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Saturday, November 12, 2016

#Bteamerforlife. Or, Closing Time. Go Away.

  In every strip club with  more than 2 bouncers, the will be All Stars and Bench Players, an "A" team and a "B" team if you will. I myself am a career 'B" teamer but have been called up on occasion to play with the 'A' team when there was an injury on the field or someone was too busy getting head to do his job.


  Seniority only gets you so far in this industry. Your perceived worth, much like sports stars, is much more important. Since I have opted to take a low earning niche position among my Floor Community (Bus Management Operative) to limit my contact with drunken shitholes, my value among the Floor Team is pretty low.


  That being established, I have far more value to the club itself than to my fellow Floor Hosts. My qualities/skills I bring to the club which set me apart to my brethren include:


1) My advanced degree in Broom Theory which enables me to sweep up the detritus of nights gone by without being ordered to do so. The Guild of Floor Guys teaches it's adherents that sweeping is below one's station and should be handled by the Lesser Orders, such as Bar Backs, Waitresses and Management.


  I have always been a heretic to this ideology.


2) I can cook my ass off. I have saved our kitchen from calls offs and walk outs at least a dozen times over the past year, frequently for a loss of pay and on my goddamn days off. I do this because our continuing policy of hiring car-less part time criminals leads to many a kitchen SNAFU's.


  In fact I allowed myself to be talked into being a Kitchen Manager for about 2 weeks, because I am a fucking moron. Pesky work ethic and whatnot. Every seemingly normal, experienced hire I made turned out to be a shitcake degenerate, incapable of following through on even the gentlest of schedules.


  After my first hire missed his third ever shift and called in arrested on his fifth and my second hire proved unable to handle criticism without getting all pouty and dickish, I fucking resigned. I'll do it myself.


3) I'm on time, all the time. Apparently this is a virtual Superpower in this industry and I am  nearly uncontested in my mastery of it. (see below) #timemanagementblackbelt


4) I have quaint, institutionalized ideas about security and the safety of our employees. Things like not being walking targets in our parking lot and meeting potential threats with overwhelming force, just like da cops.


  I've harped on the lax practices of our Floor Thugs before. This is the weakest cohesive team I've ever worked with security-wise and I hate to say it but our security needs a conduct class from some former Mossad operatives on how not to be future victims.


  Classic example, one of our Floor Dudes was escorting a customer out of the club. The guy had been a choad-goblin to one of our dancers and then put his hands on her. The Floor Host in question made the cardinal fuck up of security folk everywhere.


 He didn't call for backup, leaving himself one on one with the offending cuntdrip. Long story short, the dude sucker punched our solo Floor Man in the chin and opened him up. Didn't knock him out like the douchebag was hoping, but still made him bleed all over the place.


  Now I'm not saying that wouldn't have happened if there would've been 2 or 3 or 4 Floor Trolls facing him, like there should've been, but I am saying that it would have been far less likely to happen and that the motherfucker would've paid for his mistake.


5) I am bigger than all of them. I'm not the toughest guy in the world, but when it comes to hefting drunks and carrying them bodily out of the club, I are very good at this.






      Anal Craniotomys: Come Into The Light, Management


  Our misManagement team has some problems dealing with several issues that plague our club. First and foremost among these are their inability to set any sort of precedent concerning discipline in the workplace. Just because the entire industry is filled with lazy drunks doesn't mean that you can't establish some minimal facade of professionalism.


  Like being late. I was at work the other day and we had 2 Floor Slobs and 2 Waytrezzes scheduled to be on shift by 6:30. Of the four, I was the only one at work on time, the rest all showed up between 7:00 and 7:15. this meant that I had to do all of their jobs until they could be bothered to show up.


  And then when the first Waytrezz showed up, she immediately headed to a back table and started working on homework. She didn't even check around and scout her area beforehand on the off chance there was something that fell under her job description that she should be doing instead of homework. There was a plate of half eaten pasta that had been sitting on a table since I walked in at 6:25 and it remained there until sometime around 8:00 when one of the Tray Sloths finally noticed it and brought it back to the dishwasher.


  The tardiness factor here is, in my opinion, out of control. Getting to work on time, barring unforeseen circumstances, isn't like performing brain surgery. It shouldn't require meticulous planning or the right set of odd coincidences to come together at the right time. It is something that even marginally intelligent people should be able to pull off at least 4 times out of 5.


  But if there's no repercussions at this job like there are in real world occupations, then there's no incentive to change. For instance, I used to work at a factory that had strict tardiness and attendance standards. If you were even a minute late without a pretty fucking great excuse, it counted against you. First time in a 6 month period got you a verbal warning, second got you a written warning and the third you were out on your laggard ass.


  If those standards applied to my current work, there'd be coyotes roaming the deserted floor.


  Another problem for our fearless leaders is some of our bar staff, who have no qualms about selling customers a bucket of 5 beers within 5 minutes of when, by state law, we have to pull their drinks out of their hand. We purposely do last call at 2:40, knowing state law says by 3 AM, all booze has to be off the floor and out of customers hands.


  Author's Note: Many people operate under the assumption that if you purchased the drinks before the state deadline, then you are allowed to finish your drinks because they were bought before the cut off.


  This is untrue, at least in the states I've worked in (4). If we can't sell it past a certain time, you fucking well can't have it on you past that time. If you're going to drink in another town and don't have a native guide, take a moment to brush up on their basic liquor laws-it can save you some disappointment/alcoholic rage later on.


  I frequently get to hear customers bitching about this when I'm shuttling them to their hotels at the end of the night. Not two weeks ago I had these two dudes that were served a bucket of beer (5) at around 2:53. Now even assuming they were up to drinking two and a half beers each in 6 minutes, which I doubt, does that sound like something a conscientious bartender should do?


  This leads to much strife as our Floor and Wait staff have to snatch drinks that never should've been sold in the first place. Some folk get kinda shitty and with good reason. Others are more laid back about it and with that in mind, I smell a list coming on.



      

     Do's and Don'ts in a strip club that's getting ready to close: 







DO: Actually try to listen to what the DJ is saying when bar close looms on the horizon. His words are usually laden with useful information at this time of night. Things like when you can purchase one last drink and how long you have to finish said drink before the staff has to remove all liquor and glassware from the club floor.


DON'T: Assume that you know the state's liquor laws unless you live here, and if you do, make sure you're right because we know them very well.



DO: Be respectful of those just doing their jobs. If it were up to me you'd be able to drink 24/7 and I could give a shit less whether you had a drink in your hand at closing or not. However this is not up to me, the powers that be have made rules and they enjoy fining clubs that don't comply.


DON'T: Firmly believe in your heart that it's OK to hang around after closing because you sorta know one of the dancers or waitresses. We don't give a fuck who you think you know, get out.



  That's all I'm writing for now, screw the pictures. I have a Dark Lord's Journal post that needs attention too.


Luvs Ya All,
-The StripperHerder

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

The Complicated Relationships Between Strippers and Floor Guys. Or, For Whom The Balls Toll.



  The associations you find yourself entangled in when you work in the strip club business can be anything from 'fucking love affair' to 'one of us must die' or any nuance in between. In any given moment you may be allied, neutral or at war*1 with any random Dancer, Manager, Waitress, Bartender or other Floor Schlub.


  Gotta stay sharp out there, people.


  Trying to keep track of of all these relationships can be a challenge. Mostly I find the easiest way is to not give a shit about any of them unless I absolutely have to. My default settings are Giant Honest Idiot alloyed a bit with Allergic to Horseshit and sometimes this is a detriment to my income. I have many opportunities to scam money that I don't take advantage of and sometimes I regret that I didn't because the victim in question turned out to be a miserable thong-yanker. The kind of hammered shit-blanket that just begs to be dragged somewhere cold and dank where some corrective therapy can ensue.


  Grim therapy. Beatings in dark rooms. Corpses floating in the river, possibly with a sad lonely trilby hat or somethin floating next to one of them....


  Sigh. The old days....




  Anyways, I find that my relationships with dancers tend to fall into one of these four categories:



1) I am their big brother.


  I am their protector, their enforcer, their fucking Shogun Warrior and sometimes, if I don't run fast enough, their shoulder to cry on. A prime example of this brothering happened a while back where a large, incredibly drunk customer was leaning over a table of cringing strippers, screaming at them while he poured sweat onto the table. I had warned him repeatedly about being nice to the girls but at some point he just couldn't think anymore so I ended up having to put him on the ground.


  Hard.



  After the standard five minutes of death threats and ghetto talk, the rest of the team got him out of the building and he has since apologized, although all evidence indicates he's still a piece of shit.




            "Hey, thanks for throwing that guy who tried to finger dredge my butthole through a wall."


2) They want to fuck me. 



  Sure, these are few and far between nowadays, but they still happen. And normally it isn't anything special about me, some girls are just really, really horny and like dick in general, not necessarily my dick in particular.




                                       "All right buddy. Get in this."



3) We have a symbiotic relationship based on mutual financial gain and tempered with a deep respect for each other's assets and skills.


 
Sounds like a fancy way to say I help her make money and then she gives me some of it, no? Well it is. I know the species of customer she is best at working on and I throw her at those customers as soon as they come into the club. We both bring something to the table and those somethings complement one another.

  Me big. Her pretty.




                                        "Point me at 'em, big boy."



4) They want me dead.


  Not exaggerating in the slightest. Quite a few dancers over the years would've happily put a bullet right in my fucking face and then done horrible things to my rapidly cooling member. Or , had they the ability, beaten eleven kinds of shit out of me while yelling mean things and looking for some stairs to push me down.


  What can I say? I have a fan club.


  Lucky for me all of those types are on too many drugs to remember how much they hate me and therefore I have remained bullet hole free thus far.




                                           "This is for failing to secure my $10."


        


              LEVIATHAN HOLLERS FROM THE DEPTHS




                        How I picture her typical night off, minus the goat blood and heart eating.




  The above subtitle, while dramatic, has little to do with the following vignette. The dancer in question is by no means a Leviathan by anyone's measure, merely a finely featured carp. A possum in a prom dress.


  For the purposes of this narrative, I'll call this stripper Bellatina because I've never worked with an entertainer by that name.


  Bellatina is what we Floor Dongs refer to as a 'Problem Dancer'. Every last one of us is sick of putting up with her bullshit, shaking down customers and de-escalating her ghetto fueled confrontations with random patrons. She's the type of person who, when you're trying to resolve the situation, just stands there and yells insults and deprecations at the customer continuously, making any sort of resolution unlikely. She doesn't listen or obey when you tell her to shut the fuck up and give you a minute to get to the bottom of the whole stinky fucking mess.


  She actively buggers your attempts to obtain money for her.



  Before I launch into this sad narrative, kind readers, please be aware that when dealing with any form of security/authority, be it a bouncer or police, just be calm. Be polite, cooperative and compliant because no matter what your goal is, your cause and your claims are much more likely to be received favorably if you're not being a shrieking, disrespectful cunt.


  That being said, here's what went down:


  A customer I'll refer to as Victim X had allowed himself to be cajoled into doing a 15 minute champagne room with two dancers at the same time. Being a complete strip club rookie, this was the first of several mistakes he made that night. As always, whenever I have a chance to make a list...



  The StripperHerder presents: The List Of Victim X's Mistakes




                                "No, not you. THAT guy. Yes, that one. He fucked up big."



1) Getting a room with two strippers at once: Sounds exciting, no? Two beautiful girls at the same time? Golly! Unless girl on girl is your specific thing, you'll find that getting a room with two chicks simultaneously is ultimately counter productive. They tend to focus on one another and leave you as an afterthought unless you brought an eight ball of coke to the party.


2) He picked the wrong girls: Yeah they look nice, but so do coral snakes. Bellatina is a good lookin woman, I'll give her that. She is able to camouflage her innate hood-rattedness pretty effectively, trapping her prey like a venus fly trap.

    Her accomplice in this instance was Miley, a bleach blond suicide girl wannabe with shocking pink hair and a flexible approach to the truth.


3) He paid them in advance. In cash: NEVER GIVE THEM THE MONEY! I can't stress this enough. If you're going into a champagne room with any amount of dancers, a Floor Guy will be setting that room up. He'll take your money BEFORE THE ROOM STARTS and record the transaction somewhere.


    Giving strippers your money before you're actually in the room and being asked by the tuxedoed Floor Ape for said money is asking for it to be stolen.


4) He changed his mind about having two dancers at once very late in the game: At the last moment, before a Floor Guy took charge of the transaction and placed them in a room together, Victim X decided he didn't want Bellatina in the room after all, just Miley. But he had already given his $300 to Bellatina because he's a babe in the woods and accidentally stumbled into a wolf's den


5) He failed to recognize the inherent criminality and shiftiness of Bellatina: Her camouflage has been perfected by years in the industry and to the average joe customer, she appears to be an attractive, fun girl rather than the conniving rag stain that she actually is.


  Fucking bitch.



  So anyway poor Victim goes into his 15 minute champagne room with Miley, sans Bitch. He had already given Bitcherella $300 before he decided to delete her from the room and when he asked half of it back she told him that she'd give it to him when he got out of the room while Miley upped the seduction/distraction dial to 10. Between the two of them this pitiable, befuddled bastard agreed to find Bellatina after the room was done so he could get his $150 back.


  Oops.






                                              "Dang it! I shoulda read her tattoos..."






  I found him, a broken man, sitting dejectedly in a booth at the end of the night and he asked me if I could help him. He told me his sad tale and although he didn't remember the malevolent stripper's name, he described her and I immediately knew my night was about to go to complete shit. He was very collected, clearly not blind drunk and very reasonable. I felt bad for the lad.


  But I felt even worse for myself because I could already picture the shrieking and I'm sure I visibly winced when It dawned on me who he was fleeced by. The pretty looking war-cunt.


  So I track the dancer down and ask her what the hell was up. She claimed, of course, that the guy had given her the money as a tip. This sounded highly unlikely and I fucking well told her that. I assured her that this was not the case, that some normal, working class dude certainly didn't just give her $150 for no reason.


 
I bring her to her prey and when he very calmly tried to tell her that he did not intend for her to keep the dough, but that she had, in fact, scammed him, Bellatina instantly reverted to her trap*2 trash self by screaming at him, cursing like a blog writer and generally showing her true colors.


  Knowing with utter certainty that this was going to happen, I was already putting myself between her and the hang dog customer because her next move would be to get in his face and scream louder. Dude just hung his head, defeated. Couldn't get a word in edge wise and wasn't the kinda guy to get in a screaming match.


  I got my Manager, Sir Grinhorn McFlurry XII and explained exactly what happened and he told Bellatina to either do the room or cough up the scratch. Bellatina refused to do either, sticking like a lamprey to her "It Was  A Tip" defense.  At that point all you can do is terminate the girl's contract. You can't physically force her to give back the money and the cops don't give a shit nor want to deal with it.


  So in closing all we could do is say we fired her*3, and promise him a free Bottle Service VIP treatment if he would come back to the club. Kinda like, 'hey, don't let one evil, greedy entertainer give you the wrong impression, let us show you the true gloriousness of how a strip club experience should be.'


  I hope it works, he seemed like a good dude and he was astoundingly calm considering the circumstances.







  The fact that we didn't fire her really grates on me. I know, I know, why the fuck should it surprise me anymore? We've caught her scamming before and we'll bloody well so so again. In fact since the incident I was writing about in this post, a similar situation arose where a customer got ripped off by her and after he left she said, with no indication of shame or irony, "well I would've given him his money back if he'd just asked."


  She is our pain.







    I am the Rodney Dangerfield of my club.



                                               "No. Seriously. Shit all over me."



  I get not respect. I don't know why this is but it fucking enrages me and I'm not putting up with it anymore. I am going to have a 'sit down' with my scheduling manager, Sir Ramjet Gnar'nutz VII and explain my sense of unhappitude.


  Let me elucidate a bit. At this club there are two start times for Floor Bums, 6:30 pm and 8:30 pm. Since we get raped by the gubbamint tax-wise before we get our checks, our hourly pay means fuck all. Thus there are no advantages to being an early guy, just two extra mind numbing hours of empty club and chatty dancers to deal with. No one with real money to spend arrives before 9 pm.


  That being said, how the hell is it standard practice for guys who have been at the club for far less time than me to always be rewarded by getting the much more desirable 'late' shifts? I am freakin 6:30 across the board. I can count the number of 'late' shifts I've had this year on two hands while a guy who's been here for 2 less years than me has 3 out of 4 of his shifts starting at 8:30. These new cunts get better shifts than me and later shifts than me.


  It's fucking infuriating and it's time to put my size 15's down on the matter once and for all.



                                                  "Did you just say 6:30?"


 


  That's all I have to say at the moment. Like I stated on my Facebook page I am essentially done with the Herder for now. I feel like I've covered the bases over the past 6 years and am devoting what tiny amount of energy I have to other projects of which I'll keep you informer about.

  I am also currently looking into getting the 'Herder published in book form or possibly as an ebook and I would suggest to you, valued fan, that purchasing one would no doubt inspire me to continue writing the Plight.


  If you haven't already checked it out, I encourage to seek solace at my other blog, http://darklordsjournal.blogspot.com/


  Check periodically for other details...


Das unt Hober,
-The StripperHerder

















*1 This applies to me much more than some other Floor Guys because I'm a dick. I've been trying to change that over the past few months, with a fair amount of success.**


   **Keen Kenny Deen on the other hand gets along with EVERYONE because he's a super nice dude. Give ya the shirt off his back, ya know.




*2 I honestly don't even know what "trap" means and hope I am using it in a proper context. I'd hate to offend anyone.





*3 I was told she had been fired and yet 3 days later, I'm working with her again. 3 days. Like Jesus.

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:


https://www.facebook.com/Plight-of-the-StripperHerder-216370121724119/





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.


 
  LLV*3

 




 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.


  Sheesh.


  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

-Sweats
-Trainers
-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:

-Sandals
-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