The down-force exuded by the Owner is slowly crushing the will to live from his hapless management team. It's sad and frustrating to watch because you have this Deja-Poo feeling that the Mismanagers will turn their anxiety and venom loose on the Lower Classes, namely everyone else in the club. Floor Hosts being particularly attractive prey.
You see the Owner wants lots of girls working here. All Owners, everywhere want lots of girls working at their place, even if there's not enough money in the club to sustain them. Strippers, while often not the shiniest coins in a purse, nevertheless understand about making money. And conversely, not making money.
Why in the hell would you expect a stripper to come in day after day if she's not making any real money? You can't force them to come in, they're independent contractors. They can just plain go somewhere else, even if that somewhere is a far off state.
This is a problem we're having right now. Several of our hottest dancers, girls that can get a job anywhere, are doing just that. Atlanta, Miami, Dallas, Vegas. These high end entertainers can go to one of these cities and make thousands in a single weekend. Cheap flights and cleverly constructed stripper support network can pare the cost down so that it becomes quite profitable to jet somewhere else for a few days, leaving our club with a few less gems in its crown.
This enrages my Manager, Sir Lancer Hellquim Von Bitchinschnauzer, to no end. He has a club denuded of it's stars and an Owner ladling scorn and belittlement on him like scalding hot Chili Con Misery. I don't envy him one bit, which is why when Sleazy's Slug Den suggested I try out for a management position, it took me a minute to laugh because I couldn't believe they were fucking serious.
I'd rather try to bang a bull walrus in rut season while slathered in fish guts and with a small anchor lashed to my yam-bag to limit my dexterity and hope for survival.
Management? No fucking thank you.
Speaking of management, how about backing up your Floor Staff with some sort of regularity? I mean you want us to be proactive in filtering the wasted and hopeless from our club but when we try to do just that, you often cornhole us, making what little bit of autonomy you trust us with absolutely fucking meaningless.
Like tonight for example. I made a stop at the club to drop off some people from the shuttle and there was an Uber-cunt in front of the bus, disgorging a group of hammered spunk doublets who could barely manage to exit the vehicle without falling down and injuring themselves. I got out of the bus and told them that they were too fucked up to come into the club and that they might want to consider calling it a night.
Sorry, but I have Liquor Control up my ass and a bar/wait staff who are incapable of saying 'no' to someone who shouldn't be served anymore, I'm not interested in another potential lawsuit endangering my livelihood.
I explained the matter to the MOD and another Floor Schlub and then got back into the shuttle to drop off some patrons at their hotel, erroneously optimistic that the Mgr would back up my decision, especially seeing as one of these idiots couldn't stand on his own.
But despite my optimism, after I drove off the mgr let them in anyway.
Fuck you, StripperHerder, shut up and drive the goddamn bus.
I don't know why I keep trying to do the right thing. It's certainly doesn't seem to be encouraged in this industry and most definitely is never appreciated. Whatever. Anyone can come in when I work the door from now on. Even if they have to be carried. And if I'm called out on my decision, I'm gonna get uppity fast.
Speaking of working the door, I have no problem letting people in for free if I know there's a good chance they're going to spend a fair amount of dough. I'm not always right about this, but my track record ain't bad.
On the other side of this coin is the common, garden variety 'worthless regular'. They're here virtually every weekend and they just show up to talk to other worthless regulars, staff they know but have never tipped a dime, to savor the one costly drink they're willing to pay for and hopefully glom a free drink off someone/anyone and to bum smokes from any other human possible.
Let me give you one shining example of the classic worthless regular. I'll call him Clapstain because I'm sure he's had the drippy dick before. And let me take this opportunity to say that Clapstain has actually been my boss, back when I worked at Shelly's Shank Shack*2, when he was a manager for about ten minutes. He was a good guy to work for, but utterly spineless.
That being said there are certain worthless regulars that I hassle all the time because I know they're not going to spend any money and because it gives me a great amount of pleasure to remind them that I'm not their friend just because we know each other's names.
Clapstain is one of these. I've picked this broke ass twat up and dropped him off at the club no less than eight times in the past year or so. He shitting well knows about tipping because he works in the service industry, albeit in a mismanagement capacity. That being said ole Clappy has tipped me a total of $4 over this course of time, but usually bums smokes off me, thus negating any benefit I received from his $4.
In addition to this, he always wants in the club for free. Getting into a club for free is a privilege, not a right and I fucking well decide who gets in for free*1 and those who get this benediction have earned it. Clapstain has most certainly not earned fuck all.
The reason I chose to mention Clapstain as my stereotypical example of a worthless regular is because he got knocked the fuck out in front of our club the other night for reasons not entirely apparent. This minor fact didn't stop me from enjoying the thought of his coconut bouncing off the pavement like a petrified volleyball. I would enjoy hitting him also, although I at least have the grace to admit that I'd feel bad about it later.
According to fellow Floor Snipe Grimsby, who witnessed the whole affair, Clapstain got "worldstarred" as soon as he exited a car and the sound of his assailant's fist striking his ear region was like a "Rocky Hitting The Side Of Beef" sound effect and Clappy went down as if a chainsawed cedar.
Where he remained unconscious for the next minute or so. Which can't be good for you.*3
My theory is that Clappy had bummed one too many smokes off of a guy, or had failed to pay him for some weed, but in honesty I don't care. I don't really like Clapstain. I feel sorry for him that he has an obsessive need to be around other people, none of which like him, and that he obviously doesn't enjoy spending time at home, savoring its lack of other-peopleness.
By contrast I was just off for three days straight and only left my hovel 3 times. Twice for a store and once to watch a movie with a buddy. Perfectly happy on my own for extended periods of time. The only reason I'm not a recluse is because I can't afford to be one.
But there is a whole tribe of Worthless Regulars and they come to the club every single weekend. If they spent a lot of money they'd be well known. respected and recognized. They'd be scene people. Players, Heavy Hitters. But instead they'll be unremembered as 'that guy I see everywhere sitting by two other guys I see everywhere but never anywhere expensive or exclusive.'
A whole subculture of dudes who don't have $40 to their name, but are just familiar enough with the right people to make $30 of those dollars last them through eleven clubs. Every fucking Saturday.
It just goes to show that working in a "social" industry can make one either antisocial with reclusive tendencies, or render them virtually incapable of enjoying a quiet night at home. Either way it maims its servants irreparably, marking them for life; carpet-bombing whole areas of life's pleasures.
On the plus side, I've made, with my paltry hourly included, roughly $2000 in my last 5 shifts or 45 hours and a bit. This equals out to $44.44 an hour which I earned, for the most part, by not running someone over with the bus. That's my main contribution to the whole endeavor. That and occasionally carrying a struggling human out of the club.
I do my ancestors proud.
I realize, in closing, that the title to this installment has fuck all to do with its content and for that I can only remind my readers that coherency in this blog was never promised nor even alluded to. I choose to write mostly drunk and as a Murrikan, it is my constitutionally guaranteed right to defile myself by any means I find convenient and affordable. Vodka is affordable and user friendly and therefore an obvious choice. Russians are wise in this.
My hangovers have become little more than being tired the next day. Obvious things my hangovers lack these days are: constant and often ambushy shits, headaches, feeling like absolute shite for the following 48 hours or more.
I like being beer free.
I do pictures now, drop the farm implements.
Nubs yinz real good,
*1 I decide until my Manager screams at me in front of everyone and makes me look like a drooling fuckwit, that is.
*2 The same club as Sleazy's Slug Den, but I like making up new names for it. It's fun.
*3 An interesting side note to this story is that while I was arriving at work tonight, a man had wandered out into traffic causing a Cadillac to have to swerve to avoid creaming him. A Cadillac I therefore had to swerve to avoid crushing. That man who wandered out into traffic was none other than Clapstain.
I shit you not.**
**Someone should put him in the concussion protocol.