Thursday, June 22, 2017

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

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

  Tonight was such a treasured slow night.

  And thank fucking God.

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

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

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

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

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

  That particular torch has been passed it would seem.

                      CURSED STRIPPER NAMES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tanks for reedin,
-Da StripperHerder

Sunday, June 18, 2017

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

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


Let's go!


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

And grumped and griped
Still smelled like week old lox

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

  Take what you get.

Glutus Nocturne,
-The StripperHerder

Saturday, June 17, 2017

Greetings From The StripperHerder, Master Of Broom Technology And The World's 3rd Oldest Floor Guy. Or, Camouflage Strippers: Able To Mask The Trashiness Just Long Enough To Make A Few Bucks And Not Tip Any Of It.

                                                  "What the FUCK is that?"

  It's really great being the only Floor Twat at my club that understands the elusive and complex nature of brooms and all the related nuances of sweeping stuff up. It enhances my job security and makes me a valuable asset to the club. If it weren't for me, the front door would've long ago become inaccessible due to the massive drifts of cigarette butts, candy wrappers, discarded booze bottles and street food wrappers that had accumulated there.

  I am the portal keeper. I am the wayfinder. I can sweep at a Chuck Norris level, even at my advanced age.

                             "Even I wouldn't fuck with The StripperHerder if he was armed with a broom."

  So listen, because my unpublished (read:unfinished) draft pile is mounting like an unkempt horse stall, I have to do one of two things at this point:

A) Buckle down, improve my work ethic and finish all these drafts, or

B) Put out substandard, disappointing posts that nevertheless make my numbers look better, sorta relieve my rage (albeit temporarily), and make me feel like I've accomplished something, however vapid and disgraceful.

  So, savvy reader, which option do you think I'm gonna run with? A or B?

 Not even going to dignify that with an answer...

  True things I've said to strippers recently:

                           If there's a StripperHerder movie, Danny McBride should portray me.

  So we're not allowed to pressure dancers for tips anymore, doesn't matter what we've done for them, they are by law considered 'private contractors' and there are notices from our legal team posted all over the buildings that no one is permitted, by law, to imply, infer, suggest, hint at or outright state that a bitch needs to pony up some dough. And if someone does, here's a convenient number to call so you can join a class action lawsuit that's waiting to happen.

  Apparently it's illegal to tell a cheap cunt that she needs to tip us for our efforts in making her money. They are independent CONTRACTORS*1 (which minimizes the club's legal liability when they do something horrific) and as such, we Floor Mollusks are no longer allowed to tell them "hey girl, I just made you a grand, pay up."

                                             "Hey! Fuck off! I'm contracting here!"

  I had this girl tonight who asked me some insidiously stupid question at the end of the night, when my tolerance quotient was at zero. I sighed and my shoulders drooped in resignation. I looked down at her and I said quietly and clearly,

  "Every day I come into this club I fight a war with myself not to murder another human being. Some day I'm gonna to lose that war. Try not to be here that day."

  And I went back to cleaning up after her ass, because that's one of the many splinters of the cross I bear, cleaning up after two-legged garbage.

  Another gem I told a girl the other day was, "I know you're 20 and already have life figured out. You're blonde, stunningly beautiful and a lot men will bend over to make your life easier in hopes of doing something, ANYTHING to your naughties. Probably even just sniffing your thong because a lot of men are pathetic fucking losers with more income than pride.

  "That being said a weekend in Cozumel with a moneyed asshole still makes you a whore, sex worker plain and simple. If a "Luxury Handbag" is worth that to you, when a garbage bag could do the same job, then god bless ya honey, set that muffin to Auto-Butter.

  She didn't like that very much and I didn't care at all. It's her snizz and what she can do with it as she pleases, but don't expect me to have any respect for you unless you give me money, which in the industry context is all I care about.

  And finally, one more tale of my favorite bombshell bitch, Ivana Poutvainly, our gremlin-hearted Ruskie bartender thingy.

                                        "So werry interesting. Tell me more."

  If you'll remember, honored reader, Ivana totaled her ridiculously expensive BMW a couple of weeks back, driving hammered, and didn't even get into any trouble for it because she fled the scene. Now she has an even more expensive car, yet still bitches about money and people being cheap.

  She was having this conversation with one of her former Soviet Bloc cronies, when I just had to interject.

  "Maybe if you weren't so obsessed with insanely expensive luxury items and vehicles there's a chance you'd have more money in your pocket."

  And these were her exact words, I'm not even going to alter them to make them more sensational:

  "I'm not going to dress like a commoner." She said with a sneer.

  I just laughed. "Well if you're broke, regardless of what you're wearing and what you're driving, doesn't that make you by definition a "commoner?"

  People like her make me sick. If your sense of self worth is so inextricably tied to what kind of overpriced shit you wrap your body with and drive yourself around in, then you're probably an egotistical, petty, self absorbed waste of oxygen.

  ANYONE and I mean anyone who's willing to pay $3K for a fucking purse when a perfectly functional one could be had for $25-50 or less, is someone probably not worth knowing. EVEN if buying it doesn't represent a financial hardship for them whatsoever. Two of the traits in humans I hate the most are arrogance and avarice and paying stupid amounts of money for designer crap is the height of both.

  For example, even if I had F-U money, I wouldn't run out and buy Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Aston Martins or some other super pretty hunk of shit, I'd buy something like these:

                                                      Pretty and functional.

                                            The angriest car ever built in Murrika.

                               Rarer, cheaper and better looking than a similar year Mustang

                                            Traffic problems are a thing of the past

  That's what I'd buy. Probably some guns too. Maybe a house.

   Camouflage Strippers: Masking their horrid nature since whenever.

 I don't have anything to write about this because my Anti-Butthurt team has assured me there's no way to cover this without someone, somewhere, finding offense with it. My legal Armada has informed me that I'm on thin ice, socially, and that in today's climate, it's okay to do horrible things, as long as you know you're right.

  Must be a great feeling, KNOWING you're right and that any atrocity or ugliness you can commit is condoned and sanctioned by an imaginary Cloud-Dude, who totally approves of your fuckery.

  It saddens me that otherwise rational people can think along these lines.

  Fucking saddens me, I say.

Your Mammary Guidance Specialist,
-The StripperHerder


*1 Forever cheapening the term "Contractor".

*2 These weren't my literal words of course, otherwise she probably would've called the Owner and he may or may not have had me terminated with this O.T.T.O.** But it's the gist of what I meant, whether or not she was clever enough to read between the lines remains a mystery to us both.

**O.T.T.O. I don't remember exactly what this stands for and because I couldn't find the post I mentioned it in, I'm just gonna take a stab at it. Orbiting Tactical Termination Orb. If you feel like doing the research, feel free to enlighten me.

*3 "The Arrangement" is the agreement with alcohol that I made years ago. It goes something like this: Alcohol agrees to be here for me unconditionally and I in turn agree to never stop drinking or get to the point where I can't stop drinking even if I wanted to.**

** So far it's been working out extremely well for both sides. We're happy together.

Thursday, June 8, 2017

Requiem For A Graceless Snizz Or Two. Or, Creating Misanthropes 101: The Service Industry.

  Let me kick this one off by saying that I had written the original couple of paragraphs a few months ago then, like most things in my life, I never finished it. Unluckily for me, life has seen fit to grant me with new inspiration that coincides with the general topic matter at hand.

  So because I'm lazy, I'm going to highlight the original post in blue, then keep writing. Try to keep up.

  I found out tonight that Musky, a dancer I used to work with at a couple of different clubs, died yesterday.

  And though no other information is available at this time, I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that she either OD'ed on heroin specifically, or just OD'ed on drugs in general. Lots and lots of drugs.

  Call me crazy but that's my hypothesis. Musky really enjoyed her narcotics...

  So that happened. I don't mean to sound callous about it but it occurs pretty often in this business and if you get all attached to a trainwreck then you inevitably are affected when it finally goes off the rails. So I try to stay detached from the job. I'm the standoffish guy. I'm less likely to stay and "bond with the team" after work and I almost never go to work colleague outings or parties.

  I'm very guarded with the people I work with, I have to be because I write this blog. If you're a regular reader then you may have noticed that I seldom have much to say about various co-workers that's positive and any connection between me and the guy who writes this would be catastrophic to my fiscal needs.

  All right, everyone still with me? Sexcellent, let's kick this mule in the tail.

                                                    "You best not kick my mule."


  So Musky's unfortunate passing was roughly three months ago. About two weeks ago Margo also died, again from a heroin overdose. They both at least had the courtesy/good fortune to die somewhere besides the club.

  But not tonight. I got called back to the club from the shuttle bus by the Manager at around 1:15 AM. I hadn't been at the club ten minutes when I get a panicked call from the other Manager for Floor Staff to come to the dressing room. Every other time I received a call like this it was because two or more rival stripper gangs were having a rumble and they needed to be broken up before someone got a stiletto heel through the eye, where it may or may not have hit something important, like a brain.

  Nope, this time it was for a dead stripper. Literally a dead stripper. Laying on the filth of the bathroom after having shot up in a stall. Super classy way to go.

  That being said, as far as I know she isn't still dead. In fact she probably wasn't when I arrived either, but her survival can all be attributed to Floor Guy No Codename. If she'd been somewhere by herself, she would be deceased as I write this.

  Here's what happened: When I arrived in the locker room she was sprawled out halfway under the stall wall. There was a syringe laying at her feet and she wasn't breathing. Fortunately there was a rescue stripper nearby who took charge and starting doing shit that clearly wasn't helping. I was on the phone with 911 dispatch at the time, giving instruction to said clueless good samaritan, when No Codename pushed the "helpful" bitch out of the way and got the girl breathing again very quickly. He's pretty skilled at CPR it seems.

  From what I hear, after she regained consciousness, she was angry with No Codename for calling 911. Not thankful, not appreciative for saving her life, but worried about going to jail if the cops found her smack.

  This is a great segue into the next thing I want to cover in this installment, how working in this industry has made me into something I don't like. You see, dear reader, I simply would have let her die. Not even kidding you one bit. If I could look you in the eye and make you feel my sincerity, I would.

  I would've let her die. I would have stood there and watched the ineffectual efforts of rescue stripper fail and a young girl's life slip away. A decade ago I could've never said that about myself, but today it's just a fact. Realizing this was very sobering for me. In fact it hit me kinda hard. There wasn't any way in hell I would've put my lips on here, even to save her life.

  I don't know what she did. May her shit was cut with carfentanil*1, the deadliest stuff to hit the streets in history. You can brush this substance off your clothing and die:

  What they don't mention in that article is that it took four doses of Narcan to save this guy's life and he only touched it with his fingers.

  So I would've let her die and that doesn't say anything good about me. A lot of this has to do with my loathing of junkies in general, mixed with a healthy fear of dying while trying to save someone who clearly chose to do something horrifically stupid. I blame the service industry in general and the strip club industry in particular for helping to make me this way. The current panhandling and heroin epidemics aren't helping things any and the bottom line is I'm growing fucking weary, people.

  Tired of being angry, tired of feeling hateful, tired of thinking the worst about my fellow sapiens and seldom being wrong. I'm tired of working at hours out of sync with the other 90% of the country and getting to see other humans at their worst, all the time.

  I'm just a hateful wedge of angry old goat cheese anymore and I fucking hate feeling this way.

  A change has to be made and I only have one real option. Writin. It's all I got.

  But enough about all that. Everything's happy! Everything's good! TITTIES YAY!

                                    "Sweet Christ! Look at those Lactose-Cannons!"


  I'm gonna stretch out this post, which was rapidly becoming depressing, with some cleverly worded observations about more of tonight's fiasco.


      I'm Hideous, COME TO OUR CLUB!


                                     "No seriously. We have wings and funnel cakes."

 *Here's a grand idea, take your fattest, most unattractive dancer, a girl so physically unappealing to the majority of males that she's not even allowed on stage when she's working*2 and let her go out promoting. Let her be the face of the club that potential customers see. That's the way to reel them in!



 *There's a huge racial divide in strip club economics that NO ONE TALKS ABOUT. Merely discussing race nowadays can get you labelled as a racist, so I prefer to avoid the whole issue, except for this instance.

  On the customer side of things, white guys tend to do champagne rooms while black guys tend to throw money on stage. I'm not going to go into my theories behind this because nothing good would come of it, suffice to say, the ratio isn't even close, for whatever reasons.

  One goes, one throws. One does champagne, one makes it rain. Make up your own rhyme here. It's fun. You'll feel like a rapper.

  On the dancer side of things, with an equally stark ratio, black girls don't tip as well as their paler counterparts. Don't know why this is, but I also don't know why gravity works, it's just one of those things that's a fact and you just have to learn to deal with it or it may become aggressive with you. Doesn't cover everyone of course, nothing referring to humans does because some of us can be stubborn cunts rather than predictable cattle.

  Read into that whatever the fuck you want. I've ceased to care. I talk from life experience.


  I'm positive that this post needs further editing, but I'm not gonna do it. because I'm stubborn.

Much amor,
-The StripperHerder




*1 This shit is decimating people everywhere, but poor Ohio seems to be the epicenter:

  Glad I don't work there anymore, what a shit show.

*2 I've mentioned my feelings about this before in this blog. Basically it boils down to "if you're too gross and porcine to appear on our stage, then you should be too gross and porcine to even work here at all. MUCH LESS BE SENT OUT PROMOTING.

  What were they thinking?

  And before you get all panty-twattled, if I showed you an accurate picture of this girl and you had one shred of  objectivity in regards to this industry, you'd agree with me. She's gross.

If I were inclined to go to a titty bar and this was the girl who'd invited me to where she worked, not only would I not go, I'd attempt to order an airstrike on it. I'd do this because I'd think to myself "If this is the best of what this club has to offer, what's the worst?"

                                               This. This is the worst. In a bikini.


Sunday, June 4, 2017

So Much To Talk About, So Little Vodka. Or, For A Thursday, Tonight Sucked A Whole Bunch Of Various Animal Ballsacks. Or Even, I've Added More Onto This Since Thursday But Couldn't Come Up With A More Clever Way To Say It.

  I don't even know where to start tonight, I have so many topics to expound upon that it's going to be impossible to properly address them all. So in my typical slipshod fashion, I'm just gonna leap in feet first and hope for the best.

  But before I get into the grim details, let me do a preface:

  On most days, I hate my job. I, like any other dog, have my days. But really I dread every single fucking shift I have to go in there and the only reason I'm still at this place is because everyone seems happy to let me pilot the shuttle bus and thus remove myself from most interactions with all the tedious, enraging denizens of this never ending twatfest. 

  The thought of just getting myself fired and collecting unemployment for however long they're willing to give it to me seems pretty goddamn appealing. I could literally live off my credit cards for at least two years, with or without supplementary income, so it's not like I would be homeless inside six months. This would give me all day, every day to sit around in my manky underwear and pound away on my TV pilot. Which, if my survival depends on it, seems the only way I might actually get it done.

  So that being covered, let's wade around in the turd pool, shall we?

                                 Got your water-wings on? Cool. Splash around. Have fun.


   One of my biggest aggravations at the moment is the Manager I'm forced to work with 95% of my shifts, Sir Balrog Da Passive of Agressia II. The other "cool" manager (Sir Mellowtimes S'allgood V ) doesn't like me and since he's the one who does the scheduling, I literally never work with him. Ever. Which sucks because he is everything Sir Balrog is not.

                                        Clearly upset with the Latervian Football Team.

  Let me cite some of Sir Balrog's charms for those of you blissfully unaware of the entirety of the past four years worth of installments. Some of these are traits that he appears to be saddled with and others are but wee shit-cookies that I had to deal with tonight specifically.


-He takes FOREVER to close the club. Sir Mellowtimes can do the exact same job in one third of the time, no matter how busy the club was. One fucking third.

-He enjoys cornering the poor House Mom or some other unfortunate bastard in the parking lot when they're just trying to go home, and yak at them for a half hour or more. All of this being on everyone's time as we can't go the fuck home until he does his motherfucking job.

-This happens to me up to four times a week. Adding 4-6 hours onto my weekly schedule for no discernible reason, nor gain on my part.

-He's an escalator. He'll wade into a situation us Floor Guys have under control or at least made nonviolent, and start dropping racial slurs and insulting people, reigniting the whole keg of powder.


                     Anally baked, just like weird Uncle Ted used to make.

-We had this asshole tonight who was too drunk to even be allowed in the club, but got in anyway because...


  Not only did he gain access the first time, he got back in four times after I had told him he was done for the night because our Doorgirl, Taco Bella, couldn't be bothered to stop Instachatting and Snapgramming long enough to notice the blithering drunk idiot I had escorted to the door multiple times, waltzing back in.

  It wasn't like he was subtle.

  The funny thing is, Taco Bella was only responsible for only three of those times which brings me back around to the original subject of this itemized tirade, Sir Balrog.

  The fourth time I had to throw this guy out was because Sir Balrog gave him permission to go use the bathroom, obviously thinking "Hey, he's done everything else we've asked of him tonight, what could possibly go wrong?"

  That's when I dragged the dude off the patio. Totally unnecessary for me to have to go to that extreme in my job because two layers of the other club staff couldn't do their's. I'm seriously getting fed up with this crap.

  Nothing was said to the doorgirl. Nothing. Like she played no part, much less a major role in this fecal layer cake.

  I'm getting fed up with this crap.

-If you're going to keep the club open later than usual to cater to less than 10 customers who aren't spending any money, don't you think it'd be a good idea to let your Floor Staff know about it? I mean you have a radio, we all have radios, we're just the push of a button away. It seems like something that I oughta know since I'm working the door.

  Just sayin.

  But enough about Sir Balrog. I have to strive to cover some other happenings, but I fear it's gonna be a pathetic effort, i.e. my average output.

  Here, in no particular order, are things of suck right now:



                         They look like they might erupt in baby spiders at any time.

 This stripper was a nightmare to work with and I've had the pleasure of doing so at three different clubs so far. This one twice, because we're stupid. A leopard don't change it's spots, and I'd bet that we find out that Methalumps hasn't either. The formula is the same; a sweet natured, repentant dancer who is on less meth than before as evidenced by her somewhat less bony ass. On good behavior protocols until the trigger is pulled and she gets all trollish and knuckle-dragging.

  I'd wager 60 ounces of silver it'll happen with 3 months, and I thought carefully about that.

  And while the optimist in me hopes that she has shrugged off her drug-demons, the experienced, cynical cunt in me thinks it's only a matter of time until she Hydes*2 all over the place. Probably with me at ground zero, knowing my luck.

 If you'll recall, dear reader, she's the one that due to surgery, has nipples that rest on top of her tits, nowhere near the business angle of your standard booby. Any offspring might be forced to evolve giraffe-like necks to deal with the harsh geometry involved in feeding on such inconveniently placed milk nozzles.

  I don't know, I'm not an Anthropologist. If that's even the correct profession to explain possible consequences with the awkwardly situated mammal-juice taps that Methalumps exhibits. When you stare. they become very creepy.

  Shame, cuz she's pretty.


  It seems like average to above average strippers have fallen from the sky lately, there are so many scampering about the club, looking to crop some green. I don't know what happened, but all of a sudden there are so many new dancers that I don't know half their names anymore. And with the repetitive nature of Common North American Stripper Names, I sometimes get confused, ambivalent even.

                            It's like THIS just stormed our club, demanding jobs. We said YES.

  Since most of them don't tip the guy keeping them safe on the way to their car, (me), I can't be bothered to remember their names. In fact I love when I have to walk a stripper out who I've walked out several dozen times before, but who has never tipped me and I ask her what her stage name is even though she's told me many times before. Sometimes I even do it if I know their name, just to annoy them.


  Our former Soviet Bloc ice princess, Ivana Poutvainly strikes again. I really hate it when people who repeatedly do stupid things aren't punished for it, they're never going to learn without a little pain and scar tissue. Well, they're probably never going to learn anyway because they're stupid, but at least give them the chance is what I'm saying.

  Let's get into this, comrade.

  First off, this crazy Nezturkistanian bitch has the cook make her a "special" brownie. For the more innocent readers among you, a "special" brownie is a goody that's baked with weed in it. So you can get high without having to smoke anything. Apparently she doesn't even smoke regularly and was warned by said cook NOT TO EAT THE WHOLE FUCKING THING because ingesting rather than smoking THC will get you much higher, it just takes longer.

  So Ivana receives her stony-treat and eats half of it. After a half hour she's not feeling anything so what do you suppose she does? If you're thinking to yourself "eat the other half?", you're correct. The dumb commie ate the other half.

  Fast forward thirty more minutes and she's so high she is completely incapable of doing anything other than gripping the bar in terror and staring wide eyed at everyone, who are all now speaking gibberish.

  Manager takes her aside and says "what the fuck is wrong with you?" At this point Ivana spills her guts and narcs out the cook which she assumes has Mickey-Finned her or something. So her and the cook get suspended and the cook ends up quitting.

  Super cool.

  But she wasn't done yet, oh no, she had plenty more stupid where that came from.

                                            "I would rather die that drive a Serf car."


  She wasn't back four shifts from her suspension when, on her way home from the club, she smashed her Beemer against a guardrail not a mile from work. When I say smashed, I mean totaled. That car was proper fucked.

  So Ivana flees the scene and scoots her wasted ass back to the club. A Manager and Floor Guy convince her that she should go back and they run her up there. By the time they arrive the PD is on scene. When an officer asks Ivana what happened, she's says some guy she picked up from the bar was driving and that when he wrecked the car he ran away. The officer then asks her to describe the guy and pretends to write down what she says. The main point you need to know from here on is that Ms. Poutvainly said the guy was kinda tall, maybe 6'1" or so.

  From the account I heard from the Floor guy present was that the cop let her spin her yarn for a while longer before stopping her and saying "Listen, this is how I know you're lying:

A) The passenger side airbag hasn't deployed and

B) Anyone taller than you would find it difficult to drive from where the driver side seat is placed. In fact it's the perfect distance for someone exactly your height."

  "That being said" the cop continued "Without a witness or some sort of proof that you were the driver, I can't PROVE BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DOUBT YOU WERE DRIVING WHEN THIS ACCIDENT OCCURRED. So you get a Leaving The Scene Of An Accident charge."

  Now some of you may argue that this was not, in fact, a stupid thing to do. A Leaving The Scene charge is way better than getting a DUI, and all of you thinking that are right. But let me tell you why I still consider it as rewarding the stupid. I consider it thusly because Ivana wasn't calculating this outcome, she just fucking panicked and didn't know what else to do. The fact that she got away with it irritates me to no end.

  That's all I'm gonna say now because I'm getting mad thinking about it. If I'd had at least one positive interaction with Ivana, I'd be cutting her some slack right now, but the truth of the matter is, she's a class conscious, elitist spoiled brat who expects the world to unfold before her based on her specialness.

  Meanwhile she stills sits on a toilet and grunts out used food just like the rest of us.

  She's exactly the type of girl to complain about not making enough money and always being broke, but drives used to drive a brand new BMW 6 Series, regularly spends $700 on boots she can't wear at work and a dress for $800 that looks identical to a really long T-Shirt. She could've chosen to buy a Camry and some Reeboks, but no, that is for plebians. Grass-clutching beet farmers who eat dirt and rape field mice. People whose ancestors should have been massacred by Cassock Calvary sabers if the world was run properly.

  That's Ivana. Our special joy.


                                                      See? This girl gets it. 

  Sir Balrog allowed a group of area business guys to have an informal meeting in one of our unoccupied champagne rooms for reasons known only to him. He wasn't charging them for the privilege because we were slow at the time and they didn't bring in any strippers with them. Probably because they wanted to actually accomplish something.

  So I guess what happened was that our least savory waitress, whom I'll refer to as Ghetto Scumbag, told the two witless dancers (Pogo and Helga) to go in there. A few minutes later the Camera Troll alerted the Floor Staff that they were two Intruder Strippers in the room, wreaking havoc with any potential productivity.

  So Floor Guy Seamus goes into the room and pulls the girls aside and tells them point blank, "This is a free room Sir Balrog is doing as a courtesy, if you stay here you AREN'T GONNA GET PAID." English doesn't get any plainer, folks. And seeing as how ONLY Floor Hosts can set up VIP rooms, not fucking drunk waitresses, the aforementioned dancers should have beat a hasty retreat.

  I'm not even going to insult you by asking, esteemed reader "What do you think they did?" Because you all fucking know exactly what they did. They ignored the Floor Host, the only human they should've listened to, and stayed in the room for 2 1/2 hours.

  This should've made them in excess of a grand but instead netted them nothing. Like they were told it was going to make them.

  And they, of course, went batshit.

  And at this point some of you more perspicacious and/or suspicious followers may be asking, "What's to say that Seamus told them at all? What if he just wasn't paying attention and didn't care anyway?"

  And these are valid questions.

  The answer is that of course he told them because he most certainly didn't want to deal with angry dancers who go all MTV reality show star on you when they don't get their way. But the second part of the equation is that Pogo can be a Platinum Level Tipper*3 when you help her out and might average out as a Silver Level Tipper when taken as a whole.

  In the end, I found myself not caring at all. I believe Seamus's side of the story because that's precisely what I would've done except for the fact that I would've tried one more time after another 30 minutes or so, just to see if I could make them understand, possibly using crude drawings if necessary.

  They both stormed out and I'll bet they won't be back.

  For at least five days.

  That is all. Picture time so you don't cry.

Mas Consternato
-The StripperHerder

*1 As a strip club we have a lot of strengths, our Doorgirl staff has never been one of them. It makes me think nostalgically of working at Anthony's Place of even Sheila's Shag Hut, where the Doorgirls were miles above anything we've ever had work at our place. Their DG's were fucking fearless, knowing they had the Floor Beasts to call upon, they owned the fucking Portal.

  Our guardians are like "OMG! I didn't even realize he was wearing sweats! Oops!"

  Or, "OMG! I thought you carrying him out in a full nelson was like, I don't know, some sort of male bonding thing? I don't know. I don't know about Bro culture. Tee-hee."

*2 Hyde: For any potential new readers among you, a Hyde is the ravening, soul-eating monster some strippers turn into when they've had too much of something. Kinda lie a Banner/Hulk thing. When a bitch hits her seventh Patron, she ceases to be a Jekyll and explodes into her Hyde-self.

  Frequently violent.


PLATINUM: Do I even need to explain it?

GOLD: Very good, like gold. We take very good care of these gals.

SILVER: We like you. We'd take a staff comprised entirely of Silver Level's if we could. If all girls were consistent but unspectacular tippers, us Floor Sloths would, on average, make more money.

BRONZE: Meh. Understands the concept but just isn't very generous, or is hard to get into rooms, or just isn't good at making money for whatever reason. Usually because she's not very attractive.

ALUMINUM FOIL: After the split you may get as much as a dollar. You know, on a good night.

BITS OF ENAMELED RAT BONE: Mostly given by strippers who are past their SELL-BY date, as opposed to strippers who are merely in their waning years who are more frequently Silvers or Golds. Usually the tips consist of whatever trinkets the ole gal might have on her or may be things handed down from her people, carved antler and whatnot. But every now and then a drunk Yoda-aged stripper will unwittingly hand you a small treasure.

  For example I walked out Methusalina one time, a dancer who is literally over four hundred years old, and she drunkenly tipped me an antique Parisian Snuffbox which I subsequently sold on Ebay for $1,800.

SPIT: Occasionally tip one dollar. This is more insulting than tipping nothing at all because it says that she derives pleasure from just having tipped you 14.2 cents, which is what your take will be after you split it with six other Floor Grunts. This froths her truffle.

  Spitters are despised. Don't make that feeble gesture at me, cunt. You need that 14.2 cents more than me, so you just keep that dollar. Buy some off brand Mac N Cheese for yourself.

CHOLERA: Not only doesn't tip, she actively tries to bugger our earning potential and often costs us money by some of her various scams and junkie bullshit. To be branded and driven from the village whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Floor Guy Emergency Codes. Or, Random Vignettes Of Suck From An Occupation That's Slowly Making Me Evil. Or Maybe Even: Something Positive Just For The Novelty Of It.

  Us Floor Guys have developed various codes we use in communication with each other just in case there's an open radio somewhere and we don't want the patrons to know what we're talking about. You know, to preserve the illusion of fantasy and non criminality we strive so hard to promote.

  But there are recurring situations that have happened so often we needed a covert way of saying it over the radio. They're like the numerical codes police department use, but more blatant and frankly, kinda fun.

  And now I'm going to share some of these with you, beloved reader, because you deserve to know.

  I hope you're ready for this.

                                                     "You're not ready for this."







                      Two Amber Alerts in progress captured mere shots away from Hydeing. 
                                                                              Rare pic.

1) AMBER ALERT: This code means a dancer is violently drunk and is preparing to start Armageddon if we don't do something to prevent it. The stripper that inspired this code was named Amber and was the sweetest, meekest girl you can imagine. Until she hit her fifth vodka, at which point she went from a cuddly, attractive Jekyll, to a ravening, foaming-at-the-mouth Hyde, determined to destroy anything that got in her way or offered her help.

  Amber Alerts are a Floor Wolf's least favorite calls for help. Personally I'd much rather respond to a gunfight and take my chances than to deal with yet another tedious, hostile wasted stripper, spewing hatred and cuntiness in the megawatt range.

  This being said, a drunk and belligerent dancer isn't necessarily a 'Hyde'. Drinking, in this industry, is encouraged and frequently rewarded, a 'Hyde' label is only slapped on when it becomes apparent that a certain level of inebriation triggers a Hulk-like transformation into a raging twat-weiler that happens every fucking time.

  Some girls get hammered once or twice a year and become unreasonable to deal with, a HYDE however becomes unreasonable to deal with every goddamn time she drinks, which is everynight. Until our sluggish and under-balled management team can be inconvenienced and put out enough to finally fucking fire her booze fueled ass.

2) CONTAINMENT BREACH: This means some fuckwit customer has taken out his dick in a champagne room. This is utterly and 100% wrong. Unless you've tipped us accordingly and we selected the whore dancer for you.

  Pulling out your primitive man in a VIP room is neither tolerated nor legal and we won't stand for it. For less than a $200 tip.

                                              "Get on it, wench. I paid my five in silver."

3) SCARFACE: Some douche is caught doing blow in the club. We throw them out immediately. If we're allowed to.

  I say that because it often takes our ruling class months upon months to make the decision to ban coke dealers from the club. It doesn't make much difference if they're overt or discreet, anyone with half a clue can figure out what their game is and they don't attract the kind of business we want. So it should be easy for our alpha-males to make that call, but I guess it ain't.

  Do you know how humiliating it is to toss a customer out because I caught him blowing down a line off our filthy toilet paper dispenser and then have my boss tell me he's OK ten minutes later? I can't possibly describe the feeling of shititude it induces without using the words infected, cock, pus and jogging all in the same sentence. And I'm not gonna do that to you.

                                          It annoys me that people just ignore a sign. 
                              They're there for a reason and my Grandma worked hard on it.

4) BAGHDAD BILLS AND BOBS : I'm not a racist in that I don't believe race, skin color or ethnicity have anything to do with what kind of human being you turn out to be. Like dogs, humans are products of their environments and upbringing, not their racial components. We are taught hate, ambivalence, intolerance, shittiness and rudeness. We're not BORN with attributes, we LEARN them from our parents, peers and life experiences.

  So when Middle Eastern guys come into our club, especially in numbers, which always makes dudes act crappier than they would if alone, we're always on guard. This is a form of racial profiling and we'e all good with that because in many Arabic countries, women are considered property that has orifices you can fuck in between making them keep house and raising an insane amount of children.

  When you come to America though, females are legally considered humans and have to be afforded the basic civil rights considered inalienable by our Constitution. This doesn't include an obligation to suckle your weird brown turtlenecked dick, you motherless heathen. It means they can choose to do so for an agreeable fee and not be stoned to death for failing to suck. Put that in your hookah and smoke it, you perfumed camel-loving 3rd century thinker.*1

  And Indians, don't get me started. I guess when you hail from the rape capitol of the world, the entire planet becomes your jizz depository, or so you think.

  People with this attitude should really be much bigger and far more formidable than your average Indian man.

5) SEVEN-MARY-THREE: This means we're onto some (frequently) junkie strippers preparing to run some sort of scam on a customer and we have to intervene to make sure some clit-brained dullard doesn't get skinned by one or more of our predatory heroin addicts. It's always super fun and never unrewarding.

  No seriously.


      Stripper Wars Episode 4: A New Whore

  So now that Vodzilla and Bellatina are gone, the universe sensed that there was a bitch shaped hole in our reality and like the fucking dependable universe that it is, rushed to fill that void. So let me introduce Grody. Despite her name, Grody is WAY fucking hot to look at. When you have to interact with her however (unless you're a gutless, irrational vag-slave) you find yourself quietly hoping she bursts into flames and that you may or may not have a shot of 151 in your hand.

  Just sayin. Hold the hate mail and misogyny labels, folks. You'd just have to meet her and then you'll get it. I promise you that.

  Let me run it down for you.

  Grody is stunningly pretty, twenty years old and already has life completely figured out. She's aware that the all powerful Owner is keen on her and she uses this like Dirty Harry used his fucking Magnum, frequently and without thought to possible consequences.

  So being that she's only twenty, legally she's not allowed in the building unless she's on the clock. I know that sounds all kinds of wrong, and it is. But it's reality and a great illustration of how utterly fucked up this country is when you can work a job at 18 that permits you to be in an alcohol serving environment, or serve in a poorly thought out war where you may get blown to bits by a guy who shook your hand yesterday and offered you some hummus.

  But you're not allowed to drink booze. Or be in a bar that serves it.

  Seems all cockeyed to me.

  But back to Grody.

  Grody lies constantly. She's been caught in so many lies that we know she's lying when she's still breathing. If her lips are moving, you can be sure there's bullshit flying out of them. Whomever raised her did an astonishingly horrible job and I'd like to offer my eternal enmity to them- thanks for the breathtakingly self centered little lying cunt you've unleashed upon the world. Now she's my problem four days a week.


  Let me give you a prime example. You'll love this.

  So I'm on the shuttle as usual tonight and had made a pit stop at the club to walk the lizard and grab some water. As I'm sitting in the bus preparing to drive off again, I see Grody and Sticker leap out of an Uber and scamper towards the front door.

  Sticker if you'll recall is the dancer I mentioned a few posts ago who walked off stage when the DJ played "Dragula" by Rob Zombie because it was "devil music."

  She's very nice.

  I got on the radio and informed my manager, Sir Joyous Paroxysm III that a daffy, under aged bilge rat was headed to the door with her amazingly stupid friend. Then I drove off and tried to calculate the odds of Sir Joyous doing fuck all about it. I came up with 15:1 odds that the girl would get away whatever the hell she wanted to, up to and including beating a patron to death with a fashionable clutch.

  I wouldn't have wagered a dime.


  And I would've lost if I had because when I finally managed to get back to the club an hour and a half later, Grody was still there, getting bought drinks by her would be lothario's. Several of our staff informed Sir Joyous of the situation and he replied "she's just waiting for her food order and then she'll be gone."

  Likely fucking story. Mr. Paroxysm is so downtrodden by the Owner that he dare not lay down the law with Grody, for fear of being shouted at and demeaned. Meanwhile this gorgeous fuckwit runs rampant throughout the club like a vindictive Celtic War-Queen in a chariot made of cunt.

  But I digress, let's continue the tale.

  So later on I'm escorting a girl to her car when I get a Call that another Floor Guy is needed on the patio. Well I haul ass, much to the amusement of anyone fortunate to see me at full steam. I bull my way through small humans until I reach the patio and what do mine eyes perceive?


        Just because I like them, let's make it a multiple choice:


                                                         "PICK ME!"

  When I had run over enough normal sized people to reach the patio, what did I see?

A) Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

B) The Easter Bunny using a smurf as a pocket pussy

C) A pile of money so big I disappeared into it when I couldn't stop my momentum

D) 20 year old Grody at the center of some sort of strife that requires extra security staff to come running.


  I've never seen a smurf fucked like that. I think it was Angry Smurf, but they all look alike to me because I'm a Smurfist.

  Ha. That was clever.


  Here's what really happened.

  Grody alerted Floor Guy No Codename that a patron had pulled her and Sticker's hair. Like it was the playground she was only five years removed from playing on and Bad Billy Hamilton had yanked her pigtails. No Codename had to intervene between the very aggressive Grody, and a retreating customer and thus called for backup.

  What a bunch of horseshit. I'm not even going to go into more detail about it because its biblical-level fiction.

  What undoubtedly REALLY happened was that a shitty drunk customer, which he was, said something Grody didn't like at which point she got all indignant because he failed to recognize her specialness. She threw him all kinds of mouth-shit which inevitably ended up with "Oh yeah? Watch how fast I can get you thrown out of this club."

  This is exactly what occurred, Grody's fish story notwithstanding. But us Floor Cocks had no choice in the matter, dude had to go. I had the privilege of informing him and escorting him to the door. He was resigned about the matter even though that didn't stop him from a generalized running of the mouth on the way out. He never directed his rage or insults at me however, because he knew for a fact that I would've made him look like a child, and more importantly, he had come to terms with it.

 No Codename might've had a bit more chin from him, but he's half my size and my voice is much deeper...

  This is the kind of shit we have to put up with. Lately there's been a ban on off duty staffers coming into the club because they always act like idiots or bring people who do it for them. But this only applies if the Manager On Duty isn't afraid of said idiot. If he is, all bets are off and drama's gonna happen.

  In closing, and because my lawyers have recommended that I write something positive every now and then to avoid possible future suicide liability, I give you...


              A Great Night On The Bus, 
                  By A. StripperHerder



                               "What? No. I haul people to a titty bar. Have a good night."


  Great nights on the bus don't happen very often. Most people are either inconsiderate or so self absorbed that they don't appreciate the service I give them by scooting them from place to place in the douche-mobile.

  I've picked up random parties of people struggling through harsh weather; bitter cold and driving rain. I've done this out of the kindness of my heart and a strong secondary desire for them to do the decent motherfucking thing and toss a lad some cash for being a solid bro.

  I've saved groups of slavering drunks $200 dollars at the door with the understanding that 'I'll take care of you if you take care of me', the service industry creedo. And they tipped me $5. This is more or less typical of my experience on the shuttle anymore.

  But not tonight. Tonight I got to drive some very generous people around, and the best part was, I never saw them coming.

  I'm gonna be brief because my drinking/writing window is closing and I don't wanna get caught with my arse hanging out.

-The first group I got called to pick up looked very, I don't know, white hip hop I guess. I was skeptical because my previous experiences with similarly attired gentlemen hadn't been encouraging. Much to my surprise the group of 8 ended up tipping me $80, the entire amount I saved them at the door.

  They went into the club and bought 2 $600 bottles of booze and by all reports were completely cool and generous tippers.

  When I brought them to a feed-hole at the end of the night, they gave me another $50.

  They blew my preconceived notions out of the water,

  That's how you do it, folks.

  And on my end of things, I dropped them off with 100 free passes.*2 They certainly merited it.

  The other noteworthy ride of the night was for a "Butchelorette" party for a lesbian girl and a mixed group of her friends. They were awesome, and in my nigh 20 years in the industry, I've never heard the term 'butchelorette' before.

  Turns out half of them had worked as bouncers before, and mostly in strip clubs. There were only 5 of them and the butchelorette tipped me $60.

  Class fucking act.

  Bus-wise, I loved tonight. All the construction closures made my arcane knowledge of the Town's™ shortcuts and backways invaluable as I navigated a rat maze with no cheese payoff on offer.

  I'm gonna try to do some pics without getting sued. Only because I like youse guys and know how you love the pictures. Other than that I'm done. Seek further entertainment elsewhere.

Your Humble Titillation Ambassador
-The StripperHerder



*1 The term 'perfumed, camel-loving 3rd century thinker' could, to a person of a certain perspective, be construed as racist. And while I can see their point and may even agree with it to one degree or another, I can't bring myself to edit it. Or care.

  In my defense, I'm perfectly OK with being thought of as a 'cheeseburger loving, god hating infidel who is unwilling to kill/die for the Magical Sky-Beard-Thing.'**

  ** And by extrapolation earn himself a shitload of virgins who all nevertheless suck in bed. Only those interested in hurting and dominating others would find this appealing. I for one would rather be promised, in exchange for blowing myself up, seventy-two 25-50 year old hot sex demons who knew exactly what they were doing and were excruciatingly good at it.

  Sounds like a better deal to me.

*2 That's worth $1000.

Sunday, May 21, 2017

Standards Are Slipping At The Nipple Hut, News At Eleven. Or, How I Can Tell Your Band Sucks Balls Just By Looking At You. Or Even: Bellatina, Satan With A Vagina.

  There are some creatures prowling our stage these days that wouldn't have even been allowed to audition back in the good ole days. Gals that a year or two ago would've only been allowed to work during daylight hours, lest they frighten any real customers away. Apparently the pressure from the owner to have more and more dancers has finally broken the Uber-Manager and now he just hires anything that can climb unto the stage under its own power and doesn't pass out halfway through her second song.

  That's what it's come to these days, goblins and gorgons. Strippers so chunky they should be in a soup commercial, not spread in a thong with their unruly titties all akimbo on my goddamn stage. It's fucking embarrassing, people.

                                                "My stage name is A-Man-Duh."


  We used to be able to claim some sort of twisted strip club superiority over our rival clubs because overall, our stable of beauties was hands down the best in town. It wasn't even arguable.

  Now however, we just wallow around in the same mediocre puddle all the other clubs play in, splashing our patrons with entertainers that appeal to the lowest common denominator. Sure, we still have quite a few A List ass shakers, but the bar has been lowered significantly to satisfy the owner's obsessive hunger for numbers.

                    Despite their obvious drawbacks, the McClellan Sisters still draw a decent crowd.


  As a result I've been forced to look at some really depressing titties lately, and it's been getting me down, I'm not gonna lie. Sometimes I feel like I'm in a nature documentary about the social lives of lower primates, where all breasts have evolved to point downward and hug the body, thereby allowing the primate to more efficiently cling to tree trunks.

  Titties should be happy and perky, always looking at the bright side of life and striving to stare you in the eye. They shouldn't be beaten, drained and forlorn, swaying from a stripper's chest like two diabetes socks filled with a joyless and bland custard, brown brat-gnawed nipples tracing obtuse patterns on the stage while she twerks on her hands and knees.*1




  There've gotta be standards. Letting every gross junkie that wants a job work here is not going to end well or ultimately be good for business. But if that's what it takes to satisfy the owner, then we're all going to just have to deal with it. Everyone gets a slice of the shit pie, and some of us will undoubtedly end up with an entire pie all to ourselves.

  I hope mine has some kind of berries mixed in with the steaming fecal matter because I like berries.


 But enough about hideous, shambling strippers for now, let me reveal some ways I can tell your band sucks without even hearing your "artistry".

                                                      It's easy to tell.

A) You all had "cool" hair. The Johnny Depp circa Dead Man Walking, two man-buns and a vintage Kurt Cobain.

B) A bowler hat. One of you was wearing a bowler hat over his Johnny Depp hair.

C) Your expansive, "We've made this place cooler by our mere presence" vibe which you oozed like a 90's Persian exudes Drakkar Noir.

  Pervasively. One might even consider using the term 'oppressively', although I probably wouldn't.

D) No one had the slightest idea who you were. Even when you told them.

E) None of you could fight. We found that out when one of you idiots (I'd bet he was the singer, possibly a bassist) wouldn't pay a dancer what he owed her because she wouldn't let him grope the fuck out of her while licking her neck and face like she was an animated Jolly Rancher.

  In retrospect, maybe he was the drummer...

  Anyway, this pack of hair ranchers came in early tonight and bought a few dances here and there, causing me at one point to go back to the dance room and warn to guy to tone down his groping. Then I went away on the shuttle and they ceased to be a problem for me.

  Yay, shuttle!

  But when I came back in an hour later to take a leak I heard shouting and when I got to the front door, one of my fellow Floor Bastards had the bowler hat guy in a full nelson and was throwing him through the door onto the pavement.

  I had chosen a fortuitous time to make pee pee it appeared.

  I wish I could say that the bowler hat guy sprang up and tried to charge my Floor Compadre and that I swept him up in a death clutch, the likes of which he couldn't escape from until his buddy paid the fucking dancer, but that didn't happen.

  He chose, of his own free will, not to pursue further hostilities. Without even being aware that I was standing right behind him, waiting to stoop on him like a Lummox Raptor and carry him away from the fight like an osprey with an unwise salmon.

  These are the reasons I know their band sucked. I'm not going to explain myself further because I've become bored with the topic. I know I'm right, fuck off. They're some brand of douche-rock, trust me.

 Bellatina has made her presence known once again. I hereby shit you not folks, I have never been closer to murdering another human than I came tonight. I can't possibly convey what a cheap, shitty, delusional cunt this girl is without you actually experiencing it yourselves. Words don't cut it. They paint a vague picture at best, but that's not going to stop me from trying, BECAUSE I CARE.

  Gimme a minute here, I'm rolling up my sleeves, taking off my pants and fixing myself another vodka and something.

  There, I'm back. Let's dig in, shall we?

  Bellatina, if you'll recall, is the white trash, conniving bitch that scammed some poor schmuck in an incident I detailed in this installment:

  She is an adherent to the ghetto school of thought where the first one to stop running their mouth is the loser and her ability to acknowledge reality is nonexistent. Argh, I'm being consumed by hate right now and am having a hard time focusing on the story rather than smashing stuff and screaming my rage to the skies.

  Let me get another vodka. That should help.

  Fuck, much better. Let me continue.

  This girl has become my new arch nemesis, stepping neatly into the void left by Vodzilla. But dear sweet weeping Jesus she makes me miss Vodzilla. In retrospect Vodzilla was like on old friend, I just didn't see it that way at the time. If I happened to be a cartoon dog, she would've been the amusing cat next door that gave my life some kind of meaning as we chased each other around, getting into overly complicated situations where one of us triumphed temporarily over the other. Admittedly it was usually me, but that was one of her charms; she'd just walk away when she was beat.

  Not Bellatina though...

  If I were to dip my balls in a vat of radioactive chemical sludge, she would be the mutant offspring of the glowing isotopes and the naturally occurring critters that live on my tater sack. But she would hyper-evolve into some sort of Gigeresque monstrosity that ravaged whole planets, consuming all life with her ghetto mouthed horridness and utter lack of moral feng shui.

  If the Manager doesn't fire her this time, which I suspect he won't, I will take matters into my own hands. All the pieces are already in place, all I need is for her to show up again and for said Manager to allow her to work. It'll be her last day for a while because if you can't drive your car to work, then generally speaking, you can't get to work.

  And that's all I'm gonna say about that.


                            FUCK THAT BITCH.


  That's where I'm gonna end, humans. I cherish my small but loyal readership and hope you never have to meet Bellatina.

  If I had more money, I'd put a contract out on that cunt.

 Nubs you!
-The StripperHerder.

*1 I can't believe I just wrote that sentence. I feel sick.