You may have noticed, astute reader, that I haven't written much about Saturday nights in a while. The reason for this is because they've been so much slower than they used to be that I don't get much material from them anymore.
Tonight however, buggered that paradigm right up its arse. All manner of remorseless horseshit trotted about the club tonight: hostile hillbillies, deranged dancers, wasted wankers, you name it-we had it.
But before I get into all that bilge scraping, let's do this installment's FUN STATS, cuz I like em.
-Number of females involved in physical altercations tonight: 4
-Number of dancers I've worked with who've died since my last post: To the best of my knowledge, 0
-Number of times my new Arch-Nemesis, Ratty, has gone all white trash cunt on a customer since her ill advised rehiring: 2
I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO. I fucking well told the world that this would happen and by Odin's quim-primped beard I was right. We need to cut ties with this psychopathic walking chancre before she does or causes something irreparable to happen. Why Dynamic Management Team: LASER FALCON can't see this I just don't understand.
Ratty is a fucking LIABILITY.
-Number of club patrons who lost their phones since last post: 89
-Number of dancers whose names I just can't remember, ever. Possibly because they don't tip: Many
-Number of strippers who quit tonight: 2*1
-Number of times since last post Management failed to inform me of something I felt was important to the fulfillment of my job duties then yelled at me for not knowing it: 1
-Number of times in the past week the entrance area of the club has been swept of all the assorted garbage that makes it look like a patio in a refugee camp after a tropical storm: Twice.
This is because although I work 3 days a week normally, I was too damn sick on Thursday to care enough to do it. No one else at the club is qualified to use a broom.
All right, enough of that crap. You deserve better. Sort of.
Enumeration of tonight's suckitude, By A. StripperHerder.
(Some of which will be in the footnotes.)
Hillbillies. Rednecks. Plow-Chasers. Sheep Rapists. Incestuous Dirt Prodders.
Whatever your preferred term for them is, they can be a trial when they scamper on out into the Big City. Now before you rural folk get your hackles all tangled up in yer panties, let me remind you that whenever I refer to any group: Ghetto Kids, Suburban Cunts, Euro Trash, Dirty Hindi's, Celebrities and hell, even Strippers, I ALWAYS focus on the worst among them. Making examples of nice, polite people for the purposes of this journal would be counter productive as it is definitely a glass-half-empty sorta blog.
So if I cared about anyone's feelings, I would go out of my way to say that the vast majority of the 'hillbillies' who visited our fine establishment tonight were very polite, well mannered gentlemen. Clearly raised by parents who instilled a traditional Do-Unto-Others perspective in their progeny that I have a lot of respect for because that's how I was raised.*2 Maybe its a Midwest thing, I don't know.
That being stated, I will always choose to write about the worst of our club's visitors and if some of them in this instance happen to be Rednecks, well, I'm gonna write about Rednecks.
Hell, to someone twat from LA or NYC, I AM a Redneck. Midwest boy here through and through.
Anywho, we had a group of folks from a Midwest State famous for being a Midwest State and having lots of tornadoes. The were, by our urban standards, stump-jumpers. There were about eight of them, two of which were girls.
So one of the guys decides to rip our "Welcome to the Patio" sign off the wall of our patio. I've always thought it was a stupid sign anyway, clearly you were on a patio, it has all the hallmarks: it's outdoors, flagstone floor, lame bar, and several cheesy 'cabanas'. It all adds up to "I'm on a patio" for even the dullest of patrons.
So Big Jimmy Tractor Oaf pulls this sign off our wall and a dancer alerts my Manager, Sir Vulcanic Magmafist VI and he grabs me and we head out to investigate this heinous act. When we arrive, Baby Huey is holding the bent and destroyed sign like Lennie petting the fucking rabbit.
Sir Vulcanic isn't happy and starts getting all angry-quiz on the wheat-golem, who's answers aren't satisfactory, nor even coherent. The whole time this is happening, Huey's much smaller buddy is running his mouth with fight words like he's Connor fucking MacGregor, not some little Pipefitter bitch who belongs in a women's welterweight Spin class.
Sir Vulcanic was willing to let the rest of the party stay as soon as Lennie left without a struggle, but Dick-Mouth ruined it for the whole group with his shit-breathed assholery. Magmafist declared "they all gotta go" as he caressed his Mace dispenser lovingly.
In the end, the cooler heads from the frontier party prevailed, which is to say, all the rest of them, even Baby Huey.
As a closing to all this, when we had let the last of them out of the patio gate and went back into the club to do all the shit that didn't get done while we dealt with this ridge-runner insurgency, the douchebag and Lennie viciously attacked one of out landscaped trees, ripping several branches off it.
So fucking lame.
In closing, I'd like to describe to you, sensitive reader, one of my favorite punishment scenarios I'll inflict on every Uber driver I can get my hands on, if I ever become the Dark Lord of North Murrika.
Cutting The Shit Eagle.
This is a form of execution I loosely modeled on a historically shaky Viking ritual known as 'Cutting The Blood Eagle'.
According to Wikipedia:
The blood eagle is a ritualized method of execution, detailed in late skaldic poetry. According to the two instances mentioned in the Sagas, the victim (always a member of a royal family) was placed prone, the ribs severed from the spine with a sharp tool and the lungs pulled through the opening to create a pair of “wings”. There is a continuing debate about whether the ritual was a literary invention, a mistranslation of the original texts or an actual historical practice.
Cutting The Shit Eagle is a variation on the theme I came up with where someone is bound in a folded over position so his asshole is as close as possible to his face. Then a deep incision is made in his mid back where a high pressure air hose is inserted and turned on. This blows the contents of his colon all over his face and with luck, he'll choke to death on his own bloody feces and shredded mucal lining.
If he isn't so fortunate he'll enjoy a long agonizing death made more amusing for the spectators because of the constant farting noise his tortured o-ring makes as excruciating amounts of PSI are pumped through it and an airbrush-like blood mist issues forth erratically, sometimes with significant chunks.
It's like art for the Hospitality-Ruined and Uber-Discourtesy Overdosed.
Well I think you get it, HerderHeads, so I will say no more for now.
*1 The first one to quit was Concertina, who is (put on your shocked face) an unrepentant drugavore. In her opioid ravaged brain she felt certain that she had done four dances for a guy and that for certain, he owed her $100, which buys a fair amount of smack or crack.
In reality she did one and a half according to the Counter. And since...
A) Dancers are supposed to wait until the start of a song to begin 'dancing'. If they get to the dance room midway through a song, they're supposed to wait until the next song starts before they 'entertain'. This ensures they aren't charging customers for 30 fucking seconds and calling it a "dance".
B) Concertina never grasped the concept of tipping the Floor Staff, no matter how much money she made or we made her. As a result Floor Guy enthusiasm for obtaining cash for her or counting a portion of a song as a "dance" in regards to her income is nonexistent.
C) The customer she was trying to swindle was a cop from a nearby area.
D) The cop guy was clearly not drunk, was extremely calm, compliant and didn't try to do typical shit such as walking determinedly out the door or punching me. He willingly remained with us at the door while we tried to sort the situation out and the situation turned out to be what the Counter said:
-Bitch did maybe a song and a half.
-Dude owed her for ONE song, $25, but her gave her $40.
-Delusional cunt felt it was FOUR songs, but was wrong.
-Left in a huff complaining about 'pussy bouncers and shitty managers'.
Profound sense of relief attained. One petty smack-a-ho down, scores to go....
The second bitch to quit tonight I'll refer to as Missing In Action, because her brain functions have been shanghai'ed by poppy extracts.
It's sort of ironic that this loony snatch also decided to fuck with a cop, assaulted him even.
It's also kinda weird that I've never really had a problem with this stripper outside of the fact she doesn't goddamn tip, which is a major irritant to me. Yet tonight she went total fucking Hyde, imagining herself 300 lbs heavier and bulletproof. Capable of unrealistic things, such as correctly spelling "Mercedes", or beating a street wise cop twice her weight in a bar fight.
*2 Not sure what went wrong with me, but if I had to guess I'd say it's the Service Industry and the cold, razor-like contempt for humans it breeds in it's slaves.