Sunday, April 22, 2018

The Synopsis On A Sextet Of Sunsets And Beyond: The New Club. Or, Now With 100% More Lists Than The Original Outline Called For.**

**(this is a narrative lie, I don't use outlines. A glimpse into my craft...)


  Ah, loyal Herderheads, it has long past time finally for me to elaborate on on my new situation. I've been away from the keyboard for far too long and I apologize for my absence, but I was crazy busy with the move and adjusting to life in more southern climes, the subject of which will be it's own later installment.

  I have to stay focused, I'm out of practice.

  The whole 'things are different in the South' thing aside, the mechanics of the new club don't deviate much from the previous clubs I've worked at with a few very big exceptions which I will detail below guessed it, one of my sorta famous Lists.

  Let's get it on!

  ***Before I launch into it I should mention that I've only done six shifts here so far and that all the following is based solely on these six measly shifts. I felt it was enough write about as you will see. I also have a few other topics I'll be covering in relation to my new geography, not the least of which is my apartment situation as well as some motherfucking culture shock. But that's for another time.***

1) This club bucks the current trend of insisting the entertainers work as 'Independent Contractors' rather than actual 'employees'. For those unclear on the distinction, allow me to elaborate once more the very important differences in the two classifications of strippers:

  a) "Independent Contractor" Most clubs nowadays insist that dancers work as Independent Contractors, rather than Employees for the very simple reason that it limits the club's liability when a shitfaced dancer attacks a patron with a broken Corona bottle or some such nonsense. It shifts the legal liabilities to the stripper and away from the club. Lawyers and the out of control litigation shitstorm they've created in this country have made this the smart way to go for most titty bars. Now a berserk dancer maiming a customer in a drug fueled blackout is harder to hold a club responsible for and smaller, independently owned strip clubs have to worry less about going out of business due to one crazy bitch and the lawsuits she spawns.

  Independent Contractor status also limits what a club has to offer dancer as far as insurance and bennies. It means the club doesn't have to offer them squat. They're their own bosses.

  On the other side of the coin it also means we can't legally can't do things such as fining them for breaking rules, or tell them to stop being dreary whores. All we can do if bust them doing crap they aren't supposed to be doing and terminate their contract.

  Luckily for the past couple of clubs I've worked at, most entertainers don't read their contract and have no idea about what the club is and isn't allowed to do. It's the only thing that gives us a measure of control over feral strippers.

  b) "Employees" actual, honest to God, on the payroll employees of a club. Like Floor Hosts or Waitresses. Positions where if you refuse to do your job, or are unable to due to being wasted, you can be fired immediately. Not bundled into an Uber or stashed in an unoccupied champagne room to sleep it off.

Fucking fired. Not coddled.

  Now that it's been cleared up, let me say how refreshing it is to work at a club whose management elements seem to have control over the entire club situation*1. The dancers here are like every other facet of the club team, they can be suspended, fined or shitcanned at the whim of the management team (who I will give a cool Management Team Codename to in the coming weeks).

  The most stunning example of this unnatural power is that the strippers here aren't allowed to have their phones with them on the floor of the club! Can you believe that shit? At the last club I worked at sometimes all you could see in the dimness of the club was the reflection of a cellphone screens off dancer eyes. Like creature eyes glowing in a flashlight beam through a dark forest.

  Fucking creepy.

  I'd mentioned it to my old Manager, Sir Algernon Warhead VII, and he'd told me that since they're 'independent contractors', we can't dictate to them where and when they can have their phones. Legally they're considered the same as someone who'd put in your drywall or paint your house or install a new toilet.

  I know there are some bad contractors out there, but for fuck's sake don't lump them in with strippers....

 2) I have a female manager for the first time. This isn't some kind of issue for me because I've had many women bosses in my various other occupations. I mention it merely for the fact that in this particular industry, this is the first woman I've worked for. She's pretty damned good at her job, I'll give her that. She started in the industry as a stripper and knows the business inside and and out. So far I like her a lot.

  She's not afraid to put ravening strippers into their place and can calm a raging Hyde like no one's business. She knows how to dole out the comps to potential repeat patrons. She expects professionalism from herself and those on her staff and I have no doubt that she isn't gonna put up with any fuckery.

  Thankfully for me, fuckery has never been part of my approach to stripperherding.

3) I was interviewed by the Owner Himself before I was allowed to work here.

  Seriously, the Owner himself. Personal fucking interview.

  I've worked for clubs where I had never met the Owner before and even a couple where I didn't even know who owned the fucking thing.*2 Yet after two interviews, one with each Manager, I got to talk to the Big Man himself. The Tuna Kahuna. Talk about a man with a philosophy you want to work for. I'm gonna refer to him from here on out as either The Owner, or Red. As in Red Green, a character in an obscure Canadian TV show who he reminds me of greatly. For those not familiar, watch this and come back.

  There. If you can picture this particular Owner just like the guy in the video, then you're not far off at all.

  Hope this helps the narrative really come to life for you.

  In this facet of my career, the stripperherding portion, I've worked at eight different clubs. AS mentioned before, I sometimes had no idea who I was actually working for, I never met the guy who supposedly owned the place or was told I'd be killed if I kept asking stupid questions.

  So to sit down and talk at length with the actual Owner of the club, who of course had final say on my potential employment, was both unique and as it obviously turns out, successful. I was just what he was looking for; a big, grizzled disillusioned motherfucker who wasn't interested in selling drugs, putting up with horseshit or banging the dancer stable silly. I was after money and it's a language he speaks fluently.

   His clientele is what he calls 'Golf Money' and he isn't kidding. The Town™ I work in is an hour or so away from a few major cities, but apparently is a mecca for the golfing set. And let me tell you without reservation, that as far as strip clubs go, your most desirable clientele is always going to be white males between 40 and 60. Read into that anything you want to, but that's a titty bar's dream patronage. Old white dudes.

  And this club has almost an exclusive customer base of this sought after demographic. There's a reason they're sought after, they spend money freely and for the most part, tip generously. I make better money here than at my last club and the money there wasn't bad, I just frequently had to deal with real pieces of shit to earn it.

  SOOOOOOO much better here.

  We talked for over an hour, a lot of it just bullshitting about random stuff. He has an laidback demeanor that puts you at ease and seems like a legitimately happy guy, unlike the majority of strip clubs owners I've met. Jolly is a word that comes to mind. He explained to me his mindset in how her runs his business and it's very old school:

1) Put on a good show with beautiful women.

2) Don't allow customers to be scammed.

3) Don't employ dancers that get so hammered they can't crawl on stage and thrash about.

4) DON'T FUCKING DO DRUGS IN THE CLUB OR ON THE PROPERTY OR COME INTO WORK HIGH. He's pretty goddamn serious about this and I respect the hell out of it. Personally I support the right of anyone to do any drug they choose, just don't bring it into my work place and be willing to accept the possible consequences of the choices you make.

5) Fire known/suspected prostitutes immediately because they siphon off your business.

6) Don't rehire train wrecks. He and I have both been in the business long enough to realize that maybe one in ten strippers who are complete wasted fuckwits will ever get her shit together enough to be employable again to any sane person.

7) You don't need lots of customers to be successful, you need the right customers. And he gets them.

8) A man who spends thousands of dollars in champagne rooms weekly in the club will never, ever have to pay for drinks. Nor should he.

9) An exclusive part of the club with it's own discreet entrance is a must have for entertaining high profile patrons.

10) Don't hire ugly bitches. There's no nice way to put that.

  Of course if you talk to any strip club Owner or Manager they'll probably spew this lip service bullshit at you as they turn a blind eye to obvious shenanigans and tightly rolled hundred dollar bills in a strippers garter.

  On a related note, turns out that in a seven man roster, I'm only the fourth oldest Floor Host working here instead of the first or second oldest like I would be in any other club. I'm still the tallest though, so picture me huge. This Floor Team is far and away the most mature set of fuckers I've ever worked with, plenty of gray on display. More on them in the future as I figure out my place in the pack.

  Although I'm laying low as I integrate into the team, keeping a low profile and following leads, I think this place may lead to a rebirth in my hosty nature, which has taken a beating at my former couple of places. Genteel is coming back to me.

  Now if they just had real weather.....

  So, you know, fuck the pictures. I'm too tired. Trademark abrupt ending™. Classic StripperHerder....

My name is The StripperHerder, and I work for a man who reminds me of Red Green.

Buenos Noxide

*1 I'm only six shifts in at this new place, so I may be writing a very different blog in the space of a few weeks or months. In fact, I'm sure of it. But that day isn't today, I'm still in the honeymoon phase.

*2 Although I had my suspicions. The accents and track suits gave it away.

Thursday, April 5, 2018

Welcome to Uber, A New Driver Orientation. Or, I Hate Flying, But It Happened And I Survived.

  Author's note: Outwardly, I recognize that ride hailing services are beneficial to humanity at large, I comprehend that from a consumer standpoint, both in price and convenience, they can't be beat. I understand that they've had an appreciable impact in reducing drunk driving 

  I get all that, however

  From the perspective of someone who drives regularly in a metropolitan setting on frequently busy nights, the remorseless, talentless cunts who drive for these services should be dragged from their car, beaten senseless with any handily available bludgeon and either cast into traffic or pissed on, depending on how merciful you're feeling.

  To prove my point I recently applied to and was accepted by one of the MAJOR ride hailing services and this is a reprint of my W.P.A., or Work Place Agreement that was sent to me for my signature before I was allowed to drive for them.

  Pay close attention because this is 100% authentic.

  Dear Future XXXX Driver, Thank You For Choosing To Join The XXXX Team. Please Review And Comply With Corporate Guidelines By Initialing Each Point On The Contract And Signing At The Bottom.

1) My driving skills were never stellar in the first place but I promise to detract from them even further by simultaneously staring at my phone and frantically looking for my customers and when I can be bothered, I may or may not pay attention to what's going on in front of me.

2) I certify that I have no working knowledge of the area I'm trying to navigate.

3) I have disabled my turn signals and hazard lights, not that I ever understood what they were for in the first place.

4) I can endure the smell of vomit and disturbingly perfumed foreigners.

5)  I am unfazed by the hostile stares of unemployed former cabbies who didn't move with the times and occasionally I'll throw uneaten food at them. For charity, not sport.

6) I hereby acknowledge that traffic laws, common courtesy and mutual cooperation no longer apply to me in any way, and in fact should be viewed as an impediment to my livelihood.

7) I fear no metropolitan police. They are more willing to get into a gun battle than to write a traffic citation. Paperwork is a bitch.

8) No road is one way if it stops me from picking up my wasted fuckbags. I don't Yield nor recognize Right of Way because that shit is for people with souls.

9) Being behind me in traffic will be as punishingly frustrating as I can make it because my company pays me bonuses for being a enraging twat. I have a rear facing GoPro to capture the screams and facial rage-spasms of those behind me.

10) I have masturbated to the videos of righteously indignant drivers until it no longer gets me off. I need road carnage now, mangled machinery and broken rag dolls on asphalt, exciting blood smears and so forth. Argh, I'm cumming....

11) I realize that I have to share the road with other motorists, but really, fuck those people. I'm working.

12) Even if a parallel parking spot is available, and a wide open at that, I will choose of my own free will to just park in a lane of traffic for however long it takes my drunken shitsacks to find me, even if it's the only lane available to every other motorist in the city. I am utterly willing to enrage and inconvenience hundreds of people because that's the core of customer service.

13) I understand that the powerful ride hailing lobby is making progress getting Involuntary Vehicular Manslaughter decriminalized if the accused was checking their phone or peering out a passenger window, looking for their customers when they ram through a group of pedestrians and in anticipation of this I have equipped my Kia with a meat-plow.

That's literally what they sent me. Couldn't believe it myself but there you go. Corporate greed in its plainest vest and lamest officially licensed MLB ball cap.

  When I'm in charge, you'll be able to buy a license to kill these fuckers. No bow hunting though, windshields can create unforeseen ricochets. I'm not a monster.

  In other news, I hate flying. I'm too big for coach but am too cheap to pay for business or first class. Therefore flying is like high altitude Box Torture, or a secret police Stress Position where your interrogators refuse to serve you any more alcohol. Add in to that an utter lack of control over the whole situation and it means THAT I REALLY FUCKING HATE FLYING.

  I have to be drunk. Just coherent enough to be allowed on the aircraft is ideal, hopefully followed by sweet liquor induced slumber until the plane has landed. It's a balancing act, buzz vs coherency. You have to get the combination just right and I'm two for two on it, bitches.

  So....the new place, first impressions:

  It's very nice. Clearly high end and clearly owned by someone who likes to keep it high end looking. Everything was clean and shiny even in the bright lights of the pre-business hours, which usually just serve to shabbify a place. Strip clubs look much better in very low light.

  Management I met with seemed very professional, no nonsense and were looking for a mature, experienced and non criminal Floor Host who combined various desirable elements such as size, bearing, people skills and diplomacy.

  I was able to bluff my way through most of them.

  So I have to hand it to my Buddy Erik, who went to bat for me with his fellow management and convinced them I'm some kind of Floor Hosting Demigod. It doesn't hurt that I come from a much bigger market, either. Looks somewhat impressive on a resume even though this new club does probably four to five times the money ours does, thanks to being readily accessible from a top five market city.

  My relocation is done except for flying back to the northern realm and driving both my vehicles back with the help of my friend Warnoth, who is very warlike. He'll drive my winter beater (which I won't need anymore) and I'll drive my truck and then the angry bastard will fly back to his snow haunted homeland.

  So all I have to to is acclimate to the weather, which is already too warm. Lay low at new club to determine how much bullshit the management was feeding me about how they run the club, and then insinuate my way into the Floor Guy brotherhood and hope it isn't like Mallory's Malevolent Menagerie, where all the employees are so busy ripping each other off that they rarely have time to properly fleece the customers.

  My last day at the old club was March 31st and not only did they not buy me a gold watch, they didn't even get me a cake nor wish me well at my new place. This should tell you all you need to know about my attitude regarding my job, I've really degenerated. Like to caveman days.

  I start at the new place on April 16th, a fucking Monday. If their Mondays are anything like OUR Mondays, then I'm screwed. Our Mondays are completely fucking worthless UNLESS a whale strolls in and decides to spend some dough. If you're relying on the crowd in general to make you some money on a Monday, then you're going to be sorely fucking disappointed, boyo.

  I can only pray that the new place is different.

  Will keep you posted Dear Reader...

Yours in frivolity,

-The StripperHerder



Friday, January 12, 2018

Changes Loom On The Horizon For 2018. Or, Regional Management Came In And Served Up Some ThunderDick.

  So as will become very obvious when one starts reading this, this is a FrankenPost™. A mad, stitched together installment made from various pieces parts I had laying around. There's a lot going on in my life right now and I haven't made much time for writing and I will explain why below.

  To make this post a bit more clear for those unused to my rambling style, I'll post each chunk that I wrote at various times in a different color font. That seems pretty straight forward, so let's begin, shall we?

  Season's greetings dear readers, as some of my more astute followers may have noticed, I've been thinning the ranks of my posts lately and a smaller percentage of those same astute followers may be wondering why.

  Well, I've been talking about this for some time and now I'm getting ready to make the transition to a new host site. One where folks can subscribe for access to exclusive content mostly, but one with a lot of other features that Blogger just doesn't offer.

  This way a reader can choose their own level of participation with the Plight. Full subscribers will have access to all of my archives, which I've traditionally left publicly available. But as I said, the times they are a movin on and a wily 'Herder moves with them.

  More details on that as they emerge...

*Future me here, the more sharp eyed reader might have noticed that there are indeed no posts whatsoever any more, outside of this one. And to that I would say, you are correct. Nicely spotted.
Get used to it because I'm busy right now. Go read Dark Lord's Journal.

  The other potentially much larger change is a possible relocation. I have a standing job offer from a former co-worker but there are a few problems with this prospect. And to explain them I'm going to a tried and true StripperHerder favorite, The List.


1) I feel a bit stagnant in my present situation, therefore a change of venue and locale could do me a world of good.

2) I'd be earning more more money if I move.

3) I suppose I should list 'better weather' here because the new place would be south of the Mason-Dixon Line, but I like my extreme northern weather. I find it soothing.

4) I'd be a lot closer to several friends living down that way.


1) It would be south of the Mason Dixon Line. A long haul away from family and friends.

2) It's gonna be too damned hot.

3) I HATE moving. SO much fucking work.

4) I'd still be in the dancer wrangling business.

5) I'd be the low man on the totem pole again, subject to all the crappy shifts and miserable jobs a new place can offer.

  Still, I'm considering it. I've been thinking a lot lately about opportunities not taken, roads not traveled, flowers left unsmelled etc etc.

  Possibly the time has come to shake things up a bit. We'll see what happens.

  So, as it turns out, I am moving. I've decided to accept dude's job offer and am going down South in late February/early March to look for a place to live and meet with the new club's management. Fuck it. Can't be any worse and supposedly their guys make more dough than we do up here.

  Good enough for me.

  I'm anxious about this as I generally don't like change and upheaval in my life, but I look at it this way-I barely ever see my friends when I live a half hour away from them, 12 more hours of distance isn't, on the whole, gonna make that much of a difference.

  So I'm starting the hated process of thinning out my possessions and boxing stuff up, and going about it really slowly because it's wretched work. I figure that if I can do even one box per day that by time I'm ready to hit the road, it should all be done.

  Guess I'm just ready for a change. Part of this can be blamed on the New Year's Day Massacre, which you will now read about below and in a more exciting color font. 


  To be accurate, this happened the day after New Year's Day, but it sounds nice as a subtitle so I went with it.

  Luckily I was off that day which may have contributed to me escaping the wrath of the Higher Powers. But, according to legend, what happened was....

  The Regional Manager came in and dropped four metric fucktons of ThunderDick all over the club. All told seven people lost their lives jobs: One Manager, two Bartenders, two Floor Hosts, a Doorgirl and a Latetress. He went apeshit, but in that unflappably calm way of British villains. Very polite and measured as opposed to frothing at the mouth and throwing chairs around, maybe choking a bitch or two.

  He cleaned fucking house to use the vernacular. Among the casualties were:

Sir Mastadonald Le'Phant V: mismanager extraordinaire, who I'm sure I've called many other names in this blog, but can't be bothered to look any of them up and my research assistant is in rehab at the moment. So, you know...

Ivana Poutvainly: Russian drink-makey thing and world class elitist. Bye bitch.

Ima Wendy: Latetress and a fucking terrible one at that. I won't miss the sight of her little brow wrinkling all up as I watched someone try to explain the simplest concepts to her. Sometimes her head even tilted to the side like a baffled terrier.

Stanford MecPhearson Stumpley: Floor Host, former. One credit card scam too many, Stan. Wish ya well, buddy.

  In my many years in the titty bar trade, I've never seen anything like it. They sent in the cleaners.

  Bout fucking time.

SO people, that's probably gonna be it for a bit although this is by no means done. When I figure out a whole bunch of stuff on the new host site, I'll post a link here and welcome you to the new Blog home.

  I don't really have a timetable right now for the actual move, won't know that until I've gone down and talked to their Elders. What I can tell you is that I probably won't get the new site up and running before I move because I am lazy. So read what you get and check out Dark Lord's Journal if you haven't already.

  See ya when I see ya,
-Das StrippeinHerdolf




Thursday, April 20, 2017

Great Moments In Stripperherding History, Vol I. Or, When In Doubt, Penalize A Floor Guy. We're Used To It.

  There really aren't any great moments in Stripperherding history, I was being deliberately misleading. There are the occasional small victories, medium wins and a lot of draws, but nothing earth shattering or of historical importance.

  Therefore everything I'm about to write regarding these so called 'great moments in stripperherding history' are complete and utter fiction. Like Superman, everything in the Bible, or the notion that humans and dinosaurs coexisted because the Earth is only 4,000 years old. Total goat drippings, folks.

  Before I start making shit up, I'd just like to take a moment to say that despite being fiction, some of the following material may be found objectionable by some readers and the views and opinions expressed herein may not reflect the corporate attitude of the StripperHerder's parent company, S.U.I.C.I.D.E ™.*1 and that reader discretion is advised.


1) Arnolf Beornsson: a member of the Varangian Guard during the later years of Basil II's reign, he frequently worked in one of Constantinople's top strip clubs, Pale Nights, on his days off from guarding the Emperor. One evening he procured a blond stripper for an influential member of the Fatimid Caliphate Ambassador's entourage and was subsequently tipped one gold Solidus for his efforts, making him the first white guy to be tipped by a black man in recorded history.*2

  We know this because of a runestone he left behind when he returned to his homeland, it began "No shit, there I was..."

                          Arnolf Beornsson and the Saturday night security staff at Pale Nights.

2) Big Jim Crowbar: Big ole Jim was an old school bouncer in a backwoods titty shack in rural Alabama called Josie's Place. This was a black owned and black staffed strip club/brothel in post Civil War America, and despite the legal rights bestowed upon these good people by the gubbamint of the US of A, the reality, especially in the Deep South, was a whole nother story altogether.

  The owner, Josie Freeman, was a canny ole gal who knew if the word got out about her little establishment, then sooner or later a pack of drunk white illiterate scumbags would find their way there and make no end of trouble for her.

  And she was right. They did. Luckily for all involved*3, her bouncer staff, which consisted of Big Jim, all 6'9" and 327 lbs of him, was there that night. When nine drunk bigots showed up with bad intent oozing from their fat, stupid faces, Big Jim informed them that the place was closed and that they should move along.

  Not surprisingly the hill-slobs didn't care for that very much and moved in on Big Jim with ax handles and hickory sticks, determined to show this uppity giant the error of his ways. So Jim, who was about as easy to intimidate as your average oak tree, unsheathed the four foot long iron crowbar he kept lashed across his broad back.

                                         "I reckon it's time I called on Miss Betty."

  It came out with a whistling sound. Do you know how fucking hard it is to make a four foot hunk of iron whistle as it cuts through the air? Try it sometime. Big Jim made it look easy. Then he took the fight to the ridge-runners, several of whom were just thinking to themselves that they shoulda brought a few more fellas and maybe a shotgun or two. Possibly a change of shorts.

  The otherwise gentle giant laid into the would be troublemakers with a fury that was both wondrous and terrifying to behold, depending on where you were standing at the time. He felled them by ones and twos, killing none of them and not even doing any permanent damage so skilled was he with his crowbar, affectionately named Miss Betty after a kindly white cook he had worked for.

  To this day Big Jim Crowbar still holds the Floor Guy record for Most White Assholes Knocked Shitless But Not Killed Nor Maimed In A Single Ruckus. In certain Floor Host religions he's venerated as the patron Saint of Mindful Violence.

3) Jean Luc La'Douche: It's pronounced Doo-Shay, by the way. Jean was the senior Floor Host in Port Royal's ritziest titty bar, The Gilded Clam, during the greatest years of piracy and as such, made enough money to retire in under two years.

   Famous sculpture of La Douche contemplating which member of a bachelor party he was going to cut first.

  The Gilded Clam was renowned among all seagoing men, probably the most revered brothel*4 in Western sea lore. Being as it was located in Port Royal, it's clientele frequently included pirates. Proper Golden Age pirates, with hooks, peg-legs, parrots, eyepatches and whatnot. Lotsa guns too. *5

  The point is that La'Douche was able to rake in so much side money off wasted pirates with loot to burn that it only took him nineteen months to go from pauper to retired, landowning man of leisure. He died of advanced syphilis three years later, but that fact doesn't diminish the brilliance of his accomplishment.

  He holds the all time Floor Host record for Quickest Retirement in a Non-Suck Category.

4) Private Erasmus Bentley III: Pvt Bentley was a Confederate soldier who achieved Floor Host fame during America's Civil War. Ultimately he didn't do his side any favors and in actuality may be at least partly responsible for instigating Sherman's March to the Sea. Which, if you remember your history, was real bad for the Confederacy. But in Floor Hosts' eyes, he was a fucking hero.

  His story goes a little something like this...

                                    "I'm gonna need you to put your cock away, General."

  It was early November, 1864 when Sherman and the Union forces he commanded made camp roughly eight miles outside of Atlanta in preparation to assault the city on the morrow. As was his wont, Sherman took his senior staff and some troopers out to a few local taverns on the eve of the campaign, to get really hammered and make fun of the locals, some of whom they would shoot the next day.*6

  Towards the end of the night, the group lands at Mabel's, the only strip club for miles around. Pvt Erasmus Bentley was on shift that night as the head Floor Guy. He set up a champagne room for Sherman's entourage while the General himself opted for a private room with Lilly, one of the club's top performers.

  The important thing to note here folks is that while Sherman paid for everything out of his own pocket, he didn't tip any of the staff one red cent, which rankled their humors. So when Sherman popped his wang out in the private room, Erasmus was on point. He barged in and told Sherman to put that thing away and that this was "No damn Yankee whorehouse!"

  Even though Lilly herself wasn't opposed to the odd blowjob if the money was right, Erasmus stuck to the unwritten Floor Host rule of, He Didn't Tip Me, Ergo The Cheapskate Clapstain Gets No Head-and repeatedly warned the General to put his little soldier away.

  This infuriated Sherman to no end. He'd been under a lot of pressure lately and needed some release, preferably a humjob, but denied that he reckoned that a ten mile wide swath of bloodshed, immolation and destruction would be a fair substitute.

  A scuffle ensued between Union officers and Mabel's security team and local supporters. The senior Northern staff made a wise choice to beat a tactical retreat, dragging a frothing Sherman with them who was screaming that he would have Erasmus's job because he knew the owner and that if he couldn't do that then he would carve a path through Georgia all the way to the fucking sea.

 Which he did, burning, looting, raping and not tipping a dime all along the way.

  To this day, Private Erasmus Bentley III holds the Floor Host record for Being A Team Player, putting he and his fellow Floor Guy's interests above that of his own country in the waning years of a losing war.

  All right, enough with that nonsense, as plausible as it all seems.

  Let's do a quick Q&A session before I sign off and find something better to do.


Q. What time did you get out of work tonight, StripperHerder?

A. Five Fucking AM. On what had to be one of the slowest nights I've ever seen at the club. We were nearly deserted by time last call rolled around. There were no after hour rooms and we barely had to urge anyone to go the fuck home when the music shut off. By 3:15 we were happily customer free and working on our after hour duties which we finished by 3:30.

 The Manager, Sir Stabcheek Von Zyklon V, clearly hates going home. Not sure what it is about his dwelling place that he abhors so much, but it's plain to me that loathes being there. Both other managers can complete the end of shift money/paperwork stuff in 20 minutes or less. Had either one of them been working tonight, I would've been home by 3:45-4:00.

  But not with Sir Zyklon. Nope. He'll corner an employee when they're in their car, trying to leave and talk to them for a half hour or more. His favorite prey is the House Mom, but lacking her presence, any victim will do. He'll chat about who knows what until whatever happens that breaks the spell, like someone hanging themselves from the rearview mirror, or a ballsy Floor Guy making up an excuse on the radio to get him back in the club.

  Add to this quirk the slow pace of his calculations and data entry, and we're lucky to be free within 2 hours of the last customer leaving the premises. It's aggravating, at best.

Q. Who's your current Arch-Nemesis since Vodzilla got fired.

A. That's easy. It's Ratty. She's a walking bag of shittiness and scam that stains our club and everything she comes into contact with like a particularly vicious chancre stains some reasonably innocent underwear. Ratty is a text book Hyde, although she doesn't let that stop her from being garbage even when sober.

Q. How many miles are on your vehicle?

A. 55,623. Or maybe a sixth of it's lifespan.

  I was going to write a bit more, but then suddenly decided not to. My unpredictability is part of my charm. What I'm really going to do now is change the Header and throw in some pictures so people don't get all bitchy and send disappointed emails.

  Hoping all your tomorrows are full of candy and unicorns and dead murderers,

-The StripperHerder

*1 StripperHerder Unlimited Industries Corporation International: Diversified Entertainment®

*2 A feat fewer than 100 Floor Guys have repeated since.**

**This is also fiction, relax.♥

♥ Although statistically you are far likelier to be tipped by a drunk white dude than any other race you care to name. Based upon my 20+ years of experience in the service industry, this is fact, not fiction.

*3 Except the white guys of course

*4 The brothel is the dirty, immortal ancestor of the strip club. Sorta. I mean ideally speaking. So anything before say 1950 or so mentioned in this post can be considered a brothel, but will be referred to as a strip club because it fits my narrative better.

*5 It takes a fair amount of balls to be a security guy at a place where no one is supposed to have a weapon. It takes groaning ox carts full of balls to be a bouncer where every last person is armed to the teeth.

*6 Although this may sound absurd to you modern readers, the practice was commonplace throughout much of history. Hostilities were considered to be postponed with the coming of dark until the world conveniently made it possible again to see who you were killing. Therefore it was not uncommon for the opposing sides to mingle, gambling and trading among themselves until the sunlight made them hate each other again. Similarly, high ranking officials from both armies frequently met for drinks at local establishments, whiling away the hours with war stories and debates about ancient battles strategies until it was time to go prepare their forces to slaughter the others.

Saturday, March 4, 2017

Little Red Riding Ho, A StripperHerder Fairy Tale. Or, Like A Majestic Dinosaur I Looked Up And Wondered Briefly About The Firery Streak Arcing Across The Skies, Then I Went Back To Doing Dinosaur Stuff.

 Because I know that my readers like simple things, liberally salted with profanity and a dash of pessimism, I give you another StripperHerder Fairy Tale. A modern take on a classic story, BASED ON REAL LIFE EVENTS.

  And as you'll discover, all's well that ends well in the Magical Titty Forest...

                     The fabled entrance to the Magical Titty Forest on an unseasonably cool day.

 Once upon a time there lived a spirited girl named Red. Red had become a Stripper but didn't want her Granny to find out because it would break her old fucking heart to know that her only granddaughter whipped out her ta-ta's for dollar bills.

  Red was raised by her Granny because her mother was a crackhead and couldn't be bothered to do motherly things, such as feeding her child and not whoring her out for some rock. Her kindly Grandma lived on the other side of town and took Red there to live with her when the future stripper was very young.

  Over the years and with her Granny's nurturing support, Red grew into a strong, independent young lady who was ever so keen to see the big, giant world that awaited her. When she came of age, Red boldly strode forth into said world, confident and self assured that she would make something of herself.

                              "I'm good at other stuff besides sex, you fucking troglodytes."

  But the world turned out to be far more difficult and unfair than she had ever imagined. Jobs, it turned out, sucked for enthusiastic but uneducated young women like herself. Sure she was pretty, intelligent and capable, but it seemed like her looks only led people to believe she was merely pretty and therefore couldn't possibly be any good at anything other than being bonkable and photogenic.

  Red despaired. She quickly grew disenchanted with the working world and the stagnant, dead end jobs that marked her trail through it. How would she ever be able to afford to take care of her beloved Granny in her twilight years and maybe stick her Ma into some kind of rehab when she could barely afford to feed herself and keep a roof over their heads? Life, it seemed, was a motherfucker.

  Then one day a friend of hers told her about "dancing". Apparently some men would pay stupid amounts of money to watch beautiful, nubile young women take off their clothes, gyrate around on stage and climb shiny metal poles. Her friend Goldi had only been doing it for a couple of months and had made so much money that she no longer had to break into various forest creatures' homes and steal their porridge and furniture.

                            Goldi showcasing her tree skills shortly before her untimely death.

 And this is how Red became a stripper and was able to care for her aging grandmother, pay some de-programmers to try to wean her mom off crack and finally afford a place of her own closer to the club so she didn't have to drive across town drunk every night, challenging an eager and rapey local police force.

  So Red moved out of her Granny's house into a place of her very own, but she always visited her aged Grandma at least once a week, never failing to bring her a basket of goodies each time. Goodies like insulin and cookies and percocets and rat traps, for Granny's house was infested by vermin and would be condemned by the Health Department shortly after her unfortunate passing.

                        Granny's cookies smelled funny and attracted unusually aggressive deer.


  But I get ahead of myself....

  Her Granny had warned her not to talk to strangers and now she had a job where her income depended on doing just that. And then grinding on their members through their pants in a private dance room. It wasn't ideal, but it sure beat the shitty money she had earned being a file clerk with a sadistic, perverted manager raining misery on her all day, every day.

  So she went about her new life, nip slippin and gash flashin, making the hazardous journey across town once a week to keep her cherished Granny drugged up, fed and undevoured by rats.

  Then one day when she was crossing town, a Big Bad Wolf approached her and tipped his wide brimmed, purple and white zebra print hat at her.

  "Mornin little lady, how you doin on this fine day?" He asked amicably.

  "I'm just swell" said Red, "I'm taking this basket of much needed pharmacology, sustenance and rodent countermeasures to my dear Grandma who lives on the other side of town."

  "Well I'll be damned" said the BB Wolf. "That's some noble-ass shit your doin there, bitch. I respect that. Ever consider working in the Escort trade? Make a lot of money a precious wee cookie like you."

  "I already show my hooters and occasionally my gnazzle*1 for spare bills" replied Red matter of factly. "I'm not blowing creepy old men for any amount of money, thank you very much." And with that, Red set off again on her sojourn to her Grand Mam-Mam's hovel.

                             Granny's house. Smells like cat semen and the rats who perv on it.

   "OK then, darlin. You have youself a safe journey!" The BB Wolf called after her. Then, under his breath he muttered, "Oh you gonna choke on some crank for me, little Red. You gone be my breadwinner...."

  And with that he dashed off through the town' side streets, taking a short cut that Red, being new to the town, knew nothing about. He arrived at Granny's hovel a considerable time before Red, because she was stuck in crosstown traffic caused mainly by Uber drivers.

  BB Wolf knocked at Granny's door and was just preparing to try out his best Little Red Riding Hood impersonation when her heard a surprising hale voice call out to him, "It's open, big boy, get that veiny stinkhammer in here!"

  "What up, Granny?" Said the Big Bad Wolf, "you be needin some dick?"

  "The sight of your hairy wang is blowtorching the cobwebs from my dilapidated brat-hatch" Granny replied, "use me sexually before my innocent Granddaughter gets here with my dope and cookies."

 "I'm gone savage that bat-haunted cave like a brown bear with a sockeye salmon plucked from midstream. Gonna chow you back and forth and smack yer head off the furniture like dey goalposts; real ungentleman-like.

  I'm gone eat you Granny."

  "MASTICATE MY NETHERS YOU SOULLESS COCK-ORC!" Screamed Granny, shucking her bloomers like a snake sheds its skin, but faster and with markedly less sensuousness. "CHEW MY INNIES LIKE A WAD OF GRAPE BUBBLE GUM YOU SHAGGY, GIANT DICKED ABOMINATION!"

  Granny was a horny old gal from a long line of sexually adventurous women. Her mouth was filthier than a prison ship's slop buckets.

  Sorta hot if you were blindfolded...

  So Granny and BB Wolf started to get it on, streamers of saliva and less wholesome juices flying about the room like silly string that didn't smell right. Pungent is a word that comes to mind. Granny was screaming and hollering like a devil caught at Mass, begging Mr. Wolf to mount her and pummel her flap-shack like something that owed him money. The lupine ravager was only too happy to comply and was shagging nine kinds of shit out of Granny's wrinkled crawlspace when Red walked through the door.

  "Oh Granny" Red Called out, "I brought your goodies and......" Red trailed off as she saw a hairy predator ass and balls pumping away between her dear ole Grand Dam's wide spread, stockinged legs. "Goddamnit" she sighed, letting her long scarlet cloak drop to the floor.

  She climbed into bed with the Wolf and her Granny, burying her face in the old woman's slimed-over love tunnel while BB Wolf rammed his engorged member into her delicate chick-flower. As they fucked and slurped their way into sexual history, they were unaware of the woodsman watching them through the window as he feverishly beat his primitive man into uttering clam juice.

                                  "You on the Pill, right? Ha-ha. Just kiddin. I don't care."

  No one died, but Red did give birth to a fine litter of puppies nine months later. Mr. Wolf disappeared when he found out Red was pregnant and the woodcutter became Granny's new dick puppet. Red was able to get on federal assistance while still stripping on the side and her friend Goldi was shot dead while attempting to steal a medium sized bed from a respectable family of bears.

  All's well that ends well in the Magical Titty Forest.

                                        "Are you coming to their soccer game or not? 

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

  I've been questioning my future in the stripperherding field lately. I don't want to end up being the world's oldest Floor Host, shuffling around aimlessly, hoping someone takes pity on me and tips me a twomp for finding a table for them. Useless in a fight and likely to die quietly in my apartment if I were to get fired from my job or was forced into retirement by the dynamic management team who grew weary of my constant bathroom breaks.

  I lead that sort of life already where if I were to die in my sleep some night, no one would ever know until my neighbors called the landlord complaining about the stench. I almost never go out, no one ever comes over and if I just stopped showing up at work one day, everyone would just assume I quit because all I do is gripe about the job.

  The big, glaring problem with leaving the industry is of course my complete lack of qualifications/willingness to do anything else. Except maybe writing, but that is very much open for debate depending on your viewpoint. In my own mind I'm merely a drunken hack who in his literaricable venting, manages to turn an amusing phrase every now and then and has managed to write a funny caption or two for frequently disturbing pictures.

  So I've been thinking about my future is what I'm trying to say. If I were to lose my job, exactly how long could I continue to exist on $1050, which is the entirety of my life savings to this point? What patch of woods would best suit my homeless needs? Are forest highwaymen still a thing?

  My best bet is getting a sitcom script written which is based on my blog. Media is hungry for content nowadays and a show about a strip club has never been done. This blog is the motherlode of source material for said sitcom and yet....outside of a bunch of character development notes and plot thread ideas, I haven't started writing the damn thing yet. Can't be that hard, right?

  But I have an innate fear of failure which has so far proven to be utterly crippling to any endeavor I've set my hand to outside of this here blog. I always defeat myself before the battle begins. Add in the fact that writing the script is the easy part, you then have to sell it. This will involve lawyers and contract jargon that I won't really comprehend and I'm quite likely to get royally fucked on any deal I manage to land.

  And yet this is pretty much my only hope. All other roads lead to despair, homeless shelters and possible suicide scenarios.

  So we'll see what happens. Check out my webcam at www.whenwillthatgiantfuckerdie?.com. It's suspenseful.

  So that's it then. Go away to somewhere quiet and think about whether or not you'd pay an small gratuity to this humble author in order to continue reading his tasty posts, delivering that hit of wretchedness and depravity that you so sorely crave.

  Because I am thinking of doing this.

  Squatch gotta eat.....

Viva Currencia!
-The StripperHerder

*1 Gnazzle: Vulva. Or, external secondary sexual structures shrouding/enhancing vaginal entrance, as case may be

Friday, January 8, 2016

To Strippers, Jesus Was The Cousin Of A Locally Beloved Coke Dealer. Or, Strip Club Religions: Crappy Gods For Shitty People.

  Many people don't realize that Strippers, like many humans, have their own religions. The industry has been around for so long that is has evolved many different belief systems and dogmas all based loosely around booze, breasts, delusions, sex, drugs and R&B. These faiths sport an impressive pantheon of deities, mostly Goddesses of course, whom strippers pray to and honor in a myriad of unwholesome ways.

  It's sad that if you leave any group of humans alone long enough, they will inevitably contract religion. It seems to be some sort of flaw in our genetic programming. We, as a species, fucking love religion even though it's sole purpose is to make us less happy. Doesn't make sense, but then again, neither do we.

  So without further philosophomification, let's take a look at the Gods and Goddesses of the strip club industry, shall we?

  All righty then...

                   Stripper Goddesses

Prada: A former death-cult Goddess who, in the origin tales, fearlessly slew her enemies and took the best of their stuff as her own. She has evolved with the times and is currently worshiped as the Goddess of: vapidness, envy, short winters, luxury cars over six years old, menstrual predictability and snobbishness.*1

Patronia: A Dionysian figure that in recent times has reached a new level of ascendancy. She is acknowledged to be the Goddess of: chilled shots, surviving car accidents, limes, chinchillas and other small, cute furry critters, locker room fights, stealing other bitches shit, unplanned pregnancies and causing car accidents.

Slothia: Recognized by nearly every Stripper Religion as a major Deity, Slothia is perhaps the most widely venerated Goddess in all the varied crazy Dancer Creeds. Everyone loves Slothia because She demands virtually nothing but gives so much back to Her loyal followers with virtually no effort expended by either side. She is the definition of a win-win Goddess.

  In addition to being the Goddess of Slack, Slothia is also recognized as the Goddess of: ambitious projects, failed diets, video gaming, food delivery drivers, documentaries and sun tea.

  Many strippers love Slothia because she forbids getting up before 3 PM, working more that 15 hours a week or expending physical effort for more that 3 minutes at a time.

Mammaroth: Evil Titty Goddess from beyond the dawna-time. This fearsome Deity is popular among the plastic booby crowd.*3 While it's not mandatory for a girl to worship Mammaroth after she gets fake tits, it's pretty fucking likely going to happen. Mammaroth causes a reckless desire in Her devotees to get larger and larger breast implants until one of the following happens:

A) They abruptly snap in half, sometimes causing collateral damage as their flying vertebrae become shrapnel to those around them.

B) The skin of their face becomes so distorted by their wildly oversized mams that they frighten children.

C) Their feet become rife with fungal infections because they never see direct sunlight anymore.

D) They can no longer shave their own external genitalia or legs unassisted.

  Mammaroth is also the Goddess of: Inappropriate lactation, poor balance, holistic back pain remedies, wheelbarrows and stretchy T-shirts.

Avaricia: The funny thing about Avaricia is that she used to be the Roman Goddess of Conquest a couple of millennia ago. Normally she would have fallen into obscurity long ago like so many of her Roman contemporaries, but She was clever. She saw that some Dancers made a lot of money and that they liked to spend it on unnecessary yet expensive crap. So she saw a niche Goddessing job opportunity and rather than fade into oblivion along with the fortunes of the Roman Empire, she became the Goddess of Greed for hot chicks.

  Not a bad gig apparently and she didn't have to oversee the subjugation of cultures anymore, she merely has to be there for overpaid ass jigglers who have decided that money is the single most important thing in life; trumping dignity, morals and pride by a country mile.

                                    And yet...

  Dancers aren't the only inhabitants of a strip club with their own religions and their own Deities. Studies seem to indicate that at anywhere between six months to two years in the service industry, depending on the subject, all feelings of empathy, compassion and goodwill are corrupted or erased, thus leading the unfortunate fooker to seek out a higher power within their vocation.

  All hope for a better tomorrow is beaten right the fuck outta you by booze and your fellow species who are drinking it.

  So it's only logical given the frail nature of mankind's psyche that other sectors of the titty bar have latched onto their own very specialized Gods. Here are some examples:


                          DJ Gods

Din: A once minor God of noises and orators that no one cares about, Din has seen his followers soar with the advent of cheap, affordable portable music players. DJ's worship Din because they are part of Him, they truly believe that their amplified voices reflect Him in all His cacophonous glory when in truth most of the masses do not acknowledge Din or His teachings and therefore don't hear a goddamn thing a strip club DJ says.

  It is said that Din created dubstep when he accidentally ejaculated into his fax machine. I believe this because to me, dubstep sounds like machines cumming on each other with reckless abandon.

Tintamarre: God of racket, loud annoying sounds and people hawking shit in a forum where no one is paying attention. DJ's love Tintamarre because he rewards volume for volume's sake. Just be loud. Mumble shit if you want as long as it is deafening and mostly unimportant.

  Also God of: repetitive announcements, dumb stripper names, lies, lost cell phones and oddly enough, microwavable dinners.


                                 Floor Guy Gods

(It should be understood before we go any further that Floor Guys worship two distinct Pantheons of Gods, not unlike the Norse did with the Aesir and the Vanir, but with way less cool Gods. These deities are divided between the Host and the Bouncer)

Vinny: (Host) Represents the epitome of oily, welcoming dudeness. He can make your dreams come true (with a proper gratuity) and your fantasies come to life (fat tip mandatory). Vinny possesses a preternatural instinct for where the money hides and has an extensive toolkit for extracting it from it's owner; sometimes even doing it legally!

  Floor guys who aren't normally called on to be bouncers worship Vinny to gain the God's favor, manifested most commonly by a customer signing a credit card slip without filling it out first. This is a sure sign of Vinny's benevolence as He prides himself on answering 1700% more prayers than Jesus.

Crudge: (Bouncer) A primitive proto-god to mankind that understands nothing but killing, hitting other creatures with its club and stomping on downed opponents til they squish or stop moving. Crudge revels in maiming and dancing all the dances of disfigurement that His reptilian brain can come up with when faced with rude cunt-mouths.

  His role has specialized over time however, his urge to violence channeled and directed into a reservoir of on-demand cruelty. He has only been bested one time throughout history, and that was by Loy-Yor, the single greatest enemy of Bouncers everywhere, throughout time.

  Crudge is also the God of: rocks glasses (any bar's deadliest drinking vessel), stained pavement, blunt instruments, instant retribution, pre-taliation*4, steel toed boots and racist-euro-epic-stoner-black-metal.

  Hannibal: (Host) History's most famous Floor Host. Hannibal was the ultimate Host at the most popular strip club outside the Roman Empire, a place called Jezebel's Cabaret which was located in Carthage (modern day Tunisia). His power and influence were so great in his pussy-infested domain that a young, impressionable foot soldier named Private First Class Barca decided later in his career to restyle himself as 'Hannibal' as he went on to whup most of Italy's ass.

  Hannibal has long since been venerated as a God by the Bouncer branch of Floor Guy faith, while in the Host denomination he's merely a Hero, or Saint-like figure that's remembered and exalted on occasions where a seemingly indestructible Problem Dancer is finally fired and driven from the premises by hordes of commoners wielding bundles of birch branches.

  Whichever incarnation of Hannibal a Floor Guy acknowledges, it is agreed that His realm of influence also includes: earning potential, calculated risks, top shelf strumpets, giant SUV's, elephant porn and unrestricted credit cards.

                                Manager Gods

  Managers have no Gods outside of their Owners. They worship no Gods known to mortal man, only forbidden entities well endowed in the tentacle and soul digesting department. Deities so bleak and inhuman that to even utter their names is to court a sexual harassment lawsuit or something even fouler....

  This is not a subject I feel comfortable exploring further. Never ask about it, it will only lead to grief.

                   Waitressy Worshippy Thingys

  (I have to be honest with you, gentle reader. I have completely fabricated all of the following Waitress Worshippy Thingys because I could find no historical record nor modern trace of any religion focused on delivering things to tables, but felt that there should be some. Just because the average waitress hasn't developed the imagination to invent Gods in the last 5,000 years or so doesn't mean that we, as blog-using humans, shouldn't be able to enjoy reading about them regardless of their dubious authenticity.)

Whirshmy Tibble: Sort of like a fairy Godmother for waitresses. If you can't remember where a table was that you took an order from, you run outside, locate North and whisper five times "Whirshmy Tibble?" Then when you go back inside, if you've been properly neglectful and absentminded in your devotions, Whirshmy may reward you by having a table of people frantically wave at you, thus solving the riddle of the missing table.

  Like a pagan Nancy Drew.

Hagatha Tipwell-McCuntrage: Some servers believe that they should be tipped a maximum amount of money for performing a minimum amount of their waitressly duties. They've been led to believe that a 20% tip is merely a suggested retail minimum and that what every patron actually meant to put down was a 40% tip.

  They just needed help with the math.

  Hagatha was a frontier tavern keeper in the lawless wilds of 15th century coastal Ireland. She was hard as coffin nails and just slightly less yielding than a fucking stone wall. She's been venerated by the Reformed Drink-Mule Adventists as a Greater Goddess, based solely on her ability to manipulate tabs so that everyone gets fucked but Her.

  I feel like I've done my duty here. Luckily for me, abrupt endings have become so common with the Plight that somehow it's been misinterpreted as part of 'my style', an appellation I still rail against to this day.

Et Tuddles Sine Nistrae,
-The StripperHerder

*1 The Pradian Schism of 1953 split the Church of Prada into two separate entities who now despise each other: The Orthodox Pradian Church, and the slightly less snooty Universal Pradian Friendship Congregation.**

  ** The schism occurred over the interpretation of whether or not it was OK to kill a bitch for her purse.

*2 After a certain amount of time in the service industry, many folks consider a full day where they don't have to see or speak to another human being to be a wonderful fucking thing. These sort of people will frequently make a small offering of nothing to Slothia, who would be pleased with their offering if She could be bothered to get off the metaphorical couch to receive it.

*3 The Balloon Brigade, The Silicone Squad, The Saline Society, The SNS (Stretched Nipple Sisterhood)**

  ** These are some irritable bitches.

*4 Pre-taliation©: Hitting an asshole before he ends up hitting you. Crudge will tell the devout when this is going to happen and let them make up their own minds.**

  **Strict Crudgists aren't renowned for their great thinking skills. 

Thursday, October 1, 2015

A StripperHerder Investigative Report: The World's Most Dangerous Stripper Gangs. Or, If I Didn't Have To Go To Work This Post Would Be Much Longer.

Stripper gangs are a facet of the titty bar reality you seldom hear about. Your average gentleman's club wants to portray a facade of 'good ole fashioned naughty fun'. They like words such as bawdy, sexy, playful and seductive to describe their club experience.

  Nowhere in their lexicon will you finds words like disturbing, criminal, cock snargling or stab wounds.

                                 "Would you like a dance? No? Gimme yer fuckin wallet!"

  So while most clubs realize they have a stripper gang presence, if not outright problem, they obviously don't want anyone else, like you, to know about it. Therefore it's taboo to speak of it, which is exactly why I'm about to do just that.

  Stripper gangs run the gamut in influence within the strip club ecosystem, ranging everywhere from 'merely annoying' to 'run the whole fucking show'. If you're unfortunate enough to work in one where the gangs run things, which I have done more than once, then you are a sorry bastard indeed and will be very lucky to escape with your life and ballsack intact.

  I know what you're thinking, "how can strippers run anything? They're small, drunk and on more drugs than a rest home population." Well some of them don't let that stop them, and not all of them are small and drunk. Every club I've worked in has had enforcer strippers and they can be truly frightening.

  Mostly I don't concern myself too much with it. For a Floor Moose of my proportions, a pack of dancers aren't much more of a threat than a group of wasted 8 year olds, all slappy and ineffective. But that being said there are some wildly dangerous stripper gangs out there which any sensible Floor Guy must respect if not fear.

  What's that you say? You sense a famous StripperHerder list coming up?

  Well aren't you just an astute motherfucker?

            The World's Most Dangerous Stripper Gangs:

1) PMS13: Hands down the most violent, hostile and criminal stripper gang ever to ruin a titty bar. Composed primarily of latino girls, PMS13 will cut you cabrone heart out, yo, because they are muy loco, pendajo!

  I don't know what it is about this demographic, but most of the grisly locker room slayings I've had to clean up in my career were the result of some dumb bitch getting 'cut out' by one or more hispanic dancers. The Consuela*1 green lighted a hit on her for poaching customers, selling coke on their turf or for wearing the wrong color thong. Most of these murders are never solved because we don't care enough to investigate.

                           Don't let her sweet looks fool you. She'll cut you. Oh yes she will.

2) Wist Cide Barbies: The gang with the most rigorous vetting program of all the Stripper gangs, one can only become a full fledged member if they're ridiculously blond and extremely hot. Brunettes and redheads can never be anything more than Associates, they'll never be 'made' Barbies.

  The Barbies may not be the brightest bulb of the titty-gang christmas tree, but what they lack in thinky-power, they make up for in sheer blondness and the madness it inspires in many men. In a lot of clubs the Barbies dominate the economy despite the fact that they can't spell 'economy' without using a 'K' and three 'E's'.

  This is Amurrika after all, intelligence, or lack of it, has never been an obstacle to success.

          They think California is a country and wear panties that lie. You'd still give them your money.

3) The Desolation Molly's: This is a relatively new gang on the scene but are quickly making a name for themselves by duking it out with anyone who thinks they're hard enoof. Molly's always have red hair. It may be natural or it may be the result of inadvisable cocktail of chemicals and dyes, but it's always lurid.

  Molly's always have tattoos as well. Their flesh looks the the sides of ghetto beverage stores, seemingly painted at random by roving groups of disaffected future criminals. Reading a Molly's rib tats will often bring a sense of sorrow upon the reader because of the misplaced optimism scrawled there.

                        A Desolation Molly preparing to whomp a rival stripper with a chair leg.

4) The MAMmoths: Doesn't matter if your nipples point at your toenails or, improbably, at the heavens, as long as your milk panzers are wildly oversized, you have a home with the MAMmoths. This gang is the natural enemy of Waifs everywhere and can frequently be found crushing some poor 80 lb dancer to death beneath their TITanic chest-weaponry .

  The majority of the MAMmoths membership are 'older gals' who keep upsizing their implants whenever the drug budget allows. Many of them have wheelbarrows or titanium training legs to support their unnaturally huge lactose tankers.

                     Despite her small breast size, Beverly still rules the local MAMmoth  chapter.

5) The Match Waifs: The average 'Waif' weighs maybe 90 lbs when she's retaining water and has just had a large pasta dinner. They're tiny, skinny, small breasted and have no real ass to speak of. They draw their name from Victorian era preteen match girls who worked the filthy streets of London in the 1890's; starving and often murdered.

  We have a large Match Waif presence at my club, probably 8-10 of them. Combined weight, after feasting on a chicken tender, about 180 lbs.

                                   Rare daytime pic of a Match Waif looking for crimes to commit.

  There are literally dozens of other stripper gangs I could address in this installment, but I have to go to work because you people won't pay me for writing this blog. Think about that when the all-too-brief pleasure of this short post runs out.

  You fuckin think about that.

-The StripperHerder

*1 Consuela: The local leader of a PMS13 chapter.