawls the strip clubs searching for young women willing to exchange disturbing sex acts for currency. He's a lech and the only reason he doesn't bang junior high girls is because they fight and scream a lot and he isn't big nor strong enough anymore to overpower anything larger than an arthritic beagle.

 We still allow him into the club despite the fact that we know his game because he will buy champagne rooms to test out a stripper's defense mechanisms and pitch his cash-for-droopy-member-pleasuring offer.

  If it were up to me, I'd ban his conniving, pedophile ass. He embodies the DROP*2

  Dee: Drug dealer. Not sure what he slings, I suspect weed and coke but he's incredibly discreet about it. I don't think he even deals inside the club, but merely meets his clientele here to arrange amounts and prices. I could be wrong about this, but if he IS slinging IN the club, he's slicker than a turd on teflon because I've never caught him doing anything even remotely suspicious.

  Still, there's only one reason that the same group of 20-30 "regulars" gather at the club every goddamn weekend who haven't the slightest interest in spending money on the girls. They're either selling or buying something, or arranging to do so at a later point. Or maybe hoping to lure in some party strippers to exchange vag for blow.

  When you've done this job as long as I have, it becomes very obvious. But getting management to do anything about it is always an uphill battle, even when it's in the best interests of the business.

  Managerial fuckhats...

Sturgeon: Another big money regular who used to spend retarded amounts of money in the club. This was of course before he came under federal indictment for insurance fraud and medical malpractice.

  Nowadays he comes in with big money friends who take up the slack for his asset-freeze and attorney-debt and buy him cocaine and over-the-pants-handjobs form our less wholesome entertainers.

Emerson: Local service industry guy. Cook by trade if I'm not mistaken. I see him frequently and if forced to classify him, I'd label him a Nomad. He wanders from bar to bar, including all the strip clubs that are safe for a middle aged Pakistani man to enter. He enjoys talking to me about how none of the girls approach him when he's sitting at the bar and seems to suggest that if only they were to do so, untold riches may very well await them.

  I sigh and make sympathetic noises but like most of my interactions with patrons, it's all bullshit. I've known Emerson for a decade and I've seen him get maybe three dances in that whole span. He doesn't have a lot of money and just wants hot chicks to sit with him and talk for an hour before he rewards them by buying a single dance, maybe two.

  Beatrice: Large, loud but very friendly, aged lesbian. She looks like the leader of an all female biker gang; beefy, bleach blonde and always up for some fisticuffs. Beatrice hangs out at the club 3-5 nights a week, frequently riding her Honda Shadow in the Summer months. 

  It has saddlebags which I assume are full of dildos and guns.

  She's a good natured ole gal, enjoys pulling impressionable young dykes-in-training from the club and presumably running them through their paces, sexually speaking. If there's a fight she's on your side, which is where you want her. 

  Her fists are bigger than mine.

  The dancers love her and she's very protective of them, which has led to several altercations as Beatrice went all avenging angel on some rude dick who disrespected a stripper she likes. She hits really hard from what I've seen, and doesn't stop at one even if the dude is unconscious.

  From a managerial standpoint we should probably ban her, but it may cause a stripper uprising and no one wants that.

You know what? It's a post. I ain't doin pictures and none of you will complain about it.

Yer "What If?" nightmare,
-The StripperHerder

*1 Socially Awkward Weenie and Sad Lonely Old Man, Mk 2, as referred to in this post:

*2 See above linked archival post

Thursday, June 29, 2017

Never Go Fishing In The Pond You Harvest Money From. Or, Sometimes I Forget I'm Not 25 And Attractive Anymore.

  I may have mentioned recently that since the beginning of the year I have lost 60 something pounds. And while this is great and comes with a whole plethora of health and psyche benefits, it has also reinvigorated my sex drive, which quite frankly, I could do without.

  I was content with my utter lack of a sex life, it just didn't matter to me. Maybe I had low testosterone levels and my weight loss bumped them back up, I don't know. I DO know that it's really a fucking inconvenience at best and a curse at worst. I feel like I was more productive and happier with my lot in life when I wasn't craving pussy all day.

  It's goddamn distracting, I tells ya.

  So, like the absolutely moronic, glutton-for-punishment twat-groveler I am, I decided my job was the answer to my intercourse needs. And like the dichotomy that my occupation is, it is both the potential answer and definitely NOT THE ANSWER to my dilemma.

  Let me explain, for in my shame and embarrassment I find humor and hope you will also.

  I'll start by saying there are at least four girls at the club I could undoubtedly bang at will. Two out of four are junkies which takes them out of contention immediately. Of those two, one is actually still hot but the other junkie and the third chick are just gross to look at. And while I may be horny again, I still have some measure of pride, decency and common sense, at least enough not to stick my dick in a scatterbrained beehive full of needles.

  So far...

  The fourth gal is pretty and literally offered herself to me a couple of weeks back. The problem with this scenario is that I've watched her offer herself to a dozen other guys and these are just the ones I know about. Half the Floor Staff has banged her and I don't find dick-as-a-hobby girl's appealing, just not my thing. In addition to that she's really bony with ridiculous fake ta-ta's and has 4 children ranging in ages from 7-16, none of who's Fathers are around.

  This smells like horrible judgement, the neighbor of crazy, and I just don't want to get involved. Fortunately a lifetime of experience has enabled me to exercise some sort of veto power over my spuzz-musket and for that I'm thankful. If I was still saddled with the slavery my penis held over me in my twenties, I could really fuck my life up even worse than it is now.

  Small victories, people. Small victories...

  Therefore in my infinite wisdom, I decided to break the Golden Rule. Rule Numero Uno if you will. I.e. dating strippers. Guess how that all worked out for me?

  Let me preface this all by saying that my persona at the club is standoffish, not interested with idle chitchat or getting to know anyone at more than a superficial level. I'm the "mean" Floor Dude and since I'm the shuttle guy whenever I'm on the clock, I'm not around as much as the other Floor Bro's. I'm an angry mystery.

  So many of the dancers I work with, unlike the other Floor Gripes, have never spoken more than a word or two with me. A lot of them don't even know my name and I don't remember theirs unless they've been around a while or they're good tippers. Other than that, I can't be bothered. My job description has narrowed down to keeping them safe on their way to their cars and that's frequently done without small talk. Or tips for that matter.

  Now that I've covered that, there are a few strippers who like my gruff demeanor and who I've become friendly with over my time here. Most of them are half my age and I keep forgetting that there are only two reasons a young-twenties girl would date a mid forties guy who looks like me,

A) He has lots of money. Which I don't.

B) She has Daddy issues, which is a whole ball of wax I don't intend to stick my wick into.

  Ergo, it was with misplaced enthusiasm and blatant delusion that I asked a couple of dancers I work with out. As in "Obviously I want to screw, but I'm gentleman enough to try to get a date or two in before I attempt to bump uglies with you."

  My first mistake was the age gap, 22 and 24 were the respective ages of the girls in question, making me roughly twice their age. Oops. My only defense is that they're both tall, like me, and I find tall girls irresistible.

  Also take into account that both of them made (what I mistakenly took to be) advances toward me. I'm not the sharpest guy at reading chick-speak, I'm really not. I prefer the direct approach, like dancer #4 from above, not coy and deceiving gestures that may or may not be construed as flirting with purpose.

  The one girl came up behind me one day and grabbed my as and said, "Nice ass" in a very suggestive way. I've had innumerable strippers grab my ass and other bits over the years, but usually it's in an' annoy-the-big-guy' sorta way, not the 'I'm open to the possibility of boning' sorta style.

  I thought I knew the difference, but like so many other things in life, I was wrong.

  Long story short it was like being in Junior High again, I picked the right moment, gathered up my gumption and asked her out, like it was Prom or something. Fucking humiliating as anything. She said she was flattered but that she was seeing someone else. I wish I could covey what a total cunt I felt like at the time, but words don't really cut it. It was like being a crushed seventh grader who'd just been rejected for his first time, but with all the experience and mindset of a middle aged man to make everything that much worse.

  What the fuck was I thinking?

  The second one was even worser in my opinion and clearly illustrates the differing world views that my generation has compared to millennials.

  It goes something like this:

   I saw girl two outside of work one time. This clearly was NOT a date and both of us knew it. No sweat. Another day we're talking and I tell her about this annual camping trip I make with a bunch of my friends. She gets all excited because it sounds like a good time and she enjoys camping. So I invite her to it and she asks me if she can stay in my tent.

  It was at this point that I made a generational error. I assumed she meant by 'staying in my tent' that she was maybe interested in some adult pokey-pokey time. My bad.

  Allow me to justify my chauvinist standpoint before you rain SJW scorn down upon me.

  Back in my day, and by that I mean when I was in my twenties and was even then attending the same camping trip, there was so much fucking going on that people tended to be more open about it, clearer in their intent, so to speak.

  'Staying in your tent' meant you were gonna do naughty stuff with your dirty bits, unless otherwise stated in an unambiguous fashion. This became common practice, if you needed somewhere to crash for whatever reason, but didn't want to have sex, you asked to "Co-Somunate", or literally, sleep-together.

  Not fuck. The term was very clear about that.

  That being said, I don't expect someone who's never been to this thing to know the lingo, but again this illustrates the difference between two generations.

  In my generation if you ask to sleep in someone's tent, there's a reasonable expectation of hanky-panky and if that's not your intent, it's on you to make it clear.

  With the millennials, however, it's all different I guess. Which in my opinion, invites confusion and misunderstandings. Twenty-somethings today have the opposite mindset about the whole,situation. If they ask to crash in your tent than it means platonically, unless stated otherwise. I know this because I ran the situation by several other girls I'm friendly with, all of whom are the same generation.

  Their opinions were ironclad. I was wrong it appeared.

  I belong to a different people, of a different way of thinking. I have to remember that.

  And that, Dear Readers, ends my ill advised foray into attempting to date strippers from work. It didn't go well the first time, 16 years ago, and it utterly failed again, but in a much more emasculating fashion this time around.

  Didn't even kiss one of them. What a fucking loser.

  My degradation is your elation,
-The StripperHerder

Sunday, June 25, 2017

On Top Of The Mountain One Day, Smashed In The Valley The Next. Or, Speaking Of Smashed......

  One thing I can say about this occupation, it can certainly be a roller coaster of hatred and emotions. Mostly the hot, angry kind of emotions. But every now and then God removes His Cock from your ass long enough for you to be thankful you have the job, until Saturday rolls around that is.

  Yes Saturdays. When the majority of Murrika is out and about, having fun, getting drunk, fucking, doing stupid things. Except for us lowly service industry folk. Every Saturday night we're transformed into peasants, peons and plebeians, ready and waiting to be looked down at, shit on and walked all over, hopefully for some money!

  The job can be like a hamster wheel half submerged in liquid feces. You ain't going anywhere buddy, and the faster you run, the more shit you're going to get on you.

  Tonight was like that. I was pissed going in and I'm not that great at letting go of my cuntiness when riled up. It's ironic that this comes on the heels of the best two days I've had all year, that's where the roller coaster allusion comes into play. Highs to lows, unexpected like. I'd have liked to make an out of state trip to say goodbye to an old friend if I just could've got the okay to do so, but as you'll read below, that didn't happen. God put His Dick back in.

 Super Dynamic Management Team Laser-Falcon, Deploy!

  Special mention must go out to our primary management pair, Sir Osgood TempleVein V and Sir Whimsy-Whamsey Shufflekins III. Between the two of them, Saturdays are less fun than wrestling a jaguar right after you've had a full body massage with Fancy Feast and catnip.

                           "Grease me up. I'm gonna fight a giant cat that's gonna maul me horribly."

  I had texted Sir Osgood earlier in the day requesting the night off and letting him know I have another Floor Guy ready, willing and able to cover my shift for me. I just needed him to answer me back because the other guy has been sent home twice when filling in for me because he "wasn't needed" and he's sick and fucking tired of making the trip for nothing. Can't blame him.

  Well, almost 10 hours go by after I texted Sir Osgood twice and I get nothing. Nada. Eventually time to go into work rolls around and my options run out. Off to hospitality paradise I go, pre-basted with anger and bearing hate levels already at 2 AM altitudes.

  The fact that Mr. Templevein couldn't even be bothered to text me back at all, irritated the shit out of me. He could've sent me a simple "no" and I would've been a lot less poked-bear about the whole thing. I'm not even worthy of a response, it seems.

  And things went downhill from there.

  The Town™ is like a rat maze of closed street and detours, all crammed with idiots in cars and Uber-twats, except there's no hunk of cheese anywhere. If there was I would've found it by now. So getting anywhere took half an hour. Two minute trip? I'll be there in half an hour. Round the block? Better make it forty minutes....


  I always foam at the mouth with rage bordering on despair as I contemplate various harrowing scenarios and struggle with every fiber of my being to not say what I feel or act upon the urgings of the hostile rancor-monkey riding on my shoulder, shrieking condemnation and stealing Ray-Bans.

  I LOVE being stuck in traffic and forced to listen to you and your friends childish, drunken gibbered conversations, carried out at full volume and with minimal class.


  Seriously, keep all that money I just saved you in cab/Uber fares. You deserve it because you're all wearing dude-approved headgear.

  Add into this that the civic planners decided having four large events at the four cardinal points of the city which all ended at the same time, was a terrific idea. 'Hey, traffic is shitty after even one of these events, so why don't we plan four of them that all end together, strategically placed around the town to cause almost complete traffic paralysis? We can watch from the 40th floor while we beat off with caviar and pretend to enjoy scotch."

  That's what I picture a city planner meeting being like. Fish eggs, bad ideas, sheep liquor and jizz.

  Seems about right for the productivity level they achieve....


  Fuck you, you motherfuckers. I hope you're all raped to death by some sort of livestock and your seed dies off, thus negating the possibility of any legacy-fuckheadedness.

  Hmm. That seemed a bit harsh, even by my broad standards. Wishing death on children and such.

  Still, it's not like I haven't written worse things, so let's all get past it and move forward.

          Super Dynamic Management Team Laser-Falcon, Pt 2

  The other half of this dynamic duo is Sir Whimsy-Whamsey Shufflekins III, scion to a failed British sugar fortune, part time alcoholic and full time avoider of conflict and confrontation. Unfortunately for us Floor Apes, conflict resolution is part and parcel of a MANAGER's job description. There are very direct and forceful managers, and then there are managers like Sir Whimsy, total Ostrich-Style leaders.

                                              "WHERE'S MY BUCKET OF SAND?"

  Sir Whimsy is the specialist responsible for our ultra modern 'guess if you're working today?' school of scheduling that seems to be in vogue right now. Frequently you have to call work to find out if you're supposed to be there that day. While I embrace the cutting edge nature of this style of organization, I nevertheless often get the impulse to pick Sir Whimsy up bodily and throw him through some drywall. Perhaps while screaming at him, "Am I Working Monday? Am I Working Monday?"

  This is of of my many, many faults, daydreaming of throwing various managers, strippers and customers through cheap wallboard while bellowing something clever or at least memorable. Thank Gods it's a fault I'm aware of and am able to keep a lid on, no matter how many pry bars are thrown my way in the execution of my job description.

  Tonight was a close call. Brought home some realities to me, ergo it's time to get busy. So don't let this early Summer blast of productivity get your hopes up. I HAVE to work on another project from now on, forgive me.

  I'm sure you'll still get your Herder fix, but don't expect 6 posts a month, it's unlikely at best and science fiction at worst.

All the best,
-The StripperHerder