Saturday, December 31, 2016

The StripperHerder 2016 Year End Special. Or, Another Shitty Post About Stuff That Doesn't Matter.

  I realize that some of you may find this difficult to believe, but I have been accused a time or two of being a misogynist. I know, I was taken aback too. Pretty sure there's a much more apt word to describe me and that word is misanthrope. Learn it, love it, use it.

  Apparently the people who have accused me of misogyny either haven't read but one or two posts of my blog, or are the type of human to only remember what they find most offensive, such as when I talk about a certain girl's private parts as looking like some sort of primitive bivalve constructed by a child out of a weird colored play doh and clearly making a spirited attempt to escape her pelvis.

   For anyone who's read even half my posts, it should be self evident that I hate almost everyone, not just strippers. I'd be willing to bet that I spend a nearly equal amount of time and energy telling all you fine readers out there about the drunk, shambling ball-scratchers that I have to deal with every day as I do the annoying, hammered dancers. Whether you as a reader choose to accept that fact is entirely up to you, but a fact it remains and no amount of victimized whining will change that.

.                           "That's a fact, son. Best leave it be. Never know if it has babies."

                                     "Nothing more savage than a cornered fact, boyo."

  So in an effort to alleviate the consternation of this small yet vocal minority, from this day forward, StripperHerder Enterprises™  LLC will be employing an ombudsman overseeing a crack team of literary anthropologists and satirmologists*1 who will ensure that I pick on both sexes 100% equally so as to avoid any excess feelings of pooty pang or butthurt.

  Therefore in 2017 it will be impossible for me to pick on one sex over another without receiving a crisply worded memo or a really mean spirited email. Thus I will strive to keep doing what I've always done: shit on everyone, myself included, with a fair and equal depth, pungency and consistency.

 Although some spattering is inevitable.

                                                     I hate run on sentences.

        She's going home with me tonight!

  No she's not. You been had buddy. She told four different guys she'd meet them after work and got money from all of you in advance, thereby negating the need to dispense sex acts in order to make a living. You were just dumb/hopeful/horny enough to buy into it. Shame on you.

  This happens pretty often. We notice a guy lurking in his car in the parking lot after closing and that poor bastard(s) is waiting for a dancer that is either:

A) Already long gone, or

B) Is prepared to stay in the club for as long as it takes the Floor Guys to chase off her would be john(s).

  Needless to say for my seasoned followers at least, I'm not real thrilled with this practice. At best it's not worth the minimal amount of money it adds to my weekly income, at worst it's going to get someone killed when some drunk fuckwit gets ripped off for $200 and decides to go all Wild West about it.

  And since it is one of my primary duties to escort our girls to their cars at the end of the night, this will eventually put me in the crosshairs. Unfortunate, since there is literally no way to stop dancers from doing this without permanently maiming them, which is unethical.

                                  "I WANT MY REASONABLY PRICED ANAL SEX, BITCH!"

                                  Looking back on 2016:

-Well done, you killed more celebrities than any year in recent memory and set the bar pretty high for 2017, I call that ambitious.

-You saw Trump elected and while that may spell the end of Murrika as we know it, at least we'll be living in interesting times.

-You were an abusive partner to my wallet, It's easy to slap around a beat up, ass-shaped piece of leather, huh?

      Meet some recent additions to the Dancer Corps:

Thundra: Shaped like a Stone Age Teutonic forest goddess, Thundra is a fantastically friendly gal who happens to be molded along the lines of an ideal Middle Age bride; strong as hell, capable of prolonged hard labor, nice wide hips, generous milk production capability, a general disregard of discomfort and adversity and a overall sense of 'it'll beallrightednedness around her.

  Awesome gal and a stellar example of great attitude

                                  Fact: Has more songs written about her butt than you do.

Milkweed: Super nice gal, admitted hippy. Milkweed isn't one of our hottest dancers, nor does she have one of the best bodies, but she has been graced by a stunning set of of blouse badgers and a sunny disposition.

                                                     "Just look down, honey."

'Lil Hatchet: Can't stand this bitch. Literally shaped like a tomahawk, all skinny with a sharp, prominent beak. yet much less fun to deal with. Looks like an unhealthy child with implants and a separate entity living on it's face that forces it to commit crimes.

                                     "Heroic firemen use me to smash through doors."

Princess Etheriel: Wears elf ears on the job. Seriously. Seems to do the whole cosplay thing as a gimmick but actually does it everywhere, 24/7. Possibility she may have talked herself into believing she's a fucking elf. Has geeks eating out of her hand despite the fact she's only a 6 on a good day and spends her free time journaling about trees and unicorns.

  Still like her, easy to deal with and she get's some of my obscure medieval references.

                                                     "I'm +3 to fun! YAY!"

Kuttya: I can never remember which former soviet bloc state that Kuttya is from so I just call it Twazbeckistan and it makes her quite angry. Which is fun for me. She is a difficult stripper to work with in that she is pushy, bossy and generally off putting to her cornered prey, but her body sees her through most conflicts even if her face is only along for the ride. Some men just respond well to an angry Russian accented women's voice telling them to do stuff they're not sure about and Kuttya has an incredibly tuned net for finding those weak willed jellyfish.

  I respect and kinda fear Kuttya because I imagine she's got some crazy knife skills from her past life as a Chechan operative or KGB sleeper agent, but mostly because she tips good and encourages her marks to tip us as well.

  I'm easy to please like that.

                                                     "You tip me now, da?"

  Hope you enjoyed it, you animals. As I've alluded to before, I'm currently working on a TV pilot loosely based on the Plight, so keep your fingers crossed OR send me a bunch of money. Your call.

Ave Marina,
-The StripperHerder

*1 (Latin) Literally 'satire measurement specialist ' or a person hired by a misanthropic blog author to measure the amount of satire and/or complete horseshit the blog produces.

Saturday, December 24, 2016

Vodzilla Lives And Wanted To Get In The Club For Free. Not On My Watch, Suzy. Or, Strippers Vs. Cars: A Continuing Saga Of Abuse And Neglect.

  Loyal Plight readers will of course remember Vodzilla, my former Arch Nemesis. I speak of her rarely anymore because she's someone else's problem now, not mine. She's such a mobile catastrophe that for our humble club, three times was the magic number for her to be fired and remain so.

                                  Vodzilla using her highly destructive  Belvedere Breath.

 Or at least for as long as Sir Osfried Vandalkoch IX remains in power. He thinks that he hates her at least as much as I do, but it's actually a lot less.

  She's a knock-kneed, corduroy-tittied, weird snatched bottle killing machine whose liver is clearly made from eldritch polymers brought to life by the snuffed flickers of spent sperm cells and the petri dish scrapings of locally captured hunnit-dollah bills, y'all. The really cokey kind.

  The day that she was fired permanently is one of the more revered Floor Host Holidays at my club, recognized by all major Floor Guy Denominations as reason to drink high proof shots and do primitive, stupid shit.

  Like constructing crude effigies and burning them in fields while we scream and shoot handguns at Nature.

  Oh how we drink and scream and shoot at stuff...

                                            "Oh, you want some, Nature?"

  Crazy bitch tried to get in the club last othernight when I was working the door. She fucking hugged me like we had been pals, and I've grown so soft in her absence that I allowed it to take place.

  Her goal was to get in the club for free, with her man-dude. at after-hours prices.

  Not on my watch, Suzy.

  Vodvertebrates pay extra.

  I triumph once more.

  I told her that not only was I not going to let her and her companion in for free, but that she herself was too fucking drunk to enter the club, which she was, and that she could go away as quickly as possible.

  She feigned shock and she did it well. I almost believed that we had previously got along well and that my behavior was an inexplicable and assholey way to treat on old friend, perhaps brought on by some sort of brief substance abuse issue on my part.

  Despite her alcoholism, that bitch still has a few tricks left up her sleeve and they are not to be taken lightly. She has zero problem finding dudes to nail her because she has a vagina and she's not afraid to use it even if she doesn't remember who was in it the next day.

  I'm gonna be super pissed if she outlives me.

  Strippers Vs. Cars, The Battle Continues!

                                                     "I washn't driving schmofficer."



  A third of the dancers I work with have one or more of the following issues with transportation:

1) Their license is suspended. Almost exclusively for DUI's.

2) They've wrecked every single vehicle they've ever turned a key in.

3) Their car got repo'ed because many of them don't understand the concepts of 'credit' or 'provable income' and therefore they regularly pay 19% interest or higher for their car loans and thus the poor cars get repossessed frequently.

4) For some of them, drugs are more important than anything else, including car payments/maintenance. Quite a few of these have figured out that there isn't much you can't barter for a blowjob and as a result they don't really need a car nor, in fact, money.

5) A lot of strippers are very hard on cars. They run into stuff. They don't comprehend the necessity of maintaining something if you want it to fucking last. They tend to think gasoline is the only liquid a vehicle needs to run. Some of them even believe in halogen fluid but can't seem to find a place to sell it to them.

  It is an exceedingly rare car that is purchased by a stripper and goes on to enjoy a long, fruitful life. And if it does, it's not with her.

6) The Sugar Daddy/Drug Dealer/Creepy Old Guy With Money that had been paying for their vehicle found someone else to service his lecherous whims and took the car away.


Five Reasons Why I'm A Shitty Floor Host These Days:

1) I hate people

2) I hate people

3) I hate people

4) I hate people

5) I REALLY hate drunk people

  Limiting my contact with customers limits the possibilities of them giving me money. I've learned to live with it and the other Floor Guys are generally happy with the arrangement because none of them want to do the jobs I do and I don't really want to be a Floor Guy anymore because of, you know, my hatred of other humans and suchforth.

  Another thing I despise is asking for tips. I would be a much better earner if I cared for pressuring dudes for tips. The closest thing I get to that is when people ask me how much the shuttle ride to the club is, I usually say "It's free and I work for tips." This normally nets me a small gratuity, but not always. Some people are just fucking stingy.

  My favorite is when I offer them passes to get into the club. I never mention any sort of price but instead will say something like "I'll take care of you guys and you take care of me". I might then do some math for them based on the number of guys in the group, "These will save you x amount of money at the door", hoping all the while that they'll tip me 50% of the total.

  Sometimes, when I've saved them over a hundred dollars, the last dude off the shuttle will hand me $10 like he's tossing gold coins embossed with his image to the plebians. I look at him like something unpleasant I found stuck on the sole of my shoe.

  "Gee. Thanks man. After I split this with the other Floor Guys, I'm a $1.42 closer to that Ferrari..."

                                           "Sweet! Only $1.415 million more to go..."


  One final note concerns both the above point and is a magnificent illustration of the ungratefulness of some people. It goes something like this:

  We had a guy come in to the club tonight wanting an hour room with two of our entertainers for him and his buddy. Sure I said, let's waste some dough! Easy as shit, right?

  NOPE. And I'll explain why below. Suffice to say for now, over the course of the next half hour I ran four of his cards no less than fifteen times with all of them being declined. Even after having talked to his bank twice and being told the transaction would be approved. The guy is frustrated as hell, understandably so, he just wanted to spend some of his own fucking money and it's guardian wasn't having any of it, declarations otherwise notwithstanding.

  I would like to point out at this juncture that this man had already written in a $125 tip for me on the advance receipt.*1

  SO, being the helpful, greedy Floor Host that I am, sort of, I offer to take him Downtown to an ATM so he could get some cash. And I do. Two ATM's in fact, neither of which would give him any money. Dude is way pissed at this point, and I give him a couple of smokes to calm him down as we talk about cocaine for a bit.

  The he asks me if I know about any payday loan shacks that may be open and I say yeah, but it ain't in a great part of town and he says 'take me there, I got you.' So thinking that he'd already agreed to $125, I start getting visions of a $200 tip, maybe more.

  So I text one of the other Floor Guys, explain what's going on and let him know there's a small but real chance that I'll be dead in ten minutes, but if not, then I'd be bringing some money to the table tonight.

  Yee-Ha and shit.

                  "So. You need a G or so at 3:30 in the morning? That can be arranged, my friend."

 I didn't get shot. Dude secured $1200 and the room was going to be $1000. Boom, I thought, $200 earned.

  And yet I was wrong. Got the man back to the club completely unshot and hustled him into the champagne room. Guy peeled of exactly ten hundos and asked for booze I couldn't provide and when I said I couldn't help him he said, "OK. Get the fuck out of here."

  Merry fuckin Christmas to me! These are the kind of situations I have to deal with that make me not want to deal these sorts of situations anymore. If you catch my drift.

  Two side notes about this scenario:

 - One of the other Floor Gus explained to the two dancers that the guy had fucked me out of a tip when I had gone above and beyond so that they could make a couple hundred extra on a mediocre shift. The girls tipped me a combined $60 when I walked them out and both thanked me sincerely, which I really appreciated.

  -Despite my miserable contribution, we did all right for a middlin night. Over $300.

  And finally

   Remember when I said I'd explain some shit below? Well, here it is, lest you miss it and write me angry emails...


   Chip cards, protecting your money by not letting you access it.

                              Withdrawal request denied! Our algorithms indicate that
                                          A person of your unquestionable moral fiber would
                                             never visit a tawdry clam hut and ask for $600.


  Our company has chosen to go with an already obsolete system for dealing with the rise of 'chip cards' in 'Murrika. Our system, rather than having a single transaction like all other sane methods, requires a chip card holder to sign two receipts.  I've never encountered this anywhere else before. But here you have a preliminary transaction where you must fill in any gratuities then total and sign the slip.  Based on what you tipped (or didn't tip) the transaction has to be run a second time for the actual total and a second receipt signed.

  The inefficiency of this system is staggering and the chaos it creates from drunk people who've never had to do it before is simply mind boggling. It's a testament to the fortitude and patience of our Floor Grunts that this primitive method even works at all.

  Further complicating matters is that strip clubs are one of the most charge-back ridden industries on the planet. The amount of credit card "charge back" attempts made against strip clubs are something like 1200% above the rate most industries face. As a result when a bank's security algorithms calculate risk involved with a transaction based on the number of attempted charge-backs, strip clubs are always deemed 'high risk'.

  This means that an inordinate amount of ATM cards decline when someone tries to use them in a titty bar. Since the introduction of the chip card in the US, the number of customers in my club who have to physically call their bank to release their funds has skyrocketed.

  It's a nightmare trying to explain it to a drunk fuck. Yet I have to do it several times every goddamn night I work the door.

  It's a special joy for me.


                                    "Totally get it, bro! Now explain it to me one more time."

 That's all you get. I have to work on pictures now or someone, somewhere will get all butthurt about it and whine.

 Point Towards Enemy,
-The StripperHerder

*1 The receipt you sign before you sign the receipt. It's very simple.

Thursday, December 15, 2016

In A Past Life I Was Someone Who Didn't Care Either. Or, We Were Safe And Happy In The Trees, We Should've Just Stayed There.

  I don't believe in reincarnation. I don't believe in any sort of afterlife. I believe when you die, that's it. Oblivion, The End, Game Over; a complete cessation of life and consciousness. Maybe I'm right, maybe I'm wrong but there is no way to prove or disprove it whatsoever, and therefore not something I care to argue about really. Be the best person you can be and try not to do any damage that can't be repaired or atoned for.

                                        We don't exist. Please stop praying to us.

  Hard core Christians scare me. Seriously fucked up humans in my estimation. Able to justify virtually any atrocity in the name of their Invisible Sky-Beard and His Magic Cloud-Based Wonderland.

  Their beliefs, when boiled down with a teaspoon of rationality and a pinch of science, are like comic books for the bored and sin-obsessed. And yet they provide some of these folks with a sense of comfort, like a big 'ole invisible security Woobie for what they imagine to be their soul.

  The core value tenets for many of these religions are basically pretty decent guidelines for how you should live your life, minus the whole kill those different from you sort of stuff that seems to surface in all the major ones from time to time.

  It always kinda surprises me how many people on Earth are willing to do horrific fucking things because they can justify it in their owns minds through religious beliefs. It is appalling how much slaughter and death has been committed in the name of faith throughout our history, and to this very day.

  Turns out that the very best things humans are good at exploiting are, in fact, other humans.

  Therefore it is in the ritualization of religion where the problems begin, not so much the fundamental tenets. Symbolism is one thing that is way out of hand in the major religions. Why is there so much incense being burned? It's symbolic of the time when St. Uckl of Blagh cut off his toes to make a fire with when his followers were freezing to death in a place of no trees. His toe bones burned miraculously for a fortnight and his people were saved. Hallelujah!

                                               St Uckl had some big ass feet.


  For example: do you think a God who presumably made the entire universe and everything within it, zillions of planets with trillions of lifeforms, species and cultures, would focus in our one little planet and demand of us such things as:











  Do we really even want to worship a deity that acts like this? Petty and demanding like street corner pimp? It's not like we don't have a choice; there's lots o'Gods. us humans have created millions of them since we climbed down from the trees, became afraid of the dark and developed the ability to lie about shit we don't understand and convince others we know what we're talking about.

  It's like hypnosis only way easier.

  But enough about religion, I could go on for pages about how silly I think it is and not change a single person's mind.

  Therefore I'm gonna throw out a few tidbits that have fucking galled me over the past little while.

  First and foremost is a situation I should've seen coming from a mile away, but didn't. It goes a bit like this:

 - Recently some sort of gastro health issue sidelined one of the club's dedicated Floor Grunts, Cecil, forcing him to undergo a minor surgery that caused him to miss a couple of weeks of work. Being that we're just humble service industry folk, we don't get things like health care or 401k's or profit sharing. We trade those things for the flexibility, nonchalance and forgiving nature the hospitality industry exudes like a nectar that attracts lazy, alcoholic people.

  So Cecil's platonic lifemate takes up a collection for Cecil so he can feed his little'uns and pay the mortgage on the farm. Every shift over the next three weeks I toss in a generous amount so his wee babbies won't starve to death or have to shit in the shrubbery.

  Anyway, over the course of six shifts I threw in at least $150 if not more because I'm nice like that and I would hope that if our positions were reversed, he and the rest of the lads would do the same for me. After 3 weeks or so, he's back n the job and we're talking about DFS, or Daily Fantasy Sports.

  For the uninitiated, DFS are basically legal online sports betting based on you picking the best lineup of athletes who cost you a certain amount out of a fixed budget. For example if you're playing football, you might have a $60,000 budget and a really good player like Tom Brady may cost you $9,400 to put on your team, thus gouging your budget and forcing you to take a few cheap players who are probably going to suck in order to make your budget.

  There is definitely specialized knowledge required.

  Drafkings and Fanduel are the two biggest ones and they have just announced that they're merging. Joy.

  Now that I've educated some of you, back to my conversation with Cecil.

  So we were discussing daily fantasy and he told me he had gotten his ass handed to him this past week, none of his lineups had paid off. I totally understood because this happens to me every week. Last year I did the math and was happy to discover that throughout the entire 2015 NFL season, I spent $325 on DFS and won back $327,

  This year I'm doing much worse.

  So imagine my surprise when I asked Cecil how much he'd blown that week on DFS gambling and he admitted it was roughly $1,000. I gathered that the money that myself and the rest of the floor team and some waitresses had thrown together for him to "pay bills and put food on the table" went to fucking gambling instead.

  I just managed not to let him notice my rage seizure and made an excuse to flee before I fucking lost it. That is a scumbag move, man. But wait, dear reader, it gets better...

  He has since on several occasions won several thousand dollars but has never once offered to pay back anyone nor do I even remember being thanked for my donations to his family's well being.

  And that's all I'm going to say about that.

 -There's this song I've had to listen to 63,542 times in my career. I'm not saying it's a complete piece of audio rectal-puke because that might hurt someone's feelings or offend someone. I will say however that if you enjoy this song and that this is all you demand from your music choices, you may be mentally deficient and/or are as easily entertained as a small, simple minded child.

                                                         "I like the beat."

  I'm also not saying that if this song was one of your favorites back when it was popular that you should be dragged into the street and subsequently be beaten, humiliated and shot through the head or that if I ever attain power in this land that it might be part of my agenda to do things like this.

  But I'm implying it.

  Here's the song I'm referring to. I particularly enjoy how the "artist", who is named after a fruit, decided that amongst all the inanity and vulgarity of the song that she would incongruously cram a 'stay in school' message somewhere between titties and fucking.

  Way to stay classy.

Suckin' on my titties like you wanted me,
Callin me, all the time like blondie
Check out my chrissy behind
It's fine all of the time
Like sex on the beaches,
What else is in the teaches of peaches? huh? what?
Suckin' on my titties like you wanted me,
Callin me, all the time like blondie
Check out my Chrissy behind
It's fine all of the time
What else is in the teaches of peaches?
Like sex on the beaches. huh? what?
huh? right. what? uhh.
huh? what? right. uhh.
huh? what? right. uhh.
huh? what? right. uhh.
SIS IUD, stay in school cause it's the best.
IUD SIS, stay in school cause it's the best.
IUD SIS, stay in school cause it's the best.
IUD SIS, stay in school cause it's the best.
Suckin' on my titties like you wanted me,
Callin me, all the time like blondie
Check out my chrissy behind
It's fine all of the time.
What else is in the teaches of peaches?
Like sex on the beaches. huh? what?
Fuck the pain away. Fuck the pain away. [Repeat: x8]
huh? what? right. uhh. huh? what? right. uhh.
What else in the teaches of peaches, like sex on the beaches.
huh? what? right. uhh.
Fuck the pain away. Fuck the pain away. [Repeat: x4]

  You can't make this shit up. Yet simultaneously, millions of people decided this was good music. And that, folks, is why we're fucked. Don't ever put me in power, people. Seriously, don't vote for me if given the chance to do so, It's almost certain you'll regret it if you do. Within the privacy of my skull I am.....not a nice person.

Read the Dark Lord's Journal*1, it's about to become socially relevant.

-The StripperHerder


Saturday, November 12, 2016

#Bteamerforlife. Or, Closing Time. Go Away.

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

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

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

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

  I have always been a heretic to this ideology.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Anal Craniotomys: Come Into The Light, Management

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Luvs Ya All,
-The StripperHerder

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

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

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

  Gotta stay sharp out there, people.

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

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

  Sigh. The old days....

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

1) I am their big brother.

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


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

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

2) They want to fuck me. 

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

                                       "All right buddy. Get in this."

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

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

  Me big. Her pretty.

                                        "Point me at 'em, big boy."

4) They want me dead.

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

  What can I say? I have a fan club.

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

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



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

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

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

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

  She actively buggers your attempts to obtain money for her.

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

  That being said, here's what went down:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Fucking bitch.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She is our pain.

    I am the Rodney Dangerfield of my club.

                                               "No. Seriously. Shit all over me."

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

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

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

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

                                                  "Did you just say 6:30?"


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

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

  If you haven't already checked it out, I encourage to seek solace at my other blog,

  Check periodically for other details...

Das unt Hober,
-The StripperHerder

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

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

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

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

Sunday, July 24, 2016

A StripperHerder Situation Report. Or Sometimes Shit Is Good And Sometimes Shit Is Bad, Who'da Guessed It?

  It has been a long goddamn time since I've published something and I regret this. I've been extremely busy fucking my life up and making insanely poor decisions, the kind I normally criticize others for perpetrating.

  I let one of my demons get the better of me for four months or so and was slapped with a bill of consequence, which I paid, and came out through the other end licking my self inflicted wounds. It wasn't fun, it wasn't pleasant, but it happened and now I'm better than I've been in a long time.

  I've partially de-twatified myself...

   I don't remember where I left off, club narrative-wise, and I'm not going to go back through the last few posts to figure it out because I am a lazy piece of literary turd. Here's the current situation at the titty shack I work at every day.

Management: There was recently an all out war between management factions at out club which resulted in much havoc and yelling. This idiotic yet compelling struggle went back and forth a few times over the course of several fortnights before Sir Quimsmash Justifiable Batterchick VII eventually defeated Sir Gormby De Withercunt IV in one on one combat.

  Twas ugly, the War, but the Floor Guys were able to survive it by hunkering down and not doing anything illegal for 3 nights out of every week.

                                     Sir Quimsmash yodels his triumph. There is much rejoicing.

Floor Hosts: We just did the equivalent of a tribe of chimpanzees taking to the high canopy when a jungle cat was stalking around looking to eat some stray little monkey. We moved around a lot, stuck together, hooted and hurled some feces. We did whatever it took to survive when the management War Gods were painting every surface red in preparation for their cataclysmic cock-joust.

Persecuted primates, us Floor Guys, darting behind honesty and denial when Management hunts the environs. Hoot and fling, motherfuckers, hoot and fling! It was our only hope.....

                              Floor Guy Boris warns Floor Guy Jake away from his hiding spot.
                                     Jake panics; there's a Manager sniffing around at the base of the tree

Waytrezzes and Barpnenders: Our current brood of drink bringy-things and drink-makey things is hands down the worst batch I've ever had the misfortune to work with. Part of this can be blamed on the training at our club which is minimal and poorly conveyed at best. The rest of it, the majority in fact, can be blamed on hiring pretty morons and cute lazy bitches as waitresses and drink slingers.

             Tina is too stupid to drink from squirt bottles and therefore glad vodka doesn't come in them.

  One bartender recently put in a $150 food order at 2:22 when last call for the kitchen is 2 fucking 10 and we close at 2:30. TWO FUCKING TEN isn't a tough concept. It's just basic math. This girl also waitresses and just plain should have known better because:

A) It was going to take a minimum of a half hour to cook this order

B) The cook on duty is good on flavor, yet terrible at everything else. He doesn't prep as he goes along, he doesn't restock his line in between orders and he 's downright ignorant or apathetic about food safety.

  He was going to fuck this order up good.

                  This is how you thaw food products when you don't know how to thaw food products.

The Cooks: (See also-Gastrossassins, Bacteria Ranchers, Bowel Warfare Specialists) What can I say? They show up for their shifts and cook food. Everything else they do is a gamble with a crippling digestive tract affliction. If danger is a spice you enjoy with your food, then by all means-order away. I would rather rifle through garbage for my dinner, but that's just me. I'm picky like that.

                                      Four tickets and three hours into a shift last Tuesday. 

The Dancer Corps: Honestly, all in all, our bevy of titty-beasts is really fucking strong. We've got a lot of high end girls and a solid core of everydays. We very rarely have any issues with not having enough strippers to go around and our scary bitch quotient is quite low.

That being said they are still strippers and among them roam junkies, thieves, crazy chicks, and all manner of trash and predator. Despite these bad apples, random locker room assaults and all out stripper gang wars are almost nonexistent here.

In fact I've seen less stripper fights here in almost four years that I did at Cracky's Stabaret in less than ten months.


                                            "We're like, pretty and stuff! Yay!"

The Money: Although 2016 started off very weak as far as earnings go, it soon picked up quite a bit of momentum. The Town™ has been on a bit of a roll lately and it has translated nicely into some very lucrative nights for our club and us Floor Dudes.

This week for example I made $40 an hour for the week. Not bad for a high school dropout from a disadvantaged Samsquanch family.


                                "We too poor for school, son. You work in Service Industry."

The Bus: Still a piece of shit specifically engineered to cripple anyone over 5'8".

Bachelor Parties: Still suck. Cheap, wasted, despised, inevitable.

The Weather: Seriously Summer, go fuck yourself already. I hate you and can't wait for you to be over. Eat an infinite bag of dicks.

                                     Bob and Betty, local swingers, lurking in our parking lot.

  All right, if I'm cursing the weather then it's time to wrap this one up. Good night and thanks for reading.

-Da StripperHerder

Sunday, June 5, 2016

The StripperHerder Takes A Dumb Internet Survey And The Results Will Not Shock You.

  I love seeing the results of innane Facebook surveys that some of my friends feel compelled to post. I never take the things myself and would certainly never post the fucking results for all the world to see if I had been honest with my answers.

  I'm fairly certain that I would qualify as 'mildly to moderately sociopathic' if I were to be judged by classic 1980's era psychoanalytic standards.*1

  But by today's whiny-pussy-no-one-is-a-loser-standard I'm merely 'experiencing psychodramatic stress revival due to reliving the traumatizing chapters of a childhood that wasn't one hundred percent perfect'. Or something like that. Some amazingly clever word bullshit that doesn't really mean anything at all but sounds suitably pathetic and unenviable on paper.

  So I decided I need to take one of these quizzes and publish the results. For concerned citizens and and amateur psychobabblists everywhere.

  Without further ado, I give you The Lame Facebook Quiz quiz. Probably scrawled unto the internet by some sort of happy mongoloid, a perpetually elated microcephalic love machine capable only of optimism and unadulterated joy.

  Possibly a teenager.

Q.  Be honest, do you like people in general?

A. Nope. Pretty convinced we need a new superbug to thin the ranks. I see people at their worst and wish horrible things would happen to them because I'm a petty and vindictive prick.

Q. Are you easy to get along with?

A. Nope. I tend to be domineering in a passive aggressive way because I don't really care for confrontations but find I don't normally need to force one in order to have my way. I try my best to be humble but don't always manage it and when I fail, I fail big.

Q. Would you rather have ten kids or none?

A. Even at my hungriest I could never finish ten kids, and quite frankly I'm terrible at making jerky and curing leather so much of the kids would be wasted. Since I'm sorta a conservationist by inclination, I'll go with none instead of ten.

  I've seen so many lives ruined by child infestations*2 that it just seems to me like a way to give yourself a parasite that drains resources that could otherwise be used to have a good time and buy cool shit.

  I don't get it. 

Q.  Do you start the water before you get in the shower or when you get in?

A. My shower is a flimsy plastic stall barely large enough to contain my Celto-Squatchish frame, therefore I must establish an acceptable temperature before I enter the shower, for once in it, there is nowhere to hide from the water.

Q. Would you rather spend a Friday night at a concert or a massive party?

A. I'd rather spend it at home where it's air conditioned, the beer is insanely cheap, and the only dudes urine I'll be standing in while I piss will be my own, thank you very much.

Q. Do you hate the last girl you had a conversation with?

A. Nope. Actually I really like the girl. She's a sparky little bitch with a bit more attitude than I generally like to see in a hot midget, but she's a platinum level tipper and that cannot be ignored when most of the strippers I work with nowadays have any idea who I am or what my name is.

  If I had a fan club she would be at least the Vice President, if not Infante.

Q. What was the last drink you put in your mouth?

A. Labatt Ice currently, but I suspect at any moment that could change to vodka and Venom. 

                                      Best tasting energy drink on the market, hands down.

Q. Who is your hero?

A. A guy named Michael Apotomy from Scranton Pennsylvania. Mike came into the club I was working in one night back in 2008 I think it was. He charged 4 hours in a champagne room with two different dancers, had two steak dinners with lobster tails and asparagus, ordered and drank 4 or 5 bottles of Dom and then shit himself while he got a dance and didn't even blink nor acknowledge his boo boo.

  We only found out about it when the dancer came screaming out of the room, running all bowlegged because her inner thighs were coated in a wealthy man's poop paint.

  Mike was fucking awesome. Sure we had to clean his doody-butter off a couch, but he tipped the hell out of us for our trouble. Both us Floor Guys made more than the strippers who were in the room that night and neither one of us had to get shit on to do it.

  Fucking Mike, man...

Q. Who are you going to vote for in the 2016 election?

A. Unlike many other writers, commentators and just plain everyday people I interact with daily, I have no problem telling you who I plan to vote for.

  I will be casting my vote for Gary Johnson, Libertarian candidate for President of the United States of M'Murrika. I'm doing so for many reasons which I don't have the sobriety left to tackle at this time. I voted for him last time around as well, but this year he's enjoying unprecedented support due to independent voters being appalled by both The Donald and The Hillary.

  I will also freely admit that if I were only given the choice between Hillary and Trump with
no other option, I'd vote for Trump. He's the realest candidate I've ever seen, speaking his mind when any polished or sane candidate/incumbent would be vague or noncommittal. Yeah he says a lot of crazy shit, but politicians say all kinds of stuff they really don't mean too.

  It's called lying.


  Trump knows that his main support comes from people who are exhausted and frustrated with the current system of lobbying and corporate graft. He also scares the living fuck out of his own party, all of the Establishment and is quite possibly crazy.

  Should shake things up if nothing else. Hillary is a stagnant, wholly owned subsidiary of several corporate entities. I find her shady, flip floppy and yet more predictable than the Donald. 


                 RANDOM TIDBITS  

 -In my last six shifts I have made over $2600 in tips and another $500 or so in hourly. This is good. Things had been looking pretty bleak for most of this year so far, but May was a pleasant surprise and I hope June is even better.

  I like pummeling my debt like it owes me money.

-The Management Wars took a bloody turn the other day when out of the blue and with no apparent provocation, Sir Glumly d'Overbite IV was fired by the owner's Orbital Tactical Termination Orb (OTTO)*3, spraying random dancers with hot skull shrapnel and generally making a big mess that the Floor Bastards had to clean up.

  The remaining Manager, Sir Osfried Vandalkoch IX, pretends to be shocked and appalled, but we all know he's quietly smug about his crushing victory. He now holds absolute power and will no doubt abuse it regularly.

  He has become Vader.

-I watched 2 of my fellow Floor Beasts open a door with an assaulty customers face the other day. Then, because he continued to be a combative, violent twat, they hurled him mouthdown onto the sidewalk, spraying teeth all over like someone spiked a box of Tic Tacs. He didn't move for a while but then started choking on his blood so he had to wake up or die.

  He went with 'Wake Up'. Then he opted for 'Continue Hostilites' and things got messier for all involved. Skinny fuck just wouldn't give up; big brass balls, tiny little fists, shocking amounts of chin and a noticeably reduced level of food chewing capacity.

  Arms like pipe cleaners. SO lucky his two friends were smarter than him.

-I ran into Vodzilla tonight, my ancient foe. We embraced awkwardly because she hoped that I would let her in for free based on our history of violent confrontations and mutual hatred. She happened to be wrong though and I refused to let them pass without paying the full amount, drunk with power.

  I whupped her like Mothra and charged her $10 just to use the bathroom while her BF had to wait in the lobby.

  Classic. I fucking win, 'Zilla.

  Fuck all this, I'm ordering gyros. You can scorn or praise me here:

Nubs ya,
-The StripperHerder.

*1 Don't worry, I'm really laid back about it.

*2 Like my parents for example. I was a shitty child with many flaws and very little apparent upside. I feel like by merely avoiding prison that I exceeded their wildest expectations. They're both dead now so I can't ask them. However I'd like to think that if they'd had the opportunity to go on record about their hopes and aspirations for me, they both would've said "He's probably gonna end up killin some poor bastard some day. We tried our best, but that boy has the White Man in him."

                                 Mom and Pop, vacationing in British Columbia, 1970. The only
                                         known photo of her in a two piece. I would ruin her body shortly after 
                                         this pic was taken and our family would suffer anti-squatch sentiments
                                                                   in rural Pennsyltuckianna.

*3 OTTO, literally Orbital Tactical Termination Orb**. Basically a military grade laser mounted on a reasonably advanced satellite built by one of Murrika's burgeoning McSpacewar companies.

**The owner's name for it. I would've named it something much cooler if I was the money-enraged capitalist owner of said....Flying...Death Eye. KillBeam. Thingy.