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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,


  "FUCK YOU, RAY."


  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.


  Gluten.




  
 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.



  EXTREMELY SIMPLE, NO?



  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:

http://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2015/10/the-stripperherder-guide-to-titty-bar.html





*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....



  NO! DON'T TIP ME. I'D RATHER BE PAT ON THE SHOULDER LIKE A LOYAL HOUND.


  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.


  I MAKE $5.75 AN HOUR. I DON'T NEED YOUR TIPS.


  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
  

Thursday, June 22, 2017

Best Night Of The Year So Far. Or Cursed Stripper Names, Be Wary.



  I believe I've alluded to the fact that most of my great nights in this industry, money-wise, were all slow nights where some high rolling generous tipper comes into the club and spends stupid amounts of money. Not where we're slammed and packed and everyone's a cunt.


  Tonight was such a treasured slow night.


  And thank fucking God.


  Us Floor Scum walked with almost $1400 each tonight, on a night where I projected my earnings at maybe $100-150, based on the room and its inhabitants. This makes my Top Ten list of best nights ever, and as usual, it came out of left field.


  One guy. One guy made our night, as is the formula for all the best nights in my career. This guy bought 4 one hour rooms back to back and tipped $1000 on each room. We started the night with four Floor Grunts, but Joker went home early due to illness, which mean that we only had to split all that money three ways instead of four. Had joker been there we still would've made over a grand each, but since he left, we fucking BANKED.


  As a result, I made about $169 an hour tonight. Couldn't be happier.


  And to think I was considering calling off tonight....


  I suppose this means that the dark cloud of fuckiness that used to hang over my head is now gone and that I can confidently call off a shift and not be worried that if I would've stayed I'd a made $1000.


  That particular torch has been passed it would seem.










                      CURSED STRIPPER NAMES


  Of the 62 approved stripper names in the titty dancer lexicon, several bear a heavy curse. This can be the only conclusion when every single one of the dancers I've worked with who has chosen one of these names turns out to be a giant pat of staggering thong-butter. Nothing else makes sense.


  That being said, there are stripper stage-names so common that it's impossible to draw a conclusion because I've worked with so goddamn many of them that there were bound, by simple math, to be good ones and bad ones. These stripper names include: Bitttney, Amber, Tiffany, Alexis, Crystal, Angel, and Paradox.


  But some gals choose names that carry a curse it would seem. Maybe they're decent strippers before they opt to take one of these accursed handles, but afterwards, they're garbage.


  So you can be aware, respected reader, here's a list of CURSED STRIPPER NAMES. Never get a dance from one of them or somehow you'll owe them two hundred dollars for virtually nothing.



1) Brooklyn- In my experience that has never been a dancer named "Brooklyn" that was anything other than an animated piece of trash with tits. If a stripper by this name ever approaches you for a dance, just tell her that you're a broke, meth-head who has AIDS but would like to talk to her about Jesus and see how fast she goes away.


2) Jetta- You named yourself after a Volkswagen. Nice job. I've worked with three twats in my career named 'Jetta' and they were all conniving thieves with a nasty drug habit.


3) McKenzie- Says 'I'm slightly more imaginative than you standard gutter-dwelling thong-snipe, yet I still live in a world of delusion and imminent regret.' Every chick I've worked with named McKenzie has been a dull, haggard and alcoholic white bitch living in a world of fantasy.


4) Lexus- Fluff. Innane. Meaningless. Attractive only through cosmetics and plastic surgery. ALWAYS has fake tits, if that's your thing.


5) Kat- Every single stripper named "Kat" or "Cat" or "Kayatt" or any other spelling that is pronounce c-a-t, is a junkie. They would pimp their own offspring for an armful of junk and won't even remember doing it. They're not bad people,they're just junkies. It's not their fault. Nothing is ever anyone's fault anymore.








  Here's bit extra for you Herderheads that you may or may not know.


  I've been "Wookin Pa Nub" in all the wrong places, namely, at work. For those of you confused by this statement, it means that lately I've made some poor decisions about dating my boobied coworkers, with hilarious results.


  If you don't know what "Wookin Pa Nub" means, it's because you're too young to remember when Eddie Murphy was funny. Shame on you.



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wo1-sI7MOQ




  I've made the mistake of asking a couple of girls from work out recently. This has proven to be idiotic and poorly thought out. It didn't go well is what I'm implying.


  In fact it's downright embarrassing. I don't know what I was thinking. Apparently my recent weight loss has reignited fires I thought I'd stamped out and I fell for what ultimately falls under 'stripper bullshit'.


  Like a customer. Like a bachelor party attendee. Like a fucking moron.





  The rules are in place for a reason. I ignored that at my own peril/discomfort. I reaped the rewards.


  I guess I'm just not that variety of Floor Creep to pull lots of tail from the pit. I'd rather make money and not have illegitimate children I'm forced to pay for. Call that a win any day...


Tanks for reedin,
-Da StripperHerder








Sunday, June 18, 2017

Don't Know f You Noticed, But I've Already Surpassed My 2016 Post Total, You're Welcome. Or, A Fuck Off Post About Nothing Much At All




  I have a lot to say but unfortunately have already consumed too much vodka to really dig into it. So instead, I'm just going to do some poetry because it's insanely easy.



READY?



Let's go!




Limericks:



There once was a gal name Rox
Who had a very stinky box
She wiped and wiped

And grumped and griped
Still smelled like week old lox




Sapphire is an average dancer
Only drunks would ever chance her
She looks kinda clownish
Her O-Ring is brownish
And appears to be riddled with cancer




Amber is a drunken Hyde
If her lips move she has lied
But she flails her hips
And on stage is skipped
Many times in the shower she has cried




Poor Floor guy Steve is peeved
Patrons are too dunk to be believed
He's patient and bland
Doesn't raise a hand
Non-violence is achieved






Haikus




Samantha is hit
Droopy tits make no men hard
Unless they're weird







Need the ATM?
Fees charged are usury
Deal with it fuckhat




Where does this bus go?
Can you NOT read silly fuck?
You are a moron




Dances cost how much?
Are you fucking kidding me?
Nope. Stop being broke.






  Not even kidding you, that's it. That's all I feel like doing. Be thankful because there's never been better limericks or haikus.



  Take what you get.


Glutus Nocturne,
-The StripperHerder