Warning: Increased Levels Of Violence Ahead. Or, The Symptoms You Are Feeling And Sharing With Others May Be A Sign Of Job Dissatisfaction

  Things have been kinda fucky lately. And by that I mean I've let my Inner Rage-Child out and bought it an ice cream and something pretty to wear. This is because I'm putting up with all the same drunken bullshit, stupidity, vomit and rudeness that I've always put up with being in the service industry, but am being paid a lot less to do it.

  It's sorta like working in a waste water facility-it smells like a hippy festival with no sanitation, but as long as you get your $27.50 an hour and can club free range hippes to death, you deal with it. Well imagine walking into work one day and finding out that you pay rate has dropped to $8.25 an hour and you now have to be nice to hippes. You're not going to be very happy and you may or may not, depending on your character, share your unhappiness with every living soul you encounter.

  That's where I've been lately. All the same empty headed cuntery with 50% less recompense.

                       "Welcome to my hovel. If I offer you something to drink you should politely refuse."




 





  So, recently....







  In one day, not long ago, I grabbed one dude by the throat and throttled him for a moment before slamming him into the sidewalk. A while after that I threw another drunk douche to the floor and dragged him out of the club by his ankles in front of a club full of people and then threw his shoe at his head.


  

  It wasn't my best night...




  This is not how I usually operate. I don't like to put my hands on people unless they give me no option. But lately my ability to ignore douchery has been seriously compromised and I find myself moving toward unhealthy territory. Unhealthy for someone else that is.

                                                                      "Physics suck."






  Only one of the guys deserved the humiliation I gave to him. The first guy was just motherfucking me on the way out the door and I've endured that peacefully for many years. Hell, I've been insulted way better than what he came up with many a times and simply laughed in their faces.


  This time however I let Primitive Reptilian Brain gain the upper hand. Or it took fucking control and there wasn't twat-all I could do about it; read into it what you will. I got in his face when I should've just closed the door and said 'Have a nice day', and asked him to repeat himself. When he did I fucking snapped and did shit wrong.


  First off I grabbed his throat so hard I could've easily broken the delicate bones in his neck that I don't even know the names of. Second off I had more than 100 lbs on this guy, who was trashed, and I might've seriously hurt him because of his flapping jaw and my current inability to shackle my rage-rection.*1

                                                Chubbifying while considering assault secarios.









   He had balls, I'll give him that. Probably because of alcohol but even then survival circuits can sometimes override booze, just not in his case. He said 'Go fuck yourself' again to me as we were face to face and that's when things began to go badly for him.


  I grabbed his tiny throat in my paw and squeezed until he got that "I can't believe that I'm starting to die" look in his face whereupon I realized I'm choking the living fuck out of this wasted skinny fuckbag and that his toes were barely touching the ground.

                                                      "I'm sorry, I don't speak gasp."






  And that was the point where I slammed him into some pavement, kinda like The Undertaker if he was flabbier, broke and drank cheaper beer. The dude hit the sidewalk with a 'whoof' and rolled on his side struggling to breath. I had knocked the wind and any last vestige of beer-gression right out of him.


  I immediately walked back inside and let a bouncer who hadn't just choke-slammed the guy deal with him. That much at least I did right. If you've been involved in a physical altercation/ass drubbing with a customer, your presence is only going to serve to fan the flames. Excise yourself from the situation and let another bouncer play the 'good cop' role.


  Not 2 hours after that this hammered kid comes up to me and asks what will happen if he gets on stage? At this point in the night I was not very happy and I made it abundantly clear to him.


  

  "If you get on that stage I will throw you out so fast you will change genders."





  His 2 friends were urging him on. Apparently they had offered him $150 to get on stage and were increasing their bids incrementally depending on how far he could get up the pole before I could reach him and savage him not unlike a grizzly on a salmon.

                                                     Your friends don't really like you.






  I stationed myself right behind where they were seated at the tip rail and I could hear them talking about it. I was really hoping at that point the he would do it because I knew I could launch him at least a yard in the air and the stage is at least that high. I pictured the satisfaction of hearing his ribs splinter on a table as he became gravity's bitch.


  Fortunately for him he chose to approach me again and ask if "I was sure he'd get thrown out if he got on stage". The was when I made things very simple for him. I said "You're done, I'm not waiting for you to hop on stage for your buddies' amusement, so head for the door." And I emphasized this with a nudge toward the  exit.


  He kept stopping and trying to talk me out of it in between pushes, but asshats always do that because they think that somehow, they can still talk their way out of it even as you're moving them toward banishment.


  The third time he turned he grabbed my hands as I went to push him, and that's when things started to go badly for him. I immediately put him on the ground, really fast but relatively gently. His feet rose up as if to fend me off so I snagged both feet, twisted his ankles together and popped them under my armpit and dragged him protesting out of the club to the cheers of it's denizens.



  Both of these decisions were poor.


  The first dude was already out the door, the fact that he was being a cunt about it shouldn't have made any difference. The second legally justified my actions when he put his hands on me, but I could've been gentler and more patient.

  I could've talked him out of the club, not dragged him like a newborn calf.


  You gotta watch yourself these days, there's a lawyer behind every potted plant and in every seedy crevice.

                             "Your Honor, my client did nothing wrong. He was just a drunk asshole."






  And I'm gonna say this one last time because whenever I think I can't be shocked by the repugnant shit I am sometimes forced to witness, something monstrous climbs out of the abyss and wants to audition.

  
  
  If you look like me in a thong, all hairy-backed and wrong-bulged, you need to try to touch base with reality. Your delusions have become if not dangerous, then seriously fucking misleading if they've led you to believe you're stripper material at this particular, if any, establishment.

   
  I'm not saying 280 Lb gunshot-scarred dancers can't make a living by having their loins unabashedly devour skimpy underwear, I'm just saying they can't do it here.

  Rotten teeth, disturbing scars, appalling stretch marks, scary prison ink and butt implants don't fly at this club.

  Thank God.

  We don't have the customer base for it and we work very hard not to acquire that particular customer base.

  Go be Big and Beautiful somewhere else you narcissistic, relatively hairless yeti.




  StripperHerder Supplemental: Three days hence...



  




  Q. How much booze will it take to forgot that tonight happened?


  


  A. Probably more than I have it in me to consume.


  



  Fuck me Jesus, tonight was slow. Like ghost town slow. Apparently Father's Day is not a day when dads get to go look at titties which is odd because it should be. If my Dad was still alive today I would've given the gift of boobies (and probably had to throw him out of the club...).

  There was absolutely fuck all going on until 2 AM when a bunch of people who had been drinking at cheaper bars decided that 10 minutes to last call was a fine time to hit up their local tit shacks. Fantastic. We'd only been open since 2PM and we close at 2:30. Thanks for the 15 minutes of 'lavish' spending, that really made our night.

  I just don't understand the whole concept. Let's leave the bar we were comfortably drinking at and head on over to the strip club just in time to see 3 dancers and have one drink before they stop serving.

                                                           "I totally agree, George."





  Just stay the fuck where you are. Unless you're coming to the club with an hour to spare and just maybe some cash, do us a favor and don't bother. We don't need customers at 2:10, we needed them before that and you're just being annoying cunts by showing up basically at closing time.

  I would love to find out what these people do for a living and go to their business 10 minutes before they're trying to close and just hang around threatening to spend money but not actually doing it. I'd like to keep them all there for a half hour after they should've been on their way home for no material gain on their part.

  Then I would like to set them on fire.  Then I would laugh to myself and congratulate myself on a job well done.



Well, considering what I was originally going to publish before the new opening, supplement and pictures I added tonight, this post feels like an adequate if not mildly brilliant look into what goes through a bouncer's head as he plods on through a minefield of drudgery and self questioning.



  In other words-pretty fucking awesome.


Cheers,
The StripperHerder, Skank-Nudger Extraordinaire*2




  










*1 4 out of 5 psychologists agree that getting an erection while beating someone senseless is a bad thing.



*2 Skank [skangk] noun: A female of unsavory appearance or character

I'm Gonna Try This Sober. Or, Warning: Lowered Expectations Ahead.

  The past 2 days have been a living misery at the club. I have literally never seen it this slow-even when the economy was crashing down around our ankles business was better. It doesn't help that there's so much construction, road repair, detours and bridges out that it takes a secret decoder ring to find our fine establishment.

  I've about had it folks. I am officially at the end of my metaphoric rope.

                                                          Go fuck yourself.




  I can't even tell you the last time I broke $100 in a night. It's probably been 2-3 weeks. Impossible to pay the bills at this rate; debt rising, hope fading.




                           


                            The Math of Despair



  Me at the other Floor Rat walked out with $85 each tonight which means we received a total of $170. Of that amount, we earned $130 from customers and $40 from strippers. Now considering that a single dancer gave us $20, that means the other 17 snizz-flappers gave us a combined $20.

  I'll let that sink in a moment.....















  Seven-fucking-teen dancers tipped a total of 20 measly goddamn dollars. This is the equivalent of 20 people walking past a wounded puppy and instead of helping it, 17 people opted kicked the poor little fucker instead.

  I realize some girls didn't make anything tonight. Nada, zip, zilch, zero, but that was maybe like 4 or 5 of them. The rest just couldn't be bothered.

                                                  "I can't spare a dollar."






  So that kinda sucked is what I'm trying to say. It's not as if I'm asking for $10 a head or anything. A buck or two on a slow night shows a lot of character and tells me you're not a selfish shitbag.

  Ah, fuck this. I'm going to get beer.


  Goodnight,
-The StripperHerder

Meet The Team Part One. Or, The Fine Folks At Turbo's Twat Extravaganza Bid You Welcome.

  I work with a pretty decent group of people. Compared to the last place I worked, they're saints. All in all they may not be the most motivated employees to grace a club floor, but they spring into action when needed and can be very pleasant, especially if you're a good tipper.

  By strip club standards they're solid. Which means they might make it 2-4 weeks at a real job.



  They are, in no particular order...




Whimsy McDanderhuff: Whimsy is a former bartender that's training to be a manager. She's a nice girl, and by that I mean the meaner dancers are going to eat her alive if she actually makes Manager. I advised her to take up Krav Maga and whup the first dancer's ass that messed with her. Dancers respect strength and respond well to arm bars, throat punches and various crippling strikes.

                                            "I told the bitch she couldn't leave early."





Brjic Vjasdiloljic: Brjic is a stocky, deadly serious Floor Beast whose family are Bosnian-Serbian-Croats that live in Hungary but are from Romania by way of Latervia, or something like that. He sounds and looks like a Russian Bond villain and since Americans can't pronounce his name we call him Boris, which he doesn't find amusing at all. But then again he doesn't find anything amusing.

  There's a date marked in last year's calender that says "Boris smiled today."

                                   "Life is suffering. Then you go to Gulag and things get bad."




  Abraham The Disc-Jewky: Abraham's a lot of fun when he's not hungover and surly. He plays 17 games of online poker at a time while simultaneously running up to three stages and droning on about food, funny money and upcoming crap at the club. He makes it seem effortless to run that circus and the fact that he's playing multiple games of poker while he's doing it is, frankly, amazing.

  He's one of those guys who has to cover a toilet seat with TP before he sits down, even though it does absolutely nothing to protect you from potential bacteria. I have no problem with this, I know a lot of people who do it and while they may or may not admit it does fuck all against some imagined contagion, it helps them mentally cope with the traumatic experience of having to poop somewhere besides their own bathroom.

  What I DO have a problem with is the fact that he just leaves the paper there on the toilet seat, every day. And being as I am the only Authorized Broom Operator in the club, every fucking day I have to broom his ass-touched salvation-ring into the john and it pisses me off. It's your ass, dude. It can't possible hurt you in any way to brush it into the bowl before you head on out to your miserable little DJ cell again.

                       "I'm busy. I can't take the extra 1.3 seconds to dispose of my own security tissue."




  I'm going to start collecting his ass guards in a garbage bag and then when it's full, I'm going to walk into the DJ cell and upend it all over him, reminding him all the while that 50% of that toilet paper was touching the seat and the other 50% his ass.



Lo-Jaq Washington: Lo-Jaq is our suburban black guy. He actually kinda sounds like a black comedian when they do a nerdy white guy impression, all nasally and proper sounding. We rag on him about it because it's fun. His real name is something like Donald Perkins-Livingston or something, which sounds like a British guy with bad teeth and has zero street credibility, so someone called him Lo-Jaq years ago and it stuck.

  He's a stand up guy whose interests include slender white women and breeding with slender white women. I believe he has 5 kids with 16 women, or maybe I have that backwards. But he sees his kids and supports them, you can't fault him on that, so his kids could definitely do far worse than him for a Dad.

  He's fun to have around and can actually speak fluent Ghetto which is a big plus.

                                                Lo-Jaq as he's sure he was meant to be.




Mephistopheles Rodriguez: Senor Corona, Waiter, El Landscapo Mysterio, we have a lot of nicknames for Fisty and he takes it all in good humor and gives as good as he gets. As you may have guessed, he's a Mexican-American born and raised in good ole The Town.


When a brawl happens I launch him into the fray like Colossus throwing Wolverine.

                                                        "Ai-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-yah!"





Princess Pulverina: We have this waitress, pretty girl, nice to be around and can squat lift the entire building and all its contents. She's into bodybuilding or some incomprehensible offshoot thereof and works out more than I sleep. She eats every 17.4 minutes, like a small rodent; a couple of acorns here, two pieces of broccoli there and occasionally a chicken breast that has had everything healthy cooked out of it.

Her thighs are so strong she can turn a piece of coal into a diamond and I've seen her do it. He buttocks, I imagine, can tear telephone poles out of the earth and grind them into mulch. I feel sorry for anyone who tries something bad with her. She may not be able to throw a punch, but she can body slam anything short of a polar bear and could probably pinch someone in half with her arms like a o-ring cutting through a turd.

Bitch is scary, but friendly like a mastiff.

                                            "A $10 tip on a $200 tab? Are you sure?"







Keen Kenny Dean: This dude is awesome. All he wants to do is be fucking useful. As a result he gets stuck with any job people can unload on him, he simply has no ability to deny anyone anything. Like a couple of weeks back when we couldn't get a cook in on a Thursday night. They asked him if he would fill in and he said yes.

  Does he have any commercial kitchen experience? Nope.

  Was he familiar with the insanely easy menu? Huh-uh.

  Was he possessed of the limited skills he needed to do this job? Not really but he did a pretty good job anyway. I had to step in and bail him out 2 or 3 times during the night which ain't too shabby considering the kitchen was fairly steady.

                                               "I enjoy helping, but really shouldn't be here."





   He did this because he likes to cook in his kitchen and someone had to step in. He'd never done it as a job and said OK even though it meant he'd only make a dollar an hour over his floor guy pay AND he wouldn't get to split tips at the end of the night. I have over 15 years experience in kitchens and it never occurred to them to ask me which is great because I would've said kiss my pale, hairy ass unless you're willing to pay $15 an hour.

  He learned stuff fast and didn't need to be told twice. Plus when I showed him all the stuff that is Standard Operating Procedure in our kitchen, but is still horribly, horribly wrong, he caught on right away.


  I remember him covering a bartender's shift as well. He's never done that before either but came through mostly unscathed.

  Fucker needs to add "no" to his vocabularly.

  






  On a related note:




   I still don't know why anyone would order anything that didn't come out of a deep fryer in a strip club.

 

  And I say that as a guy who doesn't ask too many questions about his food, mainly how much is there and how fast can you get it to me? But if you're ordering seafood out of the average strip club that I've worked in, you're either insanely brave or exceedingly foolish, possibly both.


  With the majority of titty-shack cooks I've worked with, food safety is a vague, nebulous notion that seldom enters into their thoughts. My advice is if it hasn't been immersed in 350 degree oil for 3 minutes or more, don't eat it. You don't know where that food's been.




  That's all for this installment but I have plenty more coworkers to introduce. Sometime in the near future since I'm drinking more lately.


Bitches unt Ho's
-The StripperHerder

The Blog Equivalent Of Leftovers. Or, Jesus Likes Sports and Crack.

  This is going to be a mish-mash of unrelated crap that I'm throwing together because I need something to do while I drink myself stupid. I find it kinda sad in a way that I'm just beginning to drink at 4:30 in the morning, but it's been one of those days, and by that I mean one of those days where I had to go in to work.

  I truly believe deep in my tiny raisin-like heart that someone should give me money for being awesome. Never mind that I'm not awesome, in fact I'm basically an animated loaf of scornful shit wrapped in human skin, folks should throw money my way so that I never have to leave my hovel again and thus eliminate the chance, however small, that they might run into me in the street and have me ruin their day.

  Kinda like an asshole tax.



  "Did you know that for just .79 cents a day you can help keep a surly prick in his home and away from the public at large?"

               "Please give. This guy is really a dick and with just .79 a day you can help keep him away from society."





   It would be a small price to pay for the piece of mind of never having to chance running into me and getting negativity all over you.




    

                       *** *** *** *** ***

      

       Looking for love in all the thong places.





  And I thought my life was sad...



  Sometimes I am thankful that I'm no longer capable of feeling or returning love, because looking at some of the tragic, hopeless bastards that come into the club regularly to throw money at strippers in the hopes that somehow, against all probability and common sense, a stripper will fall in love with them and they'll live happily ever after, makes me feel slightly better about my life.

  Some of these guys have been at it for years. They are delusional, pitiable creatures that move from one stripper to another with a puppy dog eagerness that is painful to witness. When a dancer finally reaches the point where she's unwilling to put up with him for any amount of money, the guy just switches his affections to a different bitch and starts all over again.

  These guys are basically like cowardly stalkers. They (thankfully) don't have it in them to be a serial killers and they seem to lack the basic human intuition to filter fantasy from reality.



  I.e. "Do I ever see a girl that looks like that with a guy that looks like me?"

                                 "There's no reason a nice guy like me couldn't hit the poon-lotto."




  The answer being of course, NO. Not for more than a night or under $500 you don't.

  The funniest part about it that they could have any strip-whore they wanted for the amount of money they've thrown at a girl who doesn't hook. But they always go for the 'wholesome' strippers who will gladly take their money, coo in their ear and 100% not fuck them.





                         *** *** *** *** ***
 




Crack must be the greatest thing ever invented.


  I can only come to that conclusion because so many people are doing it. It must make toilets, sliced bread and alcohol seem like trifles that one could easily do without if you only have crack.
  

                       "Crack is good." Says trannsexual-hooker Jesus.



                     *** *** *** *** ***

  



  I'll take an order of pipe-fried skank, hold the class and add extra chimp-titties.





  What The Fuck Is wrong with these guys? Did they grow up spanking it to National Geographics? Were they molested by lower primates on an elementary school zoo field trip?

  It's inexplicable.








                             *** *** *** *** ***




What is it with black guys and hats?


 

  I'm certainly not saying that other races don't enjoy headgear as well, but in my experience, a large percentage of black men*1 are clearly obsessed with hats.

  The dress code at our club forbids hats. Doesn't make any difference what kid of lid it is, you ain't allowed to wear it.*2 You would be fucking amazed how many people decline to come into the club if they have to take their hat off.

  Personally I don't give a shit if people wear hats or not, but I don't make the rules. Proper hat etiquette dictates you remove any headware when indoors, but people don't care fuck all about proper anything any more so it's really not a valid argument.

  The bottom line is black guys, more than any other racial demographic, don't like to take their hats off. Apparently its some kind of uniform or something.....

                                      "Fuck dis club. Won't-let-me-be-wear-my-hat mothafuckas."








                             *** *** *** *** ***



   


More amateur pain than should be allowable by law.



  It is absolutely not rocket science, ladies. If you have no pole skills and the stage presence of an ailing yak, then for god's sake, be hot. Like could-just-stand-there-naked-and-still-make-money hot. Supermodel hot.

  Don't look like Velma from Scooby Doo who's 4 months pregnant with Fred's baby.

  Just, please, spare us the fucking misery already.

                                  "I can walk awkwardly around a pole, sometimes without falling."








And finally:




 I've figured out why the world in general tends to suck.




  It's because of sports.

  I've noticed that a fair percentage of professional athletes kiss their knuckles and glance up Heavenward when they hit a home run or score a goal. They are thanking Jesus for their success which means He must have granted it-it's the only explanation. This reveals why he doesn't have time to address slightly more pressing issues like slavery, genocide and starvation-he's a huge fucking sports nut!

                                                           "Fuck your famine, this is The Superbowl."









Sour dreams,
-The StripperHerder







*1 I say black men here because black women don't generally wear hats or they'll suffocate their Weaves**




**Which could possibly be alien menaces, the jury's still out.





*2 Except on days where the INSERT LOCAL SPORTS TEAM NAME HERE has a home game.

I Remember My Ma Telling Me That Some Days You Just Have To Fuck The Grizzly And Hope For The Best. I Wasn't Really Sure What She Meant By That But Today Illustrated It For Me Quite Nicely. Or, Sometimes The Grizzly Fucks You.

  "Da, comrade. It look like bear fuck you."

                                             "It look like it really to be hurting."







  The worst part about the club being slow all the time is that when we do get busy, your skills have been dulled by relentless days of doing nothing but thinking up imaginative new ways to kill yourself as you plod through another day with nothing to do. The sheer tedium of slow days is like a grinding wheel on your soul; every day there is less soul to wear away and more soul-dust collecting in your shoes.

  It feels squishy when you walk.

            "Soul dust mixed with tears makes a clingy mud that can be shaped into blocks for homes or stripper pens.""





  So on a night like tonight where we were very busy, it's like being in an '87 Geo dropped right in the middle of a NASCAR race. You can't go fast enough to keep up and your odds of winning are less than that of Hell freezing over.

  Therefore I am exhausted, aggravated, sweaty and still broke. I'm pretty sure the other 2 Floor Snouts pocketed some side cash on me because I find it hard to believe that I made more money with my lackluster attitude than the both of them combined. We almost hit $150 each until there was a shortage in our drawer that came out of our pockets. So basically I made twice what I would make on a slow night for 5 times the work, and 10 times the irritation.



  Dat are not good math.

                                         This is your compensation. Do not squander it.






  I don't know what to do. Although I pretty much make what I'd bring home if I worked a 40 hour/$12 an hour job, the potential to make way more than that is ever present. On the flip side of the coin is my hatred and loathing of drunks, strippers and drunk strippers which is growing more fearsome each night. Some day I'm fairly sure I'm going to do something so unbelievable horrific that I'll make the news, and that day creeps ever closer.

  I fucking dread having to go in to work.

  I don't want to work anymore at all. I've been doing it for 27 years and am no further ahead than when I was a teenager. This seems wrong to me. I should be retired by now or at least working for myself. Perhaps even ruling a small portion of the former U.S.



  I should, at the very least, be able to make a better living than a stripper built like a fire hydrant with a face like a medieval weapon. That's the most discouraging part, watching various lower primates in thongs out earn you.


  Let me list some of the breathtaking anomalies at the club tonight:



  Lascivia-Girl can work a pole like an beaver on acid, but has what appears to be infected rat bits all over her lower legs. Like seriously open sores, all black edged and weepy. If she were smart, or concerned about it she would wear those muppet-skin leggings that are popular now, cover that leprosy up. But she doesn't and still can have $300 rained on her by her adoring fans, plus do lots of dances.

  Her take tonight: around $1000



  Vodka-Tampon-This girl cannot be slain by booze. If alcohol could've killed her it would've done so by now. I've seen her drunk more times than any other human being I know including some of my best friends, which is saying something. She apparently found out she has a liver infection of some sort so she switched to wine for a few nights "because it's better for her liver."

  What the fuck? I've talked about this squid before, she's built like a log with knurled fake titties and a liver-bulge like John Wayne.

                           "Oh, don't mind that. It just forces it's way out of my vagina when I squat."

  



  Why the fuck do guys get dances from her when there's pretty girls available? What the fuck is wrong with them?
  
  She probably made $300 tonight which is more than me...



  Backstain-pretty enough girl until she turns her back and then it looks like she survived Hiroshima, but left half the flesh on her back behind. Just fucking gross. Provided she did a dance in which she never turned around, fine. The moment she does it gets disconcerting.

  Walked home with over $400.

                                                    "That's gonna leave a mark."





  Maggot-Competes with Vodka-Tampon over who can get more hammered. Life is nothing but a party to this worthless cum-sock. I could've spent the entire night just following her around and collecting her empty rocks glasses. If you get bottle service at your table she will show up like cholera at a refugee camp. She is built like a Mongolian horseman with a face like a catcher's mitt, all leathery and uninviting.

  Her take? Over $500...




  Dumptruck-This big ole country girl weighs in at like 180. She's about 5'8" so that roughly 30 lbs over what her frame should bear, yet she's friendly, rarely wasted and has a good instinct for guys who like a bit of waffle in their diet. She reels them in like a black guy catching sheephead.

  Whatever you're into man...

  Probably made about $350-400



  Fuck you, that's all you get tonight. Maybe I'll do pictures before I post this.


  Maybe.


Support the Cause,
-The StripperHerder

Yes, I Just Grabbed Your Throat And Threw You To The Floor. Or, I Guess It Was Time Not To Be Nice.

  Bouncers. Yeah, we suck. We're all power mad assholes who seek out this kind of employment because we crave lording authority over lesser humans and we all secretly wish we were cops. That way when we beat six kinds of shit out of you it would be all legal-like and we could post pictures of your battered face on our Wall of Traumatic Beatings and snicker to our asshole buddies.

  This is how a fair portion of society views us.

  But like strippers, bouncers aren't so easily defined. Yes, I have worked with many douchebags like those described in the above paragraph. I've even been a douchebag like that in my club security career because let me tell you there were many times over the years where I wished I was able to shoot some fucker in his fork and then drop a knife near him and claim self defense.

  There were many times I wished I could just go all juggernaut on some mouthy little prick and beat him til he was 'special' and enjoyed all of his food through a straw.

  For those of you who have never been a bouncer and completely lack any sort of empathy whatsoever, let me bring you into the world of the bouncer a little bit. You see, being a bouncer is currently rated fourth overall on the list of Most Thankless Jobs, right after sanitation worker, donkey spunk mopper, and corrections officer.

  No one can love a bouncer.


  We're the face of the club only when there is a problem. We're usually big and you're usually not and we mostly have to intervene when things have already gone all fucking pear shaped. Therefore we become, in the minds of the 'bounced', jackbooted thugs bent on destroying everything good in their life. We are the targets of insults, taunts and shit-talk as well as physical attacks because to a certain kind of degenerate there's a particular cachet to being able to say you kicked a bouncer's ass. Especially a big bouncer.


  So taking all that into consideration, here's a few facts I've gleaned in my glorious career as a security nazi:




1) People who really want to fight will just start throwing punches. There's no lengthy build up, usually very little escalation and scant warning. These people have learned from experience that those who throw the first punch are much more likely to win the fight and they count on that. You have to learn to identify them early and plan accordingly (which generally means being ready and willing to get decked right at the onset and then go beserk).



2) Jizzbags who run their mouth are mostly just going to keep running their mouths. They have no genuine interest in getting into a fight with you but ghetto etiquette*1 means they have to be seen as being willing to fight, even if they're shitting their pants at the though of your giant paws grasping them and doing horrible things.



3)  Shit talkers are looking to get a rise out of you, therefore by getting angry you have already lost a fight to them even if it wasn't a physical one. By smiling and saying happy things to them, you have circumvented their whole game plan and made them into a joke that anyone around you can enjoy also. If they were serious, they would have already hit you and things would've gone to Plan B.*2



4) Just pushing someone in my State is considered simple assault, so if you put your hands on a bouncer, expect your actions to be met with a disproportionate level of response. Things will generally go downhill from there so try not to do it in a crowded club.



5) Just remaining insanely calm in the midst of an impending frakas will usually defuse the situation to the point where no bludgeoning is necessary.



6) Watch out for hostile, hammered girls. They're usually under the mistaken impression that because they're a girl you won't hit them and they attack with the unabashed ferocity of enraged stoat-no regard for style, appearance or consequence. This always ends poorly for them and it makes me feel bad. Yes, I may have serious claw marks on me, but at least I'm not curled up on the floor with internal injuries from being body slammed by an angry, nail raked bouncer.



7) If you work in a club where you will probably have to rely on police to restore order to your club more than once in a month, get a different job.



8) The reason we bouncers appear unsympathetic and neutral-going-on-hostile is because whatever you're gripe is, we've heard it a thousand times already and usually more eloquently stated than your drunken ranting. You aren't happy about something, we get it. We'll try to fix the situation if you'd just stop accusing, threatening and insulting us and the staff of the club. 90% of the beefs customers come to me with are resolved to their satisfaction, it turns out they were just drunk and didn't understand jack or shit because they were drunk and couldn't understand jack or shit.*3




  Bouncers are the whipping boys of the service industry, sometimes well deserved, but sometimes not. They are certainly violent psychos in this profession and they should be avoided when possible and dealt with gingerly. But the are many more level headed guys who's last wish is to get into any sort of avoidable confrontation with anyone. A bouncer's job is, after all, to prevent fights, not cause them.







  I've also noticed from working on large club security teams that certain classes of bouncer types emerge. Ideally each individual security guy would be equal parts of all of these classes, but it's like a football team, i.e. a 180 lb guy is not going to be an offensive lineman, nor is a 320 lb guy going to be a receiver.

  Every man on the team plays his part, like:



1) The Bulldozer-Usually the biggest guy on a team. He might just be a really fat guy, but he can move people wherever they need to go because of physics stuff like weight and inertia and shit like that. He may or may not be any good at fuck all else, but when you need to move human mass someplace else, you need a Bulldozer.



2) The Tank-Not to be confused with the Bulldozer, the tank is any security team's Weapon X. He may not be the biggest guy in the crew but he's like a walking fist when he's provoked. When shit goes down, blurry stuff happens and suddenly there's lots of bleeding guys laying around telling their mom's they don't want to get up for school yet and the Tank is standing over them with slaver dangling from his jaws.*4

  Do not poke him, comrade.




3) The Diplomat- The name says it all. This is the guy who steps in when things start to escalate and brings things down a notch or two. He has full license to to bond with the head trouble maker and sympathize with him about how much of an asshole one of the other bouncers was and how this isn't the way we do business etc etc.*5

  He is an expert at manipulating people's sympathies and the best of Diplomats can make potential problem customers actually feel sorry them. It's awesome to watch.



4) The Ranger- These are the guys who are experts at roaming the club grounds, spying developing situations and calling in the appropriate support. They're like spotters who call in airstrikes, it's going to take this much bouncer to quell this situation and so on and so forth. They are the recon of the club security world and are usually wiry and shifty eyed.



5) The Salesman- Every crew needs a guy who can make them money and the Salesman is that guy, He's usually pathetic in a fight and a Salesman will never clean up puke or blood. He's kinda like Faceman from the A Team, he gets you stuff and makes you money so you excuse his otherwise worthless nature.

  If there was a war on he'd be stealing boots and rings from dead soldiers.



6) The Bad Cop- You have to have a guy that's so hardcore about rule enforcement that the rest of you look like Hell's Angels compared to him. This gives you common ground with possibly belligerent assholes and provides the Diplomat the opening he needs to work his magic.





 I hope this gives some insight as to why bouncers can be so assholey. If it doesn't, read it again.


-The StripperHerder









*1 Or, Ghettiquette, i.e. being a shitbag for no other reason than someone else might be watching and you must appear to be a bad motherfucker.






*2 Crush. Kill. Destroy.







*3 And while I'm on the subject, if you were stupid enough to A) pay $300 for a pair of sunglasses in the first place, and B) don't want them stolen or lost, then maybe it's a good idea to leave them in your car or not bring them into a place where you will be drinking and not wearing them and paying very little attention to anything but the naked broad in front of you. Ditto for cell phones, jewelry and anything else of value that you would prefer not to lose.**



** You fucking idiot.






*4 I worked with this one dude who was only about 5'8 and 175 lbs, an amateur MMA guy. He would fight anyone at any time and I would've happily thrown him at assholes twice his size and watched him go to work like an out of control lawn edger.





*5 Mana-Jurs can also double as Diplomats, but normally they're as worthless as jeans-on dry humping.

Amateur Nights and Classy Broads. Or, Skanks, Cranks And Tanks.

  Here's something I've been meaning to write about for some time now, but have been too fucking busy.

  Every now and then in the strip club industry there are amateur nights. Some are wet thong contests, some are pole dancing contests and some are just general act-like-a-stripper-on-stage contests. They usually offer a cash prize and, surprise, a job offer if the girl looks good enough.

                                            Try to honestly gauge the commercial viability of the 
                                                     product depending on market location and demographic.



  Now most of the 'amateurs' are pretty much strippers from other clubs, strippers in between clubs and migrant strippers just stripping through. But every now and then you get a girl who has actually never stripped before. Or maybe just danced for a week or so at some degenerate shithole and thought "Fuck this. I'm getting fingered more times than a catholic schoolboy."

  They're pretty rare, but they happen.

  Now the club I'm at has these amateur nights once a month and let me tell you, it can get pretty grisly. Fast.

                                      (Objects in the mirror may be smaller than they appear)





  And before I go any further on this train of thought, let me throw out a disclaimer:




  Personally, I'm not really into big girls. I like tall girls, but I prefer that they not look like that could bench press me or fight me to a standstill over the last piece of pizza. There seems to be a pretty well defined margin of what the strip club ecosystem will bear as far as the density of its dancer corps goes. It varies from location to locations of course. If you're in a place called Bippy's House of Shawty's for example, you can probably expect the girls to be a bit thicker than what you might be used in your average suburban clubs that may or may nor feature a precious metal in their name.

  That being said, I know plenty of guys who are wild for the waffle, the bigger the better. It just goes to prove that there's a market for everything and once you find that market, you're golden.



   SO....put down the pitchforks.



  If you walk into a club an hour or two before the contest begins with the intention of entering said contest, I have the following advice for you:



   Step away from the Magic Mirror, you know, the one that say's "You're the Fairest One of all", and actually take a look at the dancers that work at the club. Like the ones on the stage, and all those ones walking by you as they restlessly roam in search of free vodka.

  Then ask yourself, "Which one of these things is not like the other?"

  I'm not trying to slam all you big, beautiful women out there. But if you intend to take off your clothes for a living, or even a cash prize, try to ascertain whether you're competitively built (or exceptionally skilled*1) or not before you do so.




  In fact, just to show that I'm not being all misogynistic and shit, let me juxtaposition*2 it for you:


 


  There are any number of very good reasons that I've never been a male dancer myself, chief among them, in descending order, are:



  1) I'm fat


  2) My naughty bits have never seen the light of day and are the same color as cave slugs


  3) I don't fit the accepted societal norms of male stripper and have come to terms with it. (i.e. there's not much commercial demand for my "product")


 4) If I wear spandex or tight fitting clothes I look like an improperly cinched albino bratwurst


  5) I am able to project hot sexuality equally as well as a rotting moose carcass.



 5) I'm painfully aware of all of the above and am realistic about it for fuck's sake.

                     "We love the enthusiasm StripperHerder........but you're fucking disturbing."


  


  Just be realistic. That's all I have to say about that.





             **** **** **** **** **** **** ****




  On a related topic, I'm an old fashioned kind of guy.

                                              "I find your trollop-mouth repugnant."








  I'm neither proud nor embarrassed about it, it's just the way I am. I believe in silly, outdated sorta stuff. Things like not having kids unless you're able to pay for them, working for a living and not sponging off society and taking responsibility for your own actions, not blaming everyone and everything for your own stupidity and lack of judgement.

  And that's as good a segue as any for lurching into my next subject: gross bitches. I'm not referring to gross looking bitches here, I'm talking about girls who range from mildly off putting to truly goddamn cute. They are attractive until 10 seconds after they start talking. After a minute or so you've been creeped out once or twice and after 5 minutes you're praying for a light fixture to fall on her or you to end your misery.

  Ladies, here's some advice. If you want to be respected as a woman, don't talk like a gutter-feeding anal tramp. We all know you have to piss and shit just like the rest of us, but no one needs to know how bad you have to go and we certainly don't need an announcement every time. There's nothing sexy about a girl 'dropping a deuce' unless you're into shit porn. And then God help you, you sick fuck.

  Maybe I'm just too old fashioned, or crazy, but a lot of girls today can turn a guy off just by opening their mouth. Most of them are dumb as a can of hamsters, lack-witted like something pitiable in a crash helmet. They're like drunk shock comics with hokey tit jobs running around saying whatever repulsive crap comes into their heads. I realize this is because they're strippers and filthy mouthed bitches turn some guys on, but for fuck's sake learn to turn it on and off.

  Below is a list of fucking heinous shit that has spewed from the booze holes of some of the classier gals I work with:




  "Oh my God I was shitting clots outta my hoo-ha like diarrhea."

  "She has a gallon of fluid trapped in her uterus, that's why she looks pregnant."

  "I have to shit SO bad!"

  "My nipples were leaking this yellowish stuff..."

  "I'll send you a picture of my poop."*3


  "I laughed so hard my tampon came flying out and broke a dude's nose."*4


  "I hate the way cock and balls look. Dicks are creepy looking but I like them in my pussy."

  


   

               Fucking unrepentant skanks. 




  


  Ave Diarrhea,
-The StripperHerder















  *1 I work with a girl who's built like primitive Nordic fertility idol, all hips and abundant disappointing titties. But this over-buxom broad can work a pole. She climbs up and down it like a Patron fueled gibbon, doing wild pole stunts that you would think would collapse the whole thing and destroy the stage on impact, but the pole is stronger than it looks, mowwa-fakka.



*2 Hell yeah I just used 'juxtaposition' in a sentence. A big "fuck you" to my second grade teacher Mrs. Jisbro who said I've never be able to use it in a sentence or even spell it properly for that matter because I was white trash. I prefer the term blanco garbige...



*3 This was from Methalumps, who I'm pretty sure hasn't eaten enough food in the past year to even generate a milk dud's worth of shit. Meth and vodka don't turn into feces.



*4 I made that one up.