Sunday, July 24, 2016

A StripperHerder Situation Report. Or Sometimes Shit Is Good And Sometimes Shit Is Bad, Who'da Guessed It?

  It has been a long goddamn time since I've published something and I regret this. I've been extremely busy fucking my life up and making insanely poor decisions, the kind I normally criticize others for perpetrating.

  I let one of my demons get the better of me for four months or so and was slapped with a bill of consequence, which I paid, and came out through the other end licking my self inflicted wounds. It wasn't fun, it wasn't pleasant, but it happened and now I'm better than I've been in a long time.

  I've partially de-twatified myself...

   I don't remember where I left off, club narrative-wise, and I'm not going to go back through the last few posts to figure it out because I am a lazy piece of literary turd. Here's the current situation at the titty shack I work at every day.

Management: There was recently an all out war between management factions at out club which resulted in much havoc and yelling. This idiotic yet compelling struggle went back and forth a few times over the course of several fortnights before Sir Quimsmash Justifiable Batterchick VII eventually defeated Sir Gormby De Withercunt IV in one on one combat.

  Twas ugly, the War, but the Floor Guys were able to survive it by hunkering down and not doing anything illegal for 3 nights out of every week.

                                     Sir Quimsmash yodels his triumph. There is much rejoicing.

Floor Hosts: We just did the equivalent of a tribe of chimpanzees taking to the high canopy when a jungle cat was stalking around looking to eat some stray little monkey. We moved around a lot, stuck together, hooted and hurled some feces. We did whatever it took to survive when the management War Gods were painting every surface red in preparation for their cataclysmic cock-joust.

Persecuted primates, us Floor Guys, darting behind honesty and denial when Management hunts the environs. Hoot and fling, motherfuckers, hoot and fling! It was our only hope.....

                              Floor Guy Boris warns Floor Guy Jake away from his hiding spot.
                                     Jake panics; there's a Manager sniffing around at the base of the tree

Waytrezzes and Barpnenders: Our current brood of drink bringy-things and drink-makey things is hands down the worst batch I've ever had the misfortune to work with. Part of this can be blamed on the training at our club which is minimal and poorly conveyed at best. The rest of it, the majority in fact, can be blamed on hiring pretty morons and cute lazy bitches as waitresses and drink slingers.

             Tina is too stupid to drink from squirt bottles and therefore glad vodka doesn't come in them.

  One bartender recently put in a $150 food order at 2:22 when last call for the kitchen is 2 fucking 10 and we close at 2:30. TWO FUCKING TEN isn't a tough concept. It's just basic math. This girl also waitresses and just plain should have known better because:

A) It was going to take a minimum of a half hour to cook this order

B) The cook on duty is good on flavor, yet terrible at everything else. He doesn't prep as he goes along, he doesn't restock his line in between orders and he 's downright ignorant or apathetic about food safety.

  He was going to fuck this order up good.

                  This is how you thaw food products when you don't know how to thaw food products.

The Cooks: (See also-Gastrossassins, Bacteria Ranchers, Bowel Warfare Specialists) What can I say? They show up for their shifts and cook food. Everything else they do is a gamble with a crippling digestive tract affliction. If danger is a spice you enjoy with your food, then by all means-order away. I would rather rifle through garbage for my dinner, but that's just me. I'm picky like that.

                                      Four tickets and three hours into a shift last Tuesday. 

The Dancer Corps: Honestly, all in all, our bevy of titty-beasts is really fucking strong. We've got a lot of high end girls and a solid core of everydays. We very rarely have any issues with not having enough strippers to go around and our scary bitch quotient is quite low.

That being said they are still strippers and among them roam junkies, thieves, crazy chicks, and all manner of trash and predator. Despite these bad apples, random locker room assaults and all out stripper gang wars are almost nonexistent here.

In fact I've seen less stripper fights here in almost four years that I did at Cracky's Stabaret in less than ten months.


                                            "We're like, pretty and stuff! Yay!"

The Money: Although 2016 started off very weak as far as earnings go, it soon picked up quite a bit of momentum. The Town™ has been on a bit of a roll lately and it has translated nicely into some very lucrative nights for our club and us Floor Dudes.

This week for example I made $40 an hour for the week. Not bad for a high school dropout from a disadvantaged Samsquanch family.


                                "We too poor for school, son. You work in Service Industry."

The Bus: Still a piece of shit specifically engineered to cripple anyone over 5'8".

Bachelor Parties: Still suck. Cheap, wasted, despised, inevitable.

The Weather: Seriously Summer, go fuck yourself already. I hate you and can't wait for you to be over. Eat an infinite bag of dicks.

                                     Bob and Betty, local swingers, lurking in our parking lot.

  All right, if I'm cursing the weather then it's time to wrap this one up. Good night and thanks for reading.

-Da StripperHerder

Sunday, June 5, 2016

The StripperHerder Takes A Dumb Internet Survey And The Results Will Not Shock You.

  I love seeing the results of innane Facebook surveys that some of my friends feel compelled to post. I never take the things myself and would certainly never post the fucking results for all the world to see if I had been honest with my answers.

  I'm fairly certain that I would qualify as 'mildly to moderately sociopathic' if I were to be judged by classic 1980's era psychoanalytic standards.*1

  But by today's whiny-pussy-no-one-is-a-loser-standard I'm merely 'experiencing psychodramatic stress revival due to reliving the traumatizing chapters of a childhood that wasn't one hundred percent perfect'. Or something like that. Some amazingly clever word bullshit that doesn't really mean anything at all but sounds suitably pathetic and unenviable on paper.

  So I decided I need to take one of these quizzes and publish the results. For concerned citizens and and amateur psychobabblists everywhere.

  Without further ado, I give you The Lame Facebook Quiz quiz. Probably scrawled unto the internet by some sort of happy mongoloid, a perpetually elated microcephalic love machine capable only of optimism and unadulterated joy.

  Possibly a teenager.

Q.  Be honest, do you like people in general?

A. Nope. Pretty convinced we need a new superbug to thin the ranks. I see people at their worst and wish horrible things would happen to them because I'm a petty and vindictive prick.

Q. Are you easy to get along with?

A. Nope. I tend to be domineering in a passive aggressive way because I don't really care for confrontations but find I don't normally need to force one in order to have my way. I try my best to be humble but don't always manage it and when I fail, I fail big.

Q. Would you rather have ten kids or none?

A. Even at my hungriest I could never finish ten kids, and quite frankly I'm terrible at making jerky and curing leather so much of the kids would be wasted. Since I'm sorta a conservationist by inclination, I'll go with none instead of ten.

  I've seen so many lives ruined by child infestations*2 that it just seems to me like a way to give yourself a parasite that drains resources that could otherwise be used to have a good time and buy cool shit.

  I don't get it. 

Q.  Do you start the water before you get in the shower or when you get in?

A. My shower is a flimsy plastic stall barely large enough to contain my Celto-Squatchish frame, therefore I must establish an acceptable temperature before I enter the shower, for once in it, there is nowhere to hide from the water.

Q. Would you rather spend a Friday night at a concert or a massive party?

A. I'd rather spend it at home where it's air conditioned, the beer is insanely cheap, and the only dudes urine I'll be standing in while I piss will be my own, thank you very much.

Q. Do you hate the last girl you had a conversation with?

A. Nope. Actually I really like the girl. She's a sparky little bitch with a bit more attitude than I generally like to see in a hot midget, but she's a platinum level tipper and that cannot be ignored when most of the strippers I work with nowadays have any idea who I am or what my name is.

  If I had a fan club she would be at least the Vice President, if not Infante.

Q. What was the last drink you put in your mouth?

A. Labatt Ice currently, but I suspect at any moment that could change to vodka and Venom. 

                                      Best tasting energy drink on the market, hands down.

Q. Who is your hero?

A. A guy named Michael Apotomy from Scranton Pennsylvania. Mike came into the club I was working in one night back in 2008 I think it was. He charged 4 hours in a champagne room with two different dancers, had two steak dinners with lobster tails and asparagus, ordered and drank 4 or 5 bottles of Dom and then shit himself while he got a dance and didn't even blink nor acknowledge his boo boo.

  We only found out about it when the dancer came screaming out of the room, running all bowlegged because her inner thighs were coated in a wealthy man's poop paint.

  Mike was fucking awesome. Sure we had to clean his doody-butter off a couch, but he tipped the hell out of us for our trouble. Both us Floor Guys made more than the strippers who were in the room that night and neither one of us had to get shit on to do it.

  Fucking Mike, man...

Q. Who are you going to vote for in the 2016 election?

A. Unlike many other writers, commentators and just plain everyday people I interact with daily, I have no problem telling you who I plan to vote for.

  I will be casting my vote for Gary Johnson, Libertarian candidate for President of the United States of M'Murrika. I'm doing so for many reasons which I don't have the sobriety left to tackle at this time. I voted for him last time around as well, but this year he's enjoying unprecedented support due to independent voters being appalled by both The Donald and The Hillary.

  I will also freely admit that if I were only given the choice between Hillary and Trump with
no other option, I'd vote for Trump. He's the realest candidate I've ever seen, speaking his mind when any polished or sane candidate/incumbent would be vague or noncommittal. Yeah he says a lot of crazy shit, but politicians say all kinds of stuff they really don't mean too.

  It's called lying.


  Trump knows that his main support comes from people who are exhausted and frustrated with the current system of lobbying and corporate graft. He also scares the living fuck out of his own party, all of the Establishment and is quite possibly crazy.

  Should shake things up if nothing else. Hillary is a stagnant, wholly owned subsidiary of several corporate entities. I find her shady, flip floppy and yet more predictable than the Donald. 


                 RANDOM TIDBITS  

 -In my last six shifts I have made over $2600 in tips and another $500 or so in hourly. This is good. Things had been looking pretty bleak for most of this year so far, but May was a pleasant surprise and I hope June is even better.

  I like pummeling my debt like it owes me money.

-The Management Wars took a bloody turn the other day when out of the blue and with no apparent provocation, Sir Glumly d'Overbite IV was fired by the owner's Orbital Tactical Termination Orb (OTTO)*3, spraying random dancers with hot skull shrapnel and generally making a big mess that the Floor Bastards had to clean up.

  The remaining Manager, Sir Osfried Vandalkoch IX, pretends to be shocked and appalled, but we all know he's quietly smug about his crushing victory. He now holds absolute power and will no doubt abuse it regularly.

  He has become Vader.

-I watched 2 of my fellow Floor Beasts open a door with an assaulty customers face the other day. Then, because he continued to be a combative, violent twat, they hurled him mouthdown onto the sidewalk, spraying teeth all over like someone spiked a box of Tic Tacs. He didn't move for a while but then started choking on his blood so he had to wake up or die.

  He went with 'Wake Up'. Then he opted for 'Continue Hostilites' and things got messier for all involved. Skinny fuck just wouldn't give up; big brass balls, tiny little fists, shocking amounts of chin and a noticeably reduced level of food chewing capacity.

  Arms like pipe cleaners. SO lucky his two friends were smarter than him.

-I ran into Vodzilla tonight, my ancient foe. We embraced awkwardly because she hoped that I would let her in for free based on our history of violent confrontations and mutual hatred. She happened to be wrong though and I refused to let them pass without paying the full amount, drunk with power.

  I whupped her like Mothra and charged her $10 just to use the bathroom while her BF had to wait in the lobby.

  Classic. I fucking win, 'Zilla.

  Fuck all this, I'm ordering gyros. You can scorn or praise me here:

Nubs ya,
-The StripperHerder.

*1 Don't worry, I'm really laid back about it.

*2 Like my parents for example. I was a shitty child with many flaws and very little apparent upside. I feel like by merely avoiding prison that I exceeded their wildest expectations. They're both dead now so I can't ask them. However I'd like to think that if they'd had the opportunity to go on record about their hopes and aspirations for me, they both would've said "He's probably gonna end up killin some poor bastard some day. We tried our best, but that boy has the White Man in him."

                                 Mom and Pop, vacationing in British Columbia, 1970. The only
                                         known photo of her in a two piece. I would ruin her body shortly after 
                                         this pic was taken and our family would suffer anti-squatch sentiments
                                                                   in rural Pennsyltuckianna.

*3 OTTO, literally Orbital Tactical Termination Orb**. Basically a military grade laser mounted on a reasonably advanced satellite built by one of Murrika's burgeoning McSpacewar companies.

**The owner's name for it. I would've named it something much cooler if I was the money-enraged capitalist owner of said....Flying...Death Eye. KillBeam. Thingy.


Thursday, May 19, 2016

When It's Officially Bachelor Party Season®, Scatterguns Are An Essential Component For Your Saturday Night Kit. Or, Ssshhhhh! You Hear That? That Sure Sounds Like A Bus Load Of Broke Fuckwits...


  In my industry there are what we know as 'Limo Buses' and there what I refer to as 'Prison Buses'. There is a large quality gap between these opposite ends of the mob transit spectrum

  Limo Buses are everything you'd expect them to be. They are luxurious, expensive and sometimes contain wildly decadent extras such as stripper poles, hot tubs, marble countertops, a member of Motley Crue or maybe even a live Ewok; caged for your pleasure. Who the fuck knows all the secret crazy shit you can get if you throw enough money in the right hands in the right city?

  It all depends on what you're willing to spend. And maybe who you know.

                              Probably NOT for the sleeveless flannel and ball cap crowd.

  Prison Buses, on the other hand, are just refurbished and non air conditioned school buses (not kidding) that are slapped with a garish paint job and rented out to mobs of frothing plebians for a fraction of the cost of an actual Limo Bus. They have awesome features like hard, cramped seats, mostly working windows and all the ride comfort you remember from being bounced to school in one of them when you were a kid.

                                              This night will end up special.

  No class, no style and most definitely no fucking money. Prison buses are the worst, no one in the service industry wants to see one pulling up in front of their club. Might as well be some Mad Maxian War Bus armed with catapults that fire barrels of coral snakes and transsexual berserkers.

  Fucking bleak.

                            "TITTIES! WHOO! ALL RIGHT STEVIE! YEAH! TITTIES! WHOOO!"

  I know I've never had much positive to say about Bachelor Parties in this blog and this is for many reasons. At best Bachelor Parties are a necessary evil and at worst they are nightmares staggering around on too many legs, spending too few dollars and barfing on everything. Small minded fecal accretions, mobile and plagued by halitosis, running about ruining other peoples' good times.

  This may not describe every BC that comes through our doors, but it's close enough for Plight purposes. Consider it gospel. For all intents and purposes, Bachelor Parties are the enemy.

                                         "Stevie! Him have good time! Whoooo!"


   And that, dear readers, is all the fuck I'm gonna say about that.

   The rest of this installment I'm going to do with even less regard for structure than I normally approach a post with, which is almost none.

  I am going to do this just for grits and shins.

-The ongoing Cold War between Management factions has been heating up lately and while admittedly it's sort of interesting to watch the battle play out, you gotta take care not to get caught in the crossfire or draw attention to yourself in any way that may result in your village being shelled.

-A Management Civil War can get real ugly, folks. The wise remain neutral and avoid committing to one side or another for as long as possible.*1 They huddle in the ruins of their job security and pray that the superpowers nuke each other out of existence and make way for a new tomorrow.

A tomorrow where maybe sane stuff could happen one day and there's a lot less yelling.

-I had to field a call from a wealthy idiot the other day because my MisManager was busy doing something else*2 and he used his Dread Management Powers to Displace Responsibility Unto Others, namely me.

 I pretended to be a Manager when I spoke to him. I asked hard hitting questions. I informed him that he needed to request a receipt history from his card provider and that he will see that he signed everything and even more than that we have him signing every receipt on camera.

  He just gets too drunk to remember. That's what we have our legal teams for. Elite ninja-dick lawyers capable of extreme sorrow and town-burning; all sorts of connected.

  That is all for you and it is more than you deserve, loyal followers.

  No I'm just kidding. Spread the 'Herder like Herdpes.



 This is all I have for you. Your hate feeds me chili dogs.

-The StripperHerder

*1 I have now been approached by both of the major factions waging the Great Slap-Bitch War of Attrition, 2015-? I have implied to both, without committing resources, that I am fully on their side; tally-ho, smite yer foe and whatnot.

I lied to them both.

I am a third party supporter.

*2 Something so integral to societal cohesion and cultural integration that he couldn't be bothered to speak to a customer complaining of $33,000 worth of charges from the month of April alone stemming from our club.**

**The Customer is Wrong. In this case.

*3 LLV: Laughing Like Viking. Raucous and without concern.

Monday, April 18, 2016

Three Questions For A Surly Dick. Or, Serious Answers To Legitimate Queries.

Q. Forget all the 'ancestral family business of stripperherding bullshit', how did you really get into the titty bar industry?

ME: "All right, ya got me. My family haven't been stripperherders since the Viking Age, I made that up because it amuses me. The thought of my Dad and Grandad being strip club bouncers makes me chuckle. My Grandad would've probably perved on them a bit while telling them endless tall tales that were always built around a kernel of truth. He was a mere 5' 10".

  My Dad on the other hand, while only 6'2" on a good day, would've tried to fuck as many strippers as he possibly could before he got fired cuz ole Pop was a fucking horndog. I think back on some of Dad's 'girfriends' and shudder. My Pappy banged some truly hideous bitches in his time, the memories of some still haunt me to this day. I can't recall a single hot chick ever, shockingly plain is the best one that comes to mind and Pop offered to hook me up with her.

  I was maybe 9 or 10 at the time and quite frankly freaked out about the thought of a gaunt biker ho rummaging around in my undies, which is what I thought sex was at the time. Remember that I grew up without the benefit of instant online porn. I never actually saw honest to goodness moving picture porn til I was fifteen, so bear with me. It was a different time.

   While I told my Dad I didn't really want to be undy-rummaged by a crackhead, I did have the presence of mind to ask if I could have a new Matchbox car instead, hoping Pop might feel vaguely weird about offering one of his offspring some subcontracted defloration.

   Dad bought me one. Score.

  What I chose turned out to be a Vauxhall Guildsman and it became one of my favorite cars. I called it "Forty"

            Not a bad looking car, but Vauxhalls in 1971 were built even worse than Dodges were in 1983.

  I later discovered that Vauxhall never actually made the Guildsman, but that it was a concept car based off submitted drawings from the public or some such weird British nonsense. Falking Limeys....

  But I digress. How did I get my first titty club job? Simple. Up until 1999, most of my jobs had been either a cook, or working at one particular warehouse for 9 years. There were a few other varied jobs in there too, for I am a man who doesn't like to be unemployed for more than a week or two, but for the purposes of this discussion, let us say that I was either a cook or a warehouse stock puller.

  When my life sorta fell apart in 1999, I moved outta The Town, and headed East, eventually ending up in Another Town a few hours away. I had moved in with some friends, two of which were hot chicks. Serious hot. They eventually got into the stripper trade and one day one of them asked me if I wanted a job being the 'chef' at the upscale club they both worked at because their present 'chef' had stolen so much food from the club that it had to switch distributors because it was $6K in debt to its current one.

  I said 'yes'.

  So it was 1999 and my first strip club job was cooking in an upscale club. I made a lot of money doing it, about $800-1000 cash a week, most of which I spent on blow.

  Not proud of that and certainly don't recommend it, but there you go. It was the culture of the club from the top down and I just wanted to fit in.

  And I turned out I really liked cocaine. Sue me.

  Next question....

Q. What's the most you've ever made in a night?

  A bit over $2000. This from a super generous sporthlete who personified the antithesis of the stingy, self absorbed professional which seems to be the industry standard. I also found nearly the same amount on the patio in an envelope one night and put it in my pocket, expecting someone to ask about it and thoroughly ready to return it because that's the kind of douche I am.

  No one ever asked about it at all. Nothing. Nada. Not so much as a peep. Found out it was from a perpetually drunk rich guy who didn't even bat an eyelash.

  So I fucking kept it, split half of it with the other Floor Dudez, which I didn't really have to do, and it was a good night.

  On the other side of the coin I've had plenty of nights where I've just made my less-than-minimum-wage hourly rate and not a red cent more. They're not common, but they happen. Like asteroid strikes.

  Next question.

Q. How many titty bars have you worked at in your career?

  I'll let the Count field that one for me.

                                           "Seven! Seven titty bars! Ah-Ah-Ah.

  In two states right next to each other on one big ass continent. Narf 'Murrika, bitch. Jingo!

  Let's move on.

Q. Fine. Who is you favorite all time dancer to work with?

  That's impossible for me to answer with any certainty. I worked with a lot of girls over the years and I've liked a lot of them. I guess if I had to name a favorite, I'd dodge it by saying that there's a certain metatype of stripper that I like working with the best and that's The Operator.

  Operators are strippers who are deadly focused on making money, single minded like carnivorous plants or blood-horny makos. They were put on this miserable ball of spinning mud for one purpose and one purpose only: to take delusional mens' money and convert it into one of history's great shoe or handbag collections, or even, in some cases, a fucking financial empire.

  I like them because they almost never get drunk, they're seldom junkies and they know how to play the game and run all the dry hustles. They encourage the customers to buy them drinks that get sipped at, left behind and dumped in toilets because they realize that the club has to wet it's beak too and they have power over the mongoloids shambling about the club.

  The whole club ecology runs on the premise that the customers are the prey and that every facet of the business (the Dancers, the Floor Guys, the Waitresses, the Bartenders, etc etc...) is its own pack of predators looking to take down the biggest money-elk. Often we are at direct odds with one other, each tribe doing what it can to fuck the other one over.

  But every now and then, in a well run club, all the custavore clans come together in a feeding frenzy of well orchestrated shim-shammery and glitter-fraud which nonetheless makes a well to do customer happy for some reason and leads to money permeating all the layers of the vag-o-sphere.

  Even the kitchen sometimes.

  You know, for a guy supposedly on hiatus, I'm still delivering the goods. I guess the dozen or so comments I was deluged with when I announced my time off really spoke to me. The way I see it, I'm giving upwards to fifteen people a reason to live by posting some new content. I feel good about this.

 Coulda hadda mora picturras,

-The StripperHerder

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

FrankenPost: Wounding One Bird With Two Stones. Or, My Short Attention Span Is Really

 All righty then dear readers, I've been having some issues lately with what I guess a more professional and dedicated writer might refer to as 'writer's block', yet what I still can't help thinking of as 'lazy fuckishness'.

  Whatever the case may be, over the past three weeks I've started several posts, made some headway and then lost my all my momentum. I've struggled, not unlike a baby raccoon versus a medium sized rat snake, to make some sort of further progress on any of the active drafts I have going right now and have found myself frustrated. Fighting over each and every word. No flow whatsoever.

  So I said to myself "Fuck It". I'm going to post the two of the fragmentary drafts I have and hopefully, introduce/elaborate on them to some degree. I've already come to terms with the fact that nothing positive comes out of this horrible blog, so this latest hacked together monstrosity of an installment shouldn't be any surprise to folks who've read more than a dozen of my posts.

  Viva La Substandarde!

  Original crap in blue wordies.

  First Post. The infamous 'self censored' post. I felt it was a bit hardcore to be sharing with general humanity since people nowadays are so motherfucking soft.

  I've had a few friends saddled with this demon and as a result I initially chose not to post it so as not to offend them. I've since rethought the issue and decided to post it anyway. Fuck 'em. They know they were wrong, those who survived.

  This plague has become a real issue of late, rather than isolated cases. It drives me mad, contemplating the waste....

  Heroin is getting to be an epidemic where I'm from. Apparently we decided to part ways with methamphetamine and forced it out into the rural countryside so the Horse could run free all over the Town and surrounding area.

  I don't understand heroin or the people who become addicted to it. It should be blatantly obvious that as far as drugs go, it's a whole new ball game compared to weed or even cocaine. In fact, since we're on the subject, let's run down all the things that everyone knows about heroin, for the benefit of the truly innocent among us.

Heroin Fact #1: It's horribly physically addictive and extremely difficult to quit.

Heroin Fact #2: You can do heroin in a variety of ways: snorting, smoking, skin popping and of course, shooting. But if you keep doing it, you will end up shooting it which is the most dangerous, effective and harmful delivery method.

Heroin Fact #3: Since there's zero quality control and a good chance that the chain of people who've handled the heroin before it got to you don't, in fact, give a shit about you, there's an almost 100% chance that you'll overdose at some point during your needle shenanigans.

Heroin Fact #4: Once you're hooked, you get fucking sick as hell when you don't have it. This sounds especially fun.

Heroin Fact #5: Once you're hooked you'll cease to be amazed by the depths you're willing to plumb to get your next fix. Despicable things become commonplace.

Heroin Fact #6: Eventually you'll burn every bridge you have as your friends and family become exhausted with you and give the fuck up.

Heroin Fact #7: At some point you'll share a needle with someone, or just use one you found on the ground. It won't matter enough to you not to do it. Hep C and HIV await....

  Even the dumbest fuck on the face of the planet is aware of 1 through 4, even if they're not intuitive enough to extrapolate points 5 through 7. I, personally, feel like everyone should know NOT to do heroin, like it should be just plainly obvious that you don't even want to be around it, much less try it.

  I'm not trying to be preachy here, god knows I have no moral high ground to stand on. I have, at one time or another either tried or enthusiastically and repeatedly partaken of a large majority of the available drugs in America, up to and including: cocaine, weed, meth, acid, mushrooms, mescaline, ecstasy, perks, xannies, opium, uppers, downers, wowzers, screamers, etc etc.

  Places where I drew the line: freebasing coke, crack, smoking anything out of a lightbulb, heroin, special K, PCP, wet, huffing or any of that other crazy drug shit I don't even know about.

  And yet, here we are. Smack is enjoying a new level of popularity among the masses and people are OD'ing around here like mad.

  Here's my opinion and I realize it won't be popular: fucking die already. Junkies contribute nothing to society except for the occasional shitty song and lots of crime and misery. So my feeling is if you're just stupid fucking enough to try it, then the quicker you can OD and remove yourself from the planet, the better it will be for every non-junkie living here.

  I will even go one step further and state that law enforcement and customs should take every gram of heroin they confiscate, poison it with some slow acting agent, and release it back out onto the streets. Save us all some time and money.

  If this stance seems harsh to you, then by all means fuck off. You obviously haven't had to deal with smackheads for a living, or you're just a far better person than I am. Probably both.

  Let me share just one particular example with you. It's a girl who dances at the club I'm at and she's a worthless junkie. Recently her boyfriend's Mom or Dad passed away and left them a bit over $40,000. It took the two of them just over a month to blow through that money AND they're currently being evicted because none of the money went to rent.

  Think about that for a second. Over forty THOUSAND dollars. That's more than I make in a year and yet they managed to shoot that much junk in about 5 weeks and didn't even plan ahead enough to pay a few months rent in advance. A thousand dollar a day habit between the pair of them and they didn't even have to common courtesy to overdose.


  Their only saving grace as far as I'm concerned is that they haven't bred yet and brought a child into the world who's fucked from Day One.

  I thank them for that.

  So what you may have gathered from that draft is that I really don't like having anything to do with junkies and other assorted drug addicts. Unfortunately for me, many of the strippers I work with and the customers who routinely inhabit the club are narco-o-vores of one stripe or another and that's just the lay of the land.

  Do all the drugs you want, just don't let them turn you into a giant piece of shit. Handle your habits like a grownup and take responsibility for the fallout of your actions.

   Draft #2: It's all about dress codes and strippers fighting in rafters.

 Most dancers rarely do anything different when they go on stage. In my experience their 'dancing' has almost nothing to do with the music and I truly believe you'd get virtually the same dance experience from them regardless of whether Cannibal Corpse or Enya was playing.

  Some of the more talented ones will step up their pole tricks when there's a particularly large or generous crowd. They'll shimmy on up to the top of the pole, hang upside down with their titties all akimbo and sometimes even crawl into the ceiling rafters and begin constructing nests out of singles while the DJ narrates everything like a white trash David Attenborough.

  I like when they fight over nesting space. I like ceiling fights.

Quite frankly, this topic was getting to be a bit silly when I decided to switch it up to Dress Codes. A further symptom of my lack of ambition.

                                           Dress Codes

  Within the service industry, dress codes exist for a reason. They are designed to weed out undesirable customers, or to give the staff an excuse for doing so. That's it. Read into it whatever you want, but different clubs cater to different crowds and strive to create an atmosphere where they're preferred clientele feel comfortable and relaxed. We, for example, strive to keep out the worst of the criminal element and luckily for us they generally make it pretty easy to do.

The single most important demographic to the clubs I've worked for has been white males 35-70 who have piles of money to spend and are willing to do so provided they feel like they're not going to get robbed or killed while doing it and there's a reasonable chance they might come away from the situation with a blowjob. 

  It's not much to ask, really. 

  As most other clubs operating on our level, we list our Dress Code as 'Business Casual'. That of course is a bunch of haggard bullshit. If we strictly enforced the rules, we'd have 6 guys sitting around on most nights.

  Basically, here's all that's left that we still don't allow (so far...)*1

-Athletic Shorts
-Plain White T Shirts/Wifebeaters

  The reason that we and other strip clubs don't allow the first three is because pervy, desperate men will come into the club wearing them, sans underwear, and pay a dancer to grind on them til they launch a shame salvo and then exit the club proudly displaying their ignominious spuzz stain; their leer indicating a sense of accomplishment.

  Did I mention it's a tawdry industry?

  Yet over the recent years and months, we've given up the fight against sandals, plaid shorts, baggy jeans and even hats. Hats have always been a bone of contention in every club I've worked at that has a dress code. They were a line in the sand and a fine way to deny entry to anyone stubborn enough not to remove them and we used this asset with pointedness and a fair amount of satisfaction.

  But them we gave up. Fuck it all. Wear whatever you want. Standards are slipping like a landslide in this godforsaken 'burg and at the present rate, we're all going to be washed down the mountainside of slack bellied, monkey-tittied mediocrity and into the valley of fiscal damnation.

  This is my way of segueing into a topic that I have oft spoke about, though usually in regard to other clubs I've worked at in the past and not my present one. That topic, my friends, is Catastrophically Unattractive Strippers.

  CUS's are a constant in the industry. Unless you work at some gilded Valhalla of a booby bar in a top five market, there's going to be less desirable and even downright vile bitches working nearly everywhere, padding out the numbers until hotter girls can be hired/imported. All in all, my present place of employment has had the best track record for maintaining a bevy of above average entertainers. Lineups fluctuate of course, but taken as a whole, the overall titty team here at insert club name here has always been varying degrees above the local competition.

  Yet I fear, esteemed readers, that these golden days may indeed be coming to a close.

  You see the Owner has been pressuring our management to keep a minimum of thirty dancers on weekdays and fifty to sixty on weekends. Honestly this is more than we need most nights and as a result many girls go home having made nothing and incurring make-up shifts because they couldn't cover their house fees.

  But that doesn't mean we haven't been hiring. Blindly hiring in my opinion. I think a war of attrition may be beginning between the Owner and our Manager, Sir Bloodwyrm Yve Adenov VI, resulting in an infestation of slatternly slobs who have no business gracing our stage.

  Let me give you two stunning examples of our new hires before I quit fucking writing this goddamn post.

  I'll call them Death Camp and Telltale Helen.

  Death Camp is the boniest human I've seen outside of Holocaust photography, and I've seen some ridiculously skinny bitches in my day. She's at least 5'6"-5'7", but if she tips the scales at 80 lbs, I'll fight any wild animal you can name while smeared in fish guts and dirty diapers. That's how confident I am. To simply state that she's emaciated would be to miss the opportunity to say she can disappear behind the brass pole and I'm unwilling to do that.

  She is hands down the most unhealthily undernourished human I've personally witnessed who was still animated; built like a stingray but flatter and with many more ridges. At around 9 pm tonight (her second night at the club) I found her unconscious on one of the couches in our lobby, waiting for her ride. I nudged her feet until she came to and we had the following interaction:

ME "You can't sleep here. Go to an unoccupied champagne room."

HER "I'm sorry, I've been her since 1:00. I'm so tired."

ME "CAT-RAPE! You worked eight fucking hours today!!!!!!!!"

HER "Yeah I know. It felt like forever. I can't wait to snort more narcotics go to sleep."

ME "You should eat more doughnuts. Have you had a bowel movement this year?"

Her "............" (unconscious again)

  Beyond her colossal unappealingness physically, she's also dumb as fuck, more's the pity. Missed every single stage call on the night and can't understand basic instructions or forgets them thirty seconds later. Same difference.

  A year ago this sort of thing would've never happened.....

  That brings me to Telltale Helen and the end of this post-that-wasn't-supposed-to-be. I call this gal Telltale Helen in honor of Helen Keller and Edgar Allen Poe's story, The Telltale Heart. I do this because she has a creepy outward pointing eye that I'm sure is blind and when she cornered me to introduce herself last night, I felt myself unconsciously bobbing around trying to keep myself in her field of view and staring at a point just above and to the left of her good eye because I didn't know where to look.

  Unfortunately for Helen, the wonky eye is the least of her problems and her even being here, employed at the club, only serves to illustrate the point I'm trying to make about the falling grade of our average dancer.

  Before I even met Telltale, I saw her on the stage and couldn't believe what I was seeing. Poor Helen, god bless her, is a physical trainwreck. Never seen anything like her on our stage outside of the often grisly amateur contests. She's either had one 80 lb demon of an infant or a whole host of nipple-hangers which have completely and utterly ruined whatever used to occupy her bra. Her breasts literally look like two antique baseball mitts with reservoir tips like the wizened ends of venison sausage.

  Her belly and ass are even less entrancing, but I figure you get the idea.

  The War is heating up and will surely be interesting to caught in the middle of.

Take This Job And Love It,

-The StripperHerder


*1 Here's a list of all the things that are now OK that would've caused you to be denied entry five years ago:

-Sports Jerseys on non-game nights
-Gay-ass shorts
-Sleeveless shirts
-Hats of any kind, no matter how douchey or ghetto
-Ripped jeans
-Sweater vests (just kidding, we still don't allow them)
-Apparel from rival strip clubs
-Dirty clothes
-Prison jumpsuits
-Biker colors
-A lack of socks

Friday, March 18, 2016

St. Fat Prick's Day, A Postscript.

  Here is an excellent illustration of why I hate drunk people, and thus by extension, St. Fat Prick's Day:

  In our state ALL alcohol has to be off the tables, out of customers' hands and can't even be present anywhere on the club floor after a certain time. For the sake of argument, we'll call it 3:00 AM.

  We have the DJ do last call at 2:40 and serve until 2:50 (which we shouldn't). Starting at 2:55 we start going around and letting everyone know that we're pulling all the alcohol off the floor in accordance with state law and they have maybe a minute to finish their drinks. We do this a couple of minutes early because if the vice squad were to stop by at 2:56 and tell us it's 3:01, who do you think the court will believe?

  We always get idiots. There are always people who haven't heard the DJ's repeated warnings or somehow thought that this didn't apply to them. We're pretty patient with them if they show a true acknowledgement of the situation and a willingness to swill down an overpriced drink so as not to be a douchebag. This being said I have many times had to rip the drink out of some dude's hand who was bound and determined to be as nonchalant and trying as possible.

  Exhibit A for this St. Asshole Day is a guy I'll call DonkeyCum Bonger. I didn't catch his real name but he had a large Detroit Tigers style "D" on the back of his cuntmobile so I just made an assumption.

  Anyway DonkeyCum was very upset with the floor staff because the drinks he purchased at 2:30 and couldn't finish within a half hour because he's a mealy mouthed little party favor, had disappeared from his table as he wandered the club, spreading his special kind of shithead into every crevice.

  He starts complaining to my fellow Floor Snipe, Seamus. Bitching that his drinks disappeared and asking what the fuck was going on. Seamus showed incredible restraint, far beyond what I was capable of after driving around an Irish holiday for the past 6 hours. He explained about those pesky state laws and how they insisted that all booze be gone by 3 AM. He did this repeatedly and with increasing slowness, like someone who discovers that they're addressing a drooling mongoloid and not, in fact, a rational intelligent human being.

  Donkey-Bong gets increasingly agitated because we can't understand his flawed logic. He said that he believed that if he purchased the drinks before last call, then he was free to drink them at his leisure and the law says that's OK. We assured him of his error, repeatedly, my manager Sir Palewheat P. Hatebread even joining in and himself exercised astonishing patience.

  DonkJizz got real shitty at this point. Motherfucking everyone indiscriminately. Again, Seamus and Sir Palewheat displayed a coolness and lack of violence that I can only stand in awe of. I would've escalated about 2 minutes in, if that.

  Because he was so focused on being a twat to my co-workers he hadn't the slightest idea I was standing about a yard behind him, ready to swoop like a lummox-of-prey.

  Full nelsons for everyone! With an optional ring finger into the mandible pressure point, which I can assure you is entirely unpleasant.

  Now to keep everything in perspective, he was being unbelievable shitty for drinks that he'd paid $14 for and had 25 minutes to consume, not to mention several warnings from the godlike voice of the DJ about finishing your beverages before the staff has to pull all alcohol and glassware off the tables. His belief system concerning state liquor laws notwithstanding, his whole attitude was one of 'I am the worst of Homo Chancrous, a true unrepentant rectal sore of a human. If you punch me I'll squirt pus.'

  I SO wanted to punch him. Or headbutt. Or elbow. Whatever. I had endless options.

  These are the times that try one's soul. St Fatty's is among the very worst Occasions from a chaos/profit perspective in the hospitality sector. Everything smells of half digested corned beef, bile and sour beer. Drunks are sledding on hills lubricated by barf; giddy on forced, meaningless cheer from a concept lost to most of them and alien to the rest.

  Santa Claus with Beer. The Whiskey Bunny. Shot Gnomes.

  The quickest way to produce a miserable, two faced shit pile of a human is to introduce them to the service industry. Here they will learn what hatred means and be shaped by their hapless misery into a thing of such shambling horror that children shall shriek and run away in terror.

  Takes about eight months.


  Q. "Where are the pictures with funny/insulting captions?"

  A. "Fuck your pictures, humahh!"*1



  That's all for now. I'll try harder next time but I think we both know that this post is an instant classic, da?

  Enjoy Shit,
  -The StripperHerder



*1 'Humahh' My clever word that is a hybrid of the word 'human' and the 'N' word. Safe from both a cultural and contextual standpoint. Can be used to indicate any supspecies of the versatile bipedal Homo Sapien critters. As in "You my Humahh!" and/or "Who my Humahh?"

  Tested safe for all races.



Thursday, March 17, 2016

St. Fucking Patrick's Day: Bane Of All Service Industry Workers. Or, Cunty Drunken People Being Twats To Everyone Because Of Some Ancient Irish Saint Who Wasn't Even Irish.

  Incredibly typical of idiot American ideas, making St. Patrick's day even a nominal holiday was one of the poorest decisions our Gubbamint has ever made. Let's take a culture who, deserved or not, has a reputation for hard drinking and ancestral roots that are deeply intertwined with booze, and give them a National Holiday. A day that celebrates their rich heritage, their widespread contributions to virtually every nook and cranny on the globe, and their obsessive love of getting shitfaced and then fucking singing about it.

  It's not at all like the Irish were alone in their complete and total love of hooch. Many cultures have a robust and enduring bond with Sweet Lady Alcohol and yet don't draw nearly the comparison that the Irish do. Take Germans for example, they fucking worship beer. They made rules about how and with what ingredients you could brew beer. Punishments for breaking these rules got all messy and Germanic...

  The French routinely drink insane amounts of wine, more than any other country with a population over 100,000 in fact, based on figures from 2014. And while most rational countries despise France, it isn't because they drink too much wine.

  So for me, St Patty's Day has become this commercially sponsored orgy of inebriated fucktardedness that grates on my psyche like a poorly shaved bush grates on my upper lip.

  Later today I will pilot a large vehicle through teeming throngs of staggering, wasted morons. Even the sober ones will slide unwittingly into intersections because of the vomit-slick sidewalks, a regurgitated slurry-chute of corned beef, shitty beer, Jameson shots and shamelessness.

  I pray to Norse Gods that I don't snap and go all Death Race 2000 on these bipedal whelks. I give it a 60/40 chance in favor of not clogging my engine compartment with human remains. Ya just never know...

  So, happy St. Fat Prick's Day, you fucking fucks. Stagger in front of my bus.

Nubs you,
-The StripperHerder