Thursday, December 7, 2017

Another Nemesis Defeated, But For How Long? Or, Drunk Strippers Are Like A Millstone For Your Soul.

  Ratty is gone, praise the Gods! It's like another stripperherder holiday, the day from hence forth we don't have to deal with her mouthy, drunk, white trash ass anymore.



  Its such a fucking relief. Trainwreck strippers aside, Ratty was one of the worst human beings I've ever met when she had a few shots in her. Which was every night she worked, of course. There are just some people who should never drink, they are clearly adversely affected by alcohol and yet it seems like those are the people who drink the most.

  Ratty got all tanked up at work again and was out on the patio caught in the middle of some kind of drama which was escalating towards a fracas before the Floor Staff had to intervene. She's one of those people who when she hears something she doesn't like or someone says something rude to her, she is utterly incapable of just walking away. She cannot, under any circumstances, just chalk it up to the person being an asshole, which any place that serves booze is full of, and just go about her business. SHE HAS TO RUN HER MOUTH NONSTOP UNTIL VIOLENCE ERUPTS. IT'S HER CALLING, IT'S HER LOVE.

  As a bouncer, I HATE these kind of people with a passion normally reserved for serial killers or rabid fanboys. Words mean nothing, the only ability to hurt you that words have is whatever ability YOU ALLOW THEM TO HAVE.

  Seriously, get over yourself. In the big scheme of things you mean nothing, just like the rest of us.

   I'm going to get into a familiar subject for dedicated Herder readers, namely, the dreaded ATM. Yes I realize it seems that sometimes I dwell too much on the cash machine and that maybe I've said all that needs to be said about it and trust me, I tend to agree with you. But every time I consider it a dead option for discussion, someone comes along who reignites my desire to talk once again about that wretched contraption.

  One of the many, many unfortunate parts about working the door is that it's right next to the fucking ATM, so when some baffled twat can't figure out his PIN number, who do you think he goes to about it?

  If you guessed the nearest club representative, which is the Door Man, then congratulations, you are correct. Every miserable taint-nodule that fails to receive money from the ATM comes to me, brow all wrinkled in consternation, about his problem. It's maddening.

  So, what's my latest bitch? I'll call him Fagodread, a strapping 6'4" corn fed white boy with super lame braided hair. Mr. Dread was shocked, shocked I say that the cash machine charges a 10% fee to get your hands on your own money.

  He withdrew $500 and was flabbergasted that he had to pay a $50 fee to get it. And naturally, he comes to the front door to complain about it. But here's the main thing and in my mind the most important thing:

  This fucking machine tells you what it's going to charge you right up front and you have to agree to it before anything else happens. It can't do a damn thing unless you concede to it. By agreeing to the astronomical rate to receive your own goddamn money, you have abdicated any possible right to bitch about that cost. This is the equivalent of going to Burger King, ordering a Whopper, eating it and THEN going back to complain to the counter person about how much that Whopper cost.

  Because I have as much control over what kind of fee our ATM charges as the average Burger King employee has over how much a Whopper costs. We don't own the magic money rape machines, we don't set the fees or fix them when they're broke, we pay a company to do that and all that shit is up to them.

  And on top of that, why the living fuck would you complain about a decision YOU ALREADY MADE? Seriously, what do you expect to gain from it? Stop being a panty stain. I'm sick of it.

  Speaking of panty stains, let's talk about some arrogant, piece of shit strippers, shall we? I mean, it's what keeps you coming back post after post right?

  So we're rid of Ratty for the time being, I'm sure she'll be back and when she is I'd bet her 'grace period' of good behavior will last just slightly longer than this last time, if for no other reason than to lull management into a false sense of security over their remarkably poor decision.

  That being said, allow me to elaborate of some other hot trash golems I have to deal with, shift in and shift out.

-STICKER: I've talked about Sticker before. She's smart as cheese, clever as a plant and about interesting as a dead pet. However she IS a hot little monkey and all kinds of dudes trip all over themselves to fondle her tits and ass as she "dances" for them.

  Sticker was, not long ago, a sweet natured demure young lady who didn't seem at all cut out to be a stripper. I often questioned her career choice because she was so sheltered, dumb and gullible that I figured some Russian human trafficker would've scooped her up a long time ago. But instead, here's what happened:

 -She turned 21 and therefore was now permitted to drink on the job. And boy did she take advantage of it. Joined the DUI club in less than 3 months.

-Her bestie, the ridiculously hot entertainer Grody, is banging the Owner. So Grody and her wee minion Sticker are, for all intents and purposes, bulletproof. They could shiv a bitch to death on camera and get away with it. Steal her shoes and whatnot. Maybe throw in some mild corpse disfigurement.

-She finally came to terms with the fact that she's a little hottie and is determined to mine it for all it's worth, no matter whose back she has to walk on to do it. As a result all the other dancers despise Sticker and Grody. If these two conceited twats worked at Mary's Melee Chalet, the club I worked at before this one, they would've been beaten to death in the locker room by a hostile stripper gang long ago. But now, at this club? They piss on everybody with complete impunity.

  The good news is that with their present lifestyles as money ravenous Hydes, their looks will fade prematurely and they'll develop the hoarse, unpleasant voice of booze-harpies and will probably die sucking off a horse on camera for an armful of smack or a Gucci knock off.

  I calls em like I sees em.

  The next "entertainer" I'm gonna mention is Glutina, the life support system for an ass. Good ole Gluty is a Latina gal with a butt that probably leads a life of its own when she's asleep. It's far and away the only interesting feature about her and it makes her a lot of money. There's a plethora of men out there who have no upper limits to their interest in booty and would be happy to bang a chick whose ass has to be forklifted around and thonged in sailcloth.

  To me it's just too much booty for the frame. If I'd been referring to a six foot blonde who was one winged helmet away from being a Valkyrie, that much ass would be acceptable. A lot of woman needs a lot of ass. But a 5'3 mean tempered swarthy chick doesn't need that much ass at her disposal.

  The problem with Glutina is not her giant ass, but I wanted to write a bit about it so I did. No, the problem with Gluty is that her boyfriend bangs a lot of other bitches. Bitches that she's aware of and who frequently end up at our fine establishment. Where Glutina gets all misplaced anger on them, how dare they receive her boyfriend's penis? Why didn't they try to resist more?

  Apparently her boyfriend, an aspiring rapper, is free to bang whoever he wants since Glutina's been aware of several of his side pieces and all she does is take her wrath out on them, not her man.

  Seems reasonable.

  I saved the best for last.

  I had a genuine Vodzilla encounter this past weekend. I know, I know, it's been a bit. Many of the younger generation of my readers believe Vodzilla is just a myth, a tale to frighten children with at night or take up blog space. I hadn't seen her in months and wasn't sure if she was still filtering oxygen through vodka or not, but there she was...

  Again she bypassed the line of people and headed straight for me like I was a hapless model ship in a cheap Japanese movie. Our encounter went something like this:

VODZILLA: "Hey Steve! How ya doin?" Hugging me like a drunk Aunt.

ME: "Hey Vodzilla. Sir Hamblast*1 says you're not allowed in anymore. So, you know, fuck off and shit."

VODZILLA: "Wait. What? Are you fuckin serious? Call him up here!"

ME: "He won't come up here, but I'll try anyway."

  I grabbed my lapel mike and pretended to push the call button. "Door to Hamblast, Door to Hamblast. Vodzilla seeks parley, advise. Over"

  I cocked my head as if listening for a reply on my headset. When this had gone on for maybe fifteen seconds or so Voddy started to protest and I suddenly held up my hand in the time tested 'shut up bitch' position and cupped a hand over my ear, an obvious sign someone was communicating with me via radio.

  I shushed her and said, "Sir Hamblast says fuck ye off. You'll never tread his domain again ye foul liquor lich!"

  Her jaw dropped so fast that her double chin smacked the tops of her liver-spotted fake titties which absorbed the shocked like two bags of damp concrete mix.

  She stared at me for a mildly uncomfortable amount of time, as if her watery gaze could somehow douse my intense, burning hatred for all she stood for.

  The she harrumphed off and said she would go to the club next door.

  "What a blessing" I called after her. And truly, I was blessed. Stuffing that cunt twice in one year, it was to be savored.

  I was going to write more but decided not to. No sense in challenging myself at this point. As a result some topics you may see in an upcoming installment may include:

-How managing this club is slowly destroying the people responsible for it.

-Floor Guys stood accused....and were vindicated. Story at eleven.

-Floor Guys still get reamed for transgressions, yours truly caught in the drift net of general Floor Guy laziness which I have oft bemoaned.

-Hookers invade a strip club: someone's gonna get fucked!

  All the above sounds very intriguing doesn't it? Fuck yeah.

  Management would like to portray that new times are upon us, mayhaps the End Times. Doom and Gloom. An age to hold fast to the values we expound, a purity in specialized entertainment, fantasy for the discerning adult, blah blah blah.

  Churn full o' spunkbutter. Always is. Management pumping away on the handle.....

Dis Unt All,
-The StripperHerder

*1 Our Manager on Duty tonight was Sir Ominous Hamblast XXI.

Monday, November 27, 2017

Happy 7th Anniversary, StripperHerder! Or, This Special Anniversary Installment Is Brought To You By Vodka™, Russia's Second Biggest Export After Hot, Angry Females.

*Author's note: This post, as you may have guessed by its abject fucking tardiness, has been worked on over multiple nights of potato-booze consumption. Like many of my posts it is a literary golem cobbled together from several night's worth of bitch-clay and sent stumbling towards the interwebz by a drunk writer.

  Therefore don't look for a clean, linear narrative, transitioning smoothly from topic to topic. Rather expect a choppy bunch of gripes strung together with shitty or nonexistent segues and you won't be disappointed. 


  I published my first Plight of the StripperHerder post on Oct 2, 2010. It sucked, but it was my first one so I don't allow myself to feel bad that it sucked. I hadn't the slightest idea at the time that I'd still be writing the damn thing seven years later, but here we are. I'm still writing and if my numbers are anything to go on, you're still reading.

  So let's do some FUN STATS, because I enjoy telling you all how mind bendingly surreal this job can be.

-Number of dancers I've worked with who have died since my last post: O again. Not sure what's going on.

-Number of customers who've lost their phone since my last post: 113

-Favorite customer quote since my last post "I don't mean to sound racist, but y'all got too many niggers workin here."

-Number of people in a single group I let into the club for free because we were relatively slow at the time and they were being cunts about paying the cover charge: 15

-Amount of money I was tipped for saving them $150: 0

-Number of champagne rooms I have set up in a row without being tipped a dime: 9

   Nine fucking rooms without a single measly penny thrown my way. ME, the guy who decides what time the room starts and stops, how far you're allowed to go no matter how willing the girl is and what constitutes an offense I'll throw you out for and an offense I'll completely fucking ignore.*1

-Number of times I got asked for money by homeless people tonight while stopped ANYWHERE downtown for more than 45 seconds: 7. Although to be fair it was actually 6 because the fourth time was just an angry dude in a pile of blankets laying against a building a hundred feet away who as soon as I stepped out of the bus, starting yelling random and hostile ass shit at me.

 "I'm from Chicago, motherfucker! You don't know what dat means but I do! Suck my dick, bitch! You white motherfuckah! I knew Reggie, yeah, dat Reggie. You a piece of shit, boy! Popcorn and hurricanes, son! Marsupial! I hate you pale ass skin, you honky fuck! I'll fuck you up! Don't need no crackah motherfuckah looking down at me, boy! I'm a ribald, Barbara Cuisinart all up yo blouse, Meagan!"

  I enjoyed the coherent insults almost as much as I enjoyed his off the wall non sequiters and later that night, just before I returned to the club to work the door, I rolled by where he was sleeping and lobbed a 12 ounce bag of deluxe nut mix toward him, figuring he might be hungry when he woke up.

  I often make attempts to justify my own existence, such as this, when I'm sure no one is looking.

  My PR dept has urged me to do a "good deeds" post so people don't equate the real me with my online persona, but I keep telling them to fuck off and die, if my readers found out I wasn't a complete chunk of garbage, they might stop reading.

  Tipping your Floor Staff is important, trust me.

  For a relevant example, I set up a VIP room tonight for a holdover dayshift dancer (read: gross, stupid, unattractive and shoulda been gone by 7pm) with a clueless customer who had asked me 5,000 questions about how he could pay for the room. I was very patient and friendly with him, which is unusual for me, even though my Floor-Guy Sense was telling me this dude wasn't gonna throw me anything by way of a gratuity, and, you're not gonna believe this, but I was right. A big fat 'fuck you' drawn through the "Tip" line.

  Right. So that's how it was gonna be. No problem.

  At this point the disgusting stripper asks if they can go in the "Big Room", which is larger and more luxurious that the standard one on one room. I knew from speaking with the day shift Floor Squid that this particular unappealing day shifter doesn't tip for shit (as I already suspected), so my answer to her was "No. The Big Rooms cost more."

  She was very indignant about this and went to ask the other Floor Schnook about that and he backed me up because he doesn't like her either. When I led her to one of the standard small rooms and I had a moment alone with her, I told her she didn't get the room upgrade because her cheapskate ass customer didn't tip. Had he thrown me $50, not only could they have enjoyed the Big Room, but she could have done whatever she wanted to him because I wouldn't have even glanced at the camera or thought twice about it.

  What DID happen though is I watched the room very carefully and when I caught her with her hands down his pants, I went to the room and told them to knock it off, hands away from the genitals! Bad scumbags!

  I did this with a certain amount of satisfaction. What was even more satisfying is that I was standing out front of the building having a smoke when this miserly dicksmear came out of the club. He looked pissed off and put upon, like someone had just jizzed on his favorite stuffed animal. I really hammed up the friendly goodnight to him and he expressed to me that he felt he had been ripped off because all the things his off putting choice in hags had promised would happen in the champagne room, didn't. My barging into the room and telling them to quit groping each other's slime generators was just the cherry of what he perceived to be a shit sundae.

  I got a bit serious for a moment and asked him if he wanted some advice. He grudgingly said yes and I told him that if he'd tipped me something, I would've looked the other way to a degree based on his tip level. For $50 I wouldn't have even turned the camera on because she's a haggard dayshift harpy and thus, most likely a prostitute. But since I KNEW she wasn't gonna cough up a dime and was very keen on going to Big Room 2, which has a large blind spot in the camera coverage and everyone knows this, I wasn't about to let that happen since I would make exactly zero dollars off the whole situation.

  So, I continued, for a mere $200 instead of $150, she probably would've done some sick shit to your member and I wouldn't have known about it because she would've done it in the blind spot which gives me plausible deniability and I wouldn't have cared much anyway. But by being cheap, I concluded, he assured that I would be watching every move in the room. Like God.

  An angry, vengeful God. And to be completely honest, I really enjoyed ruining his day. I acknowledge that this makes me a bad person, but I've come to terms with that and my demons and I frequently grab lunch together.

  Her thinking that I would just allow her to do whatever she wanted, regardless of legality or remuneration, starkly illustrates how strippers think differently from you and I. This is what we folk in the narrative biz call a segue. (Seg-Way)

  There are a number of differences and most of them can largely be attributed to:

1) Youth. All young people are idiots. I was an idiot, too.

    This is something you come to know after turning thirty.

2) Beauty. It affords a lot of advantages to ambitious (or greedy) young women in a society that is still primarily male dominated and obsessed with hot chicks.

3) Inexperience. Life hasn't kicked some of these bitches down the stairs yet. Their biggest setbacks have been losing an Ebay auction for a madly priced Italian handbag, or failing to conceive from the drunken intercourse with a certain NFL cornerback.

4) They haven't learned the value of a dollar. Most of these young ladies either haven't worked a real job where you slave away for eight hours a day for $9-12/hr and you have to show up on time, or have promptly forgotten what it was like to be in an occupation where you make X amount of dollars for your time at work and that was that.

  But now they're in an industry where they can make thousands of bucks in a single night and are constantly offered large sums of money in exchange for sex acts. This clearly has a negative impact on their worldview.

  I literally just worked a night where two of our dancers whom I'll refer to as E.T. and Impala, made almost $12,000 each. In seven hours. This is roughly four grand short of someone's yearly income who makes minimum wage and works 40 hours a week. They made $1700 an hour. Now I don't know where you're from, average reader, or what kind of background you hail from, but to me $1700 an hour is a metric fuckton of money. Potentially life changing money, in fact.

  I expect them to have the common sense to pay off some bills, but I'd bet that they just blow the rest of the money on stupid shit they don't need because Pop Culture tells them they need it.

  I'm hacked away at this post long enough. It's almost two months overdue and slaving away at it anymore isn't gonna change all that is wrong with it, so I'm gonna hit publish and try to live with myself.

Good eve,
-The StripperHerder

*1  If I had a barbarian name it would be Bathor the Untippable. Or Durkan the Disgratuitous.

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Stripper Shoes, Worthless Doorgirls, Miller Lite and Lurching Around In High Heels You Can't Walk In. Or, Exclusive Content: 2nd Attempt.

  I hate this blog site. It has no features worth mentioning. It constantly reminds me that 'hey, you have the numbers to make some money from advertising on your blog, click here for more details.' And when I click here, it proceeds to politely inform me that due to my content, there isn't a sponsor in hell that will pay to advertise on my blog.


  Add to that the huge glaring fucking problem that there isn't any "trash" folder where deleted content is sent, or even an "unpublish" option. Therefore if you delete a post, either by design or by accident, it's fucking gone forever. It doesn't even ask you if you're sure when you click delete, in case you hit it by error, it's just gone for all eternity and there's fuck all you can do about it. That post ceases to exist.

  That's what happened a couple of weeks ago. I wrote this charming StripperHerder take on the Goldilocks and the Three Bears fairy tale and it was good. Lots of violence, bloodshed and grief, which is as it should've been. This post was written exclusively for the generous 22 people who felt that my blog entertained them enough to merit donating to me in my time of need.

  I wanted to reward these folks (you, dear reader) by giving them something that wasn't available to the general tribe of slavering Plight fans who, importantly, didn't donate money when given the chance.

  But you did. I cannot express fully how flattering and humbling it is to have people willingly give me money because of the enjoyment my blog has provided them over the years. I guess this is an inkling of how professional writers feel all the time and I gotta admit, I liked it. It makes me want to write and this is the first time I've been inspired by something other than rage, disgust, murderlust or cathartic self loathing.

  So I wrote this cute little version of the timeless story and figured out that if I keep it as a 'draft', I could email/FB the link to my donors without posting it to the ass scratching masses, which is what I did.

  The problem occurred when I noticed I had accidentally posted it so that everyone could see it, thus ruining the original intent of the post, exclusivity*1. So without thinking it through and despite previous experience with wiping out content permanently, I clicked the 'delete' button and whoosh, it was gone before I'd even emailed it to half of it's intended recipients.

  My bad, people.

  So to atone for my idiocy, I'm writing this installment, which will be the exclusive province of you, my favorite 22 readers, for the next month. Then and only then will I toss it to the rest of the Herderheads, not unlike a freshly butchered elf to a horde of dire wolf riding goblins.

  So let's get started, shall we?

                   WANNA MAKE A LOT OF MONEY?

  Then open a company that makes insanely shitty but very pretty shoes designed primarily for use by strippers. You'll be so rich you could buy one of the Baltic States.

  The shoes your company produce should adhere to the following standards:

1) Constructed 100% out of plastic and made by brown children with hideously disfigured hands from various blow-mold accidents

2) Heels no less than four inches and no more than eleven

3) Each pair should cost between $60 and $150

4) Shoes should ideally have a lifespan of anywhere between two hours and two months.

5) All of your products must be guaranteed for no less than a year

6) Your warranty call center should employ 0 people. Honestly it doesn't even have to exist. It doesn't matter.

7) Continued use of your shoes should, in a perfect world, slowly cripple the girl wearing them. No use should ever result in a lack of blisters or another degree of toe displacement. Maximum pain should always be the goal.

  The point is that none of these standards will ever stop strippers from buying your shoes. They expect to be maimed by their footwear, it's the price of making them complete strippers.

  What brought this to mind for me this evening is when I volunteered to clean the dressing room. Normally I would never do this, I'd opt for the restrooms instead, but I overheard a waitress talking to the doorgirl about a bunch of poop smeared all over the floor of the women's restroom and was cleverly able to avoid having to deal with it.

  When I got to the dressing room, stacked neatly next to the trash can was eight empty stripper shoe boxes. Fucking eight.

  This meant that tonight alone, eight daffy bitches each paid an average of $80 each for a new pair of plastic slut-stilts which will likely break within a month or two, thus necessitating them buying another pair.

  Stripper shoes. You gotta have em.

                                             It's why they do a lot of pole work.

                              Worthless Fucking Doorgirls

  Being a Doorgirl is the second easiest job in a titty bar outside of a barback, AND they have a much greater earning potential. I'd be shocked if our "primary" Portalbitch*2, Marissa, went home with less than $600-700 every Saturday she works. This is because she is a total fucking scam artist with a massive attitude problem offset by large fake titties.

  The Doorgirl position is hands down the most thief friendly job at the club. No other position in this industry makes it easier to steal money from the club than a fucking Door-Whore. Ten guys walk through the door at $10 apiece? Ring up eight and next time you open your drawer to make change, pocket $20.

  We don't allow sweats but for $40 you don't see them. If the same customer that bribed you to get in is later asked to leave, it's not your problem; you already have your money.

   As long as you don't get too greedy you'll never get caught.

  Essentially the job duties of a Doorgirl are as follows:

1) Collect the fucking cover charges

2) Weed out the too goddamn drunk to enter the club or call a Floor Guy to do it for you

3) Check ID's if there's no Floor Guy around to do it for you

4) Enforce the motherfucking dress code, or call a Floor Ape to do it for you

5) Call a Floor Cunt to walk out dancers when they're ready to leave

6) Answer the phone

  At most clubs I've worked at, this is the extent of a Doorgirl's job description. It can be irritating because of all the infantile horseshit you'll have to hear week in and week out. Dealing with drunk people is like working in a daycare center full of giant, moron asshole babies.

                                I'll have a Miller Lite please.

  If given a choice, why the fuck would you willingly choose to drink Miller Lite? Or Bud Light for that matter? Seriously, why? There's never been a better time in modern history to be an Murrikan beer drinker, so why choose rat piss when beer with actual flavor exists in every nook and cranny nowadays?

  It disgusts and appalls me how much Lite and Bud Light we sell at $6 something a pop. Or to a lesser extent, Corona. You shouldn't have to add anything to a beer to make it palatable, fucksticks.

  It's aggravating. I don't even drink beer anymore, having graduated through diabetes college to a master's degree in vodka, a much more pancreas-friendly form of alcohol than beer. But when I did, I at least chose a default beer with a bit more character than rice-squeezins.*3


  Listen girls, if you can't fluidly walk in high heels, just don't wear them, you look fucking ridiculous. I know gals that can do crazy shit while wearing six inch stilettos. I have no idea what sort of secret clown/assassin training program they graduated from, but they make walking on mini-stilts seem primal and inbred, a matter of ease and normalcy.

  Then there's the mantid-like hunch-walkers I see tottering about the sidewalks in their black mini dresses, their silhouettes shaped vaguely like esses, staggering forward utterly devoid of grace or fluidity. Obviously having mastered neither the art of walking in heels or the concept of accepting defeat gracefully when it comes to something you never learn to do well.

  When I drive the shuttle around I get to witness these awkward storks of womenkind, floundering down the sidewalks in shoes that are clearly mangling their feet and compressing their spines into premature dowager humps.

  In regards to this I can only say that outside of gays, metrosexuals, foot-fetishists and eastern europeans, your average dude couldn't really care less what sort of foot-covers a chick wears as long as he finds her attractive. Your average 'red-blooded American male' isn't thinking all that much about feet, because why the fuck would you? What the holy hell happened to you as a child to ignite an erotic attraction to feet?

  You poor bastard...

  And this is where I call it quits. I'm middlin wasted and am going to be forced to cook something if I wish to gorge drunkenly on unhealthy foods.

  Thank you sincerely for deeming my scrawlings worthy of remuneration. It means a lot to me.

  Enjoy your VIP post. Hope it satisfies the 'Herder itch.

  Corsa enHerderon,

-The StripperHerder


*1 It took me three attempts to spell that correctly.

*2 Portalbitch: Old English for 'Doorgirl'

*3 Budweiser uses rice in it's brewing process to shorten the brewing cycle. I'm not a brewer so I don't know how this all works, but I do know one thing, rice is NOT an ingredient in beer.


Friday, November 10, 2017

Observations On Suburban Apartment Apes: A Report From The StripperHerder's Cat. Or, My New Roomate, A Garrulous Mook With A Laser.

Status Report From Operative #9509, Codename: 'Widdle Milk-Paws'.

                        Operative  #9509. Remorseless. Implacable. Enjoys salmon and moonlight stalks.

  My new assignment is a real gem, living with a giant carpet-ape I refer to as "Puddin-Belly"*1 for the plushness of his midsection. Apparently this enormous, stupid bastard has never had a cat in his life and thus is utterly ignorant of our true purpose on this lame planet or even his own glaring inferiority to our species.


                            "This human can't outrun a cockroach. Why the FUCK are his feet so big?"

  The Feline Council has code named him "Blog Author #819,624" and tasked me with monitoring his activities and planning possible containment/sanction scenarios based on what I witness.

  I may very well be ordered to cancel his ass at some point, but will try to make it quick. I don't enjoy killing thumb monkeys because of all the screaming and blood, but sometimes it's just part of the job. You do it, never look back and move on to the next case.

  Don't get attached. Remember, it's just a biped.

                                       "The Colossus of Asshole. Thank God it wear pants."

  Although this one is clearly of subpar intellect, he is not an unkindly house mate and scores some great nip which he doles out daily. Love that shit. I've noticed he has his own private stash as well, but it's clearly a different variety for the smell is completely different from mine.

  I wish he'd share some of that with me.

  He's also totally oblivious to certain nip protocols. From the very first day he's used a paper plate to serve up the nip, watching in amusement as I chew a bit, snort a bit and then roll in it. Then after my first roll, I stand up and move aside, as tradition dictates, offering him the second roll-about. He just stands there grinning and filming me for Youtube, witless of his breach of etiquette.

  It's embarrassing.

   This particular two leg is an especially pathetic example of the breed. I estimate he'd last about five minutes in the wild, maybe less. Clearly unaware of the implications of sharing his living space with a highly evolved carnivore that is far more intelligent than him. Never seen a bigger sucker for the snuggly, playful housecat*2 routine.

  Fuckin loser.

  I'm running him through the usual battery of low level psi ops standards: meowing weird, jumping on the blankets while he's whackin it, hunger strike from Day One, staring at him for long periods of time, staring intently at empty patches of air as if I'm looking at something he can't see, lap sitting pump-fakes, interrupting his sleep patterns by running across him randomly during the night and casually biting him every now and again.

  The old standbys. It's astonishing how well this one is responding to them. Only took a day for the first food upgrade.

                                       Yours truly. Almost caught writing this installment. 

  He allows me to perch on the back of his chair uncontested, a sure sign of submission if there ever was one. If I'm ever forced to terminate our domestic agreement, it shall be easy to eliminate him, thus ensuring a large food supply to sustain me as I await my next assignment and work on perfecting my steam powered thumb gauntlets.

  He never blogs about cats of any sort, so perhaps there was some error in our search systems, probably attributable to his heavy use of the word "pussy" in his various blogs, that led me to be assigned here. It's kinda like body guarding someone that no one cares about.

  Dull, tedious, jejune.

  I had to shit on his carpet the other day, just to remind him that the litter box ain't gonna clean itself, pizza-blob, commence to scoopin. Don't forget the corners, you piss-clot sieving animal. As he glared at me and muttered vague threats while he was cleaning up my excrement, I got in his way and tripped him as he was holding a paper towel full of my feces. I did it just to be a dick and to reinforce to him that I could fuck with him with impunity even while he was holding a napkin full of my leavings.

  Talk about degrading....

  It was extremely amusing to me.

                                    "That's it. Get you some. I  still think that's gonna leave a stain."  

  I don't pretend to understand what it is the various trouser-primates I've been assigned to do for a living. As far as I'm concerned, it's beneath me. Might as well ask what a lizard does when it's not chasing food or staring at stuff. Who cares?

  What I have ascertained is that this particular biped works in some sort of industry that's tied in somehow with human mating rituals, which as we all know are completely incomprehensible to anything that's not a human. Exceedingly complicated, more complex than astro-navigation and string theory, yet far more repulsive, stinky and boring.

  Fucking gross but it keeps the lights on I suppose.


                                THE RED MOUSE GAME


  Perhaps the best part of this assignment is this two-leg's ability and creativity with the Red Mouse*3 game. He's spectacular at it. Most house apes just run the it back and forth across the room all willy nilly, as if prey just runs to and fro with no purpose, never seeking escape. Or worse, when they just do big circles. No realism whatsoever.

  This ape though, he thinks about it. You can see him doing it if you watch closely enough, glazed expression of drooling good humor, brow knitted with the effort of thinking like a mouse. He runs the Red Mouse along baseboards and among the furniture, taking cover where possible and scuttling in short, fast bursts. He frequently sets up obstacles for the Red Mouse to duck behind, allowing me the unrivaled pleasure of waiting to pounce just around the corner, every cat's dream.

  No mouse worth killing would ever just run open ground when there's a baseboard to skulk against. This human gets that, he is an idiot savant with the Red Mouse. I'll miss it when this job is done.

                                                         He gives good Mouse.

  That's all there is to report at the moment. I seriously doubt he'll ever do something imaginative enough to merit more that a cursory glance from the Council, but every assignment can't be adventure and peril. Some of them just suck. Like this one mostly does.

  I'm getting too old for this shit.

-Yours in service,
Dr. Erasamus Fujinstein IV

*1 See also: Mt Gutmore, Fatsquatch, Big Dumb Human, Mr Staggers, Face-Shrub-Douche

*2 in Feline-Speak, the term 'housecat' has several meanings, none of which are good. It is a serious insult.

*3 Look, I know it's a laser. Catkind invented lasers after waiting patiently for thousands of years for you humans to do it for us. We could foresee what a fantastic game it would make and figured maybe you bipeds could come up with some other applications for it that we don't care about.

  You're welcome.

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Keep All Hands And Feet In The Ride Until It Comes To A Complete Stop And Please Don't Feed The Junkies. Or, Amateur Contests: Sometimes The Truth Is Uglier Than Fiction.

  I wish we could brand all of our pillhead and heroin loving dancers with a giant "J" on their forehead in the hopes that maybe some customers would stop getting dances from them. By giving them money, one is merely shortening their lifespan as they head immediately to their dealer's house after a shift to trade all their cash for some smack or oxy's.

  Even in the dimly lit environs of the club, you should, with little effort, be able to spot the track marks trailing their ways up and down a bitches arm.

  Open your fucking eyes, losers.

                  The average reader won't notice that her sunglass frames are made from barbiturates.

  Anyone who's OK with a junkie dancing for them has clearly never had any dealings with one before. They're despicable, gross people. Capable of any depth of degradation or self abasement to get their fix. Unless you've been among them for any length of time, you simply cannot comprehend what these chicks do on a daily basis to feed their habit. If you want that grinding your meat, more power to ya, sicko.

  The only thing worse is a crackhead, who will happily blow a dog if it gets them a rock.

                                                    "No! You said only one dog!"

  This is probably the single greatest shit cookie I have to eat by working in this industry, dealing with fucking drug ADDICTS. Hardcore drug addicts, not your fluffy, barely-even-criminal weekenders. For some girls this club is the last stop before death or the utter inability to even hold down a strip club job, the most forgiving industry on the planet if you have a vagina.

  The same applies to drunks. The consistently drunk, that is. Anyone can have a bad day every now and then in this occupation. Strippers are pretty much encouraged to drink: by customers, by circumstance, by anxiety, by other strippers and hell, why not, by society in general. Everyone loves a drunk stripper except those charged with seeing to her safety, due compensation and control as part of their job description.

  I bring this up AGAIN because tonight we had a dancer I'll call Revelation, because she's named herself after a section of the Bible, albeit a different one. This is the variety of tit-slinger that comes into work already buzzed as hell and proceeds, rather quickly, to get drunk as all fuck. Every night she works, rain or shine.

                                         Revelation after a typical day shift.     

  To say Revelation has been around the block a few times would be an understatement. To say she's been dragged face down around the block a few times from behind an oil leaking '67 pick up truck would be slightly more accurate and much more fun to say. So I'm going with that.

  I've worked with her before at a number of clubs and she's a career path alcoholic headed for All Star status.

  SO tonight, predictably, she was shitfaced 90 minutes into her shift. She, like Vodzilla, is possessed of an eerie ESP-like ability to discern any time a customer buys bottle service within the confines of the club. It doesn't make any difference if she's in the same room or even on the same floor as said customer, her BoozeSpider Sense goes off any time a liter bottle of 80 proof or better gets cracked on the floor of the club.

                                            "There's booze. Over...........THERE!"

  Then she teleports to their table and begins a devastating assault on the free liquor supply, totally content to sit and drink someone else's booze instead of making money. When it's gone, she vanishes like a mirage leaving only a faint whiff of vaginal deodorant and some uncomfortable memories.

  This is what happened tonight. Hammered early and determined to get worse.

  And she did.

  Then I had to walk her out. Yes, she was clearly intoxicated, but I've seen worse. No, she probably shouldn't have driven, but I suggested a cab or Uber to her the requisite number of three times, the magical Floor Guy's Incantation.

  And when she refused and insisted she was fine, I replied "OK" and got the fuck out of the way. I had fulfilled my legal obligations*1 and in my opinion, exceeded my job duties. I've been in this situation many times and I have a number of very strong opinions about it. Namely:

A) I didn't serve her the fucking alcohol in the first place, why isn't one or more of the bartenders policing her at the end of the night?

B) It is IM-FUCKING-POSSIBLE to stop a dancer from drinking if she's determined to do it; most of the bartenders will serve her no matter how wasted she is or failing that, she can find customers or allied dancers to buy funny-juice for her. Outside of breathalyzing her every hour on the hour or following her around with a drone all night, there's no realistic way to prevent her from getting bro-faced.

C) I'm not willing to risk putting my hands on a girl to stop her from driving when she's insistent about doing it. Legally it's assault at best, kidnapping at worst and in today's ultra-social-justice reality, I ain't risking that. I can reason, threaten, cajole, beg or belittle, but I can't yeti-hug a bitch and drag her kicking and screaming back into the club and hold her hostage while she sobers up.

D) If Management would just grow a pair and actually fire some of these loopy tequila-sponges, and fire them permanently, it would show they have some teeth. But they prefer to gum everything, or run it through a blender first.

E) If you don't want a girl driving home all kerfuckled, don't let me walk her out. They know I don't care. I've told them I don't care. Yet they keep allowing me to do it and then get upset at me when so and so was permitted to drive off all gin ruffled.

  My theory is that there are VERY few cars on the road when we unleash the worst of our rolling road hazards and that of those folks:

  1) Sober people will see her coming a mile away and take evasive action, thus avoiding collision.

  2) Drunk people get what they deserve, which is sometimes a stripper-piloted carnage dildo with a Nissan badge.

  F) I feel like once we become adults we make choices. For some strippers, making the right ones are a constant challenge, like running uphill while juggling three babies and two chainsaws, drunk and on roller skates.

  G) I'm fresh out of patience for problem dancers. If you've driven home drunk on 70% or more of all the shifts you've worked, then you're probably really good at it at this point. After all, you're still alive and tottering around on two legs.

  I'm willing to put in the extra effort with the dancer who is occasionally too drunk to drive. Like once or twice a year occasional. Weekly girls however, I'm done. If management wants to make a change they can, but it's too much effort for them. It's easier to displace blame unto your underlings.

  In my defense I've allowed much drunker dancers than Revelation to drive home in my time and they've all survived and utterly failed to kill or even maim a single person.

  Check, motherfucker.

                                                      "We all just wrecked our cars."

  Which is a nice segue into Dynamic Management Team Laser Falcon Ostrich Thunder Alpha, and the fun, fun games they play.

                               "We shall fight them if they're bitches and on their breeding grounds, 
                                                   we shall fight in the dressing room and on the stage, in the parking lot;
                                                                                 we shall never surrender."

  The greatest of which is "Have Her Come In Tomorrow"; best played on the night of our monthly Amateur Contest.

  The principles are like this:

  You're the Manager on an Amateur Night, you poor fuck. You have some horrendous, self-deluded amateurs come in, thinking for some ungodly reason that they are attractive or talented enough to work here*2, but of course are wrong. You really hate having to tell them they're nasty as sardine chum on an assholed toothbrush and you'd rather gnaw the ballsack off a roadkilled beaver than hire them on.

  The owner would be.....very derisive toward you. He likes slender blond girls and wants many, many more slender blond girls to be hired. We agree, but how many slender blond girls do you think show up for our monthly thing, on average?

  If you guessed, "a lot less than other demographics" you may be correct, sharp reader.

  Therefore your move is to have the DJ or a Floor Orc tell all the girls to come back tomorrow, ironically at a time and date when You won't happen to be working, thus passing the whole awkward mess onto the next day's Manager.

  This isn't a game for the impatient. Near as I can tell and through my exhaustive research, this game has been going on since neanderthal times when one primitive fuck made one of his bitches dance for another primitive fuck in exchange for a gazelle leg.

  That was the Genesis.

  The next move for the loser of the first round (Manager the day after Amateur Contests) is to first make a Floor Schmuck do your dirty work by telling dancers that we had no intention of hiring, but were asked to come back anyway, that the club wasn't interested in offering them a contract at this time. It deliberately wastes these ladies time and since the managers dump responsibility off on us Floor Dicks, the uncomfortable and sometimes hostile interaction with justifiably pissed off semi-attractive gals who've been led on by weak willed management usually falls to us.

  Your second move is to pick one of the best of this dismal tribe and tell her that she needs to come back tomorrow night to fill out her paperwok, that for some reason it's impossible to do it tonight. This sends an increasingly agitated, acrylic-nailed Wolverine back toward the Manager who'd fired the salvo in the first place.

  Check, motherfucker.

  It's been going on since we crawled from the ocean and it's never going to stop.

  Other sweet management games include: Guess If You're Working Or Not!, I Never Said That!, WaLk AwAy, Trainwreck Rehire, and another one of my favorites, Changing Standards.

  It's a lot of fun for us Floor Staff to have to guess which set of rules apply on any given night, we often bet on it just to see who can be more wrong.

  I frequently "win" Changing Standards because I'm almost always wrong in nearly all my assumptions.

  Dancers and music: a sick, twisted relationship.

  Strippers are extremely predictable in their musical preferences and can get very bitchy about a DJ going outside of their genres or awarding other dancers "their" song. Fortunately for us Floor Dudes, strippers, not unlike bull seals, seldom fight to the death. They just need to fuck a bitch up a little bit where other strippers can see it, thus metaphorically spraying the room with their spoor.

  Their musky spoor.

  But essentially, these days, 90% of strippers dance to the same sort of garbage, i.e. hip hop, R&B, rap, techno and other related nonsense about money, fucking and how great the artist is at everything. It gets astonishingly tedious to listen to, like wandering through an art gallery comprised entirely of paint-by-numbers pictures and beautifully framed candy wrappers.

  Utter shite.

  Back in my day, a glorious time in our history that most folks refer to as the late 80's/early 90's, things were different. They were better.


  Back in them days, the majority of the gals still danced to rock songs. Hair metal, alternative, grunge and whatnot. It was awesome, dude! The occasional Whitney/Mariah song had to be tolerated, but most songs played, all night, featured guitars.

  No drum tracks, auto tune, rapping, and those annoying little computerized cymbal beats that every song today must have.

  For examples, I'll list a typical 10 song rotation from when I first started in the industry and then another similar list from last Wednesday.

  The good ole days:

1) You could be mine GUNS AND ROSES

2) (Everything I do) I do it for you BRYAN ADAMS

3) Winds of change SCORPIONS

4) Cradle of love BILLY IDOL

5) Vision of love MARIAH CAREY

6) Black Velvet ALANNAH MYLES

7) Unskinny bop POISON

8) Smells like teen spirit NIRVANA

9) Give it away now RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS

10) Evenflow PEARL JAM

  Compared to last Wednesday:

1) That one song about being a VIP all night SOMEGUY FEATURING SOMEGIRL

2) The rap song about being a document forger with the gun sound effects: SOmE ChICK

3) Annoying song #16 RIHANNA

4) Garglin spuzz at da club KESHA

5) Bustin on Bentley's YIL' SLAZZY

6) F**kin in a Veyron: LIL' YOUNG T-POOG

7) Anaconda NIKKI MINAJ

8) That song about endless bottle service and riding around in a Maybach TINY WEEZY

9) That genre that's just grating noises put together in simplistic rhythms PICK ONE

10) Fucked with an anchor ALESTORM*3

  That last one was a surprise, yes? Read your footnotes...

 Right, that's it. That's your Halloween Spectacular Extravaganza, with footnotes!*4

 So fuck off now.

Pleasant Pagan Pilfered Hooby-Day, yon fucksticks
-The StripperHerder

*1 Here's the completely fucked up part, from a legal standpoint: Say one of the dancers I let drive away while drunk ended up killing someone on their way home. Technically the club, and maybe even me personally could be subject to a lawsuit.

  However, if I'd yoked up a drunk girl in a full nelson and carried her back to the club both for her own good AND against her will, denying her civil liberties and whatnot, both the club and I could be plaintiffs in a lawsuit.

  Fucked if I do and fucked if I don't. Hope the worst never happens, unless it's Vodzilla and a single car accident...

*2 No, I'm serious.

  Listen, if I were a female and was interested in entering an amateur stripper contest, or already an experienced stripper that was too arrogant and self absorbed to be realistic about the certain truths, I would still research the market. It's not like it's quantum physics. Go to whatever titty bar you're thinking of entering said contest and see what kind of dancers work there.

  Can you, with a modicum of self actualization, picture yourself as part of this particular team? Do you "fit in" in a general appearance sorta way? I'm talking body type, not race. Face rather than color.

  Example from my perspective, to assuage the lefty freedom fighters who still read this blog despite knowing that they hate it, me and my industry.

  God bless ya girls...

  If, for some fucking crazy reason I decided one day, "I should enter an amateur male stripper contest because maybe I could win some money and possibly even get a job!" I would figure out what club the contest was at and then I would go there as a customer a couple of days prior to the contest and see what kind talent they had and if I could, being honest with myself, picture me successfully working there.

  Had this situation actually been real and had I been very sincere and forthright with myself, I would've drawn the following conclusions which, being only semi-delusional at best, might've led me to believe that I was fucking dreaming if I thought I could be a goddamn Chippendale.

A) I need leg muscles for this?

B) Not a single one of these guys had to lift their gut up to show their wang.

C) Is it cold in here? I'm gonna need about 3 pints of silicone injected into my dong before I properly fill out a banana hammock like that.

D) Unlike me, none of these guys are two shades paler than a blizzard.

E) None of those guys were winded sixty seconds into a song.

F) Compared to the dudes who work here I move and smell like a wounded musk ox.

*3 Goddamn I love this one DJ named Joey who downloaded this song on my recommendation and I really love entertainer Xera, who is the only dancer we have that prefers metal and loves this song.

*4 Which may or may not be amusing, there are no guaranties here, dear reader.

Sunday, October 29, 2017

The StripperHerder Writes Another Brilliantly Delicate Haiku. Or, My Demise Is Written In The Cards, Can't Be Too Much Longer...

  I don't know what to tell you kids. Uncle Herdy is getting real tired of this occupation. A lot of this has to do strictly with economics, i.e. my ability to put up with tedious fuckshittery is directly linked to my income.

  And lately, that income has been appallingly low. As in: I normally pay all my bills for the month on the first and have the entire month to build my money back up so that I can do it all again come the next month.

  At the beginning of September, as usual, I did that. Now, with only a week left in the month, I'm not even halfway to my "normal" level. If I were to pay all of my October bills now, in the amounts I normally pay, I'd be 100% broke. Rifling couch cushions for ramen money and so forth.

  I wrote a haiku describing my frustration:

                                  My mask bone china
                Scorn light glow like sun through cloud
                          Scowling at drunk fucks

 Money at the club has been shit for most of Spring and almost all of Summer and as my balance dwindles, my contempt and apathy grow like hateful sponge on an abject reef. I can deal with all the junkies, dealers, drunk twats, vomit, rudeness, assorted dickshittery, arrogance, pedestrian intellects and other fucked up nonsense...


  When I have to put up with elevated levels of moron, slapdash management, 31 flavors of asshole and am going broke doing it, I get annoyed.

  Tonight for example contained what I felt to be unreasonable amounts of irritating dick-slurry, considering my recent levels of compensation, that is.

  Do you sense a list coming on?

  I sure do.

Irritating Dick-Slurry up to my knees, Vol 1

 1) Management drops the ball again

  It'd be more accurate to say that Management didn't even show up to the field, or to stretch the metaphor further, even have any idea what sport it was supposed to play had it shown up. Some of you may be wondering what the hell I'm talking about right now, what could they have done to earn such scorn?

  Well, I'm gonna tell ya.

  There was a major event in town tonight and it was the ONLY one. The only plausible reason for anyone to be in The Town™ as it probably drew between 15,000-20,000 people. You'd think that just maybe, that might be an event you want to try to promote the club at, by picking a few cuties and sending them out under my watchful eye to hand out free passes to the herds of dude-sheep that would be clogging the streets when the event was over.

  I mean, it's a thought, right? Not even a deep one.

  I was on the bus, training my replacement, which by the way is a whole fucking thing all unto itself, but it's so messed up that I'll have to address it in a future post unless I happen to be far more productive that I suspect I'll be.

  SO, we're on our first stab through The Town™, when I notice all the activity around a particular venue. I texted my Manager, Sir Wilfred CuddleRage XIX, alerting him to the presence of an Event. He texts me back within 2 minutes that it's the Whoever Show at the Wherever Arena.*1

  So I text him back "Can you get me a couple of girls to hand out passes? There's about to be a mass exodus of pre-enebriated people of a certain age and income class which is JUST what we're looking for and they'll have to shuffle past our hottie to get to their car and a whole bunch of them are going to take free passes from our girls because they are pretty and drunk men respond very keenly to that. 

  Which I might remind you is the very core tenet of our entire industry."

  I'm paraphrasing here. I believe what I actually sent was "Need pass-sluts NOW! Soon people lotz!"

  His response was, and I'm NOT going to paraphrase, I'm going to quote directly...

  "I can ask."

  I'm gonna go make another drink while I let that one sink in a moment.

  Seriously. That's what he sent.

  I'll be right back...

  That's better. Vodka is good as an antiseptic against soul-rot. At least that's what my doctor tells me and he's Russian so he would know.

  Where was I? Oh yeah, "I can ask."'re the fucking boss, dude. You can't force dancers to promote because they are independent contractors and have to be handled with kid gloves. That being said, brute force is not your only anti-stripper countermeasure. You could have cajoled, bargained, offered free house fees (which is the standard compensation for promoting) or made promises you ultimately didn't even have to keep if you wanted to be a dick about it.

  What you chose to do was nothing.

  With the following assets at your disposal, I might add:

  4 Fucking Floor Hosts

  3 Goddamn Waitresses

  2 Friendly and 1 Bitchy Bartender, all cute.

  1 New Shuttle Driver

  Roughly 30 Strippers, Assorted*3

  And the challenges facing you at the time:

 Maybe 10 Customers, 12 max. You were staffed for up to 100 or so customers and had, to be charitable, 15 at best. You could've found a way to send hot chicks into the masses, like a surprise calvary charge.

  Seems like it may have been possible to scrounge up two or three girls doing fuck all and offer them a free house fee good til midnight whenever they wanted to use it. This would've allowed them to work for free even if they checked in at midnight, instead of having to pay $75 up front.

  Why not? The potential reward outweighs the payout by lots and lots of mathematical stuff I can't articulate because I suck at math.

  I'm not going to get pedantic about it, I have other human stupidity to cover. It just seems to me that keeping tabs on major happenings should be within a Manager's purview, especially in a mediocre market. Some are better at it than others. Sir Wilfred seems to actively resist it.

2)  "I are Alice. Am Waitress thingy are to bring drinks for you. I have a pen."

  Alice isn't the brightest star in the constellation, but golldern it she's a determined little thing. Literally scurries about the club, wee legs pumping away like a tiny dog trying to keep up with a tall human. Moves like a squirrel fleeing with two cheekfuls of tasty walnuts, eager to stash her prize, but frequently distracted by other promising looking ground nuts.

  I don't know. I like her. But she can be a bit silly from time to time, dumb as things that feed on algae. Yet she wants to be good at her job. She actually cares still.


3) Last week a dancer was called 'Sunshine'. Now she's changed her name to 'Jordan', but didn't tell anyone.

  Strippers deciding to change their name, sometimes in mid shift, is aggravating. There are no rules for changing your stage name other than if we already have an "Amber" we don't let any new hires take that name. Maybe this is why 20% of the entertainers I work with can't make their stage calls, they've forgotten what dancer name they're currently performing under.

  I mention this because I recently set up a VIP room for a dancer that I've worked with for 8 years across 3 different clubs and when I asked if she was still using the stage name Euphoria, she said "no", we already have a tedious bitch named that so she was going by "Alphonsa".

  So I go to the DJ and tell him that "Alphonsa is gonna be in a champagne room for a half hour and he's all like 'Who the fuck is "Alphonsa"? I shrug and describe to him your standard Mk II Mexican Fake-Tittied Stripper chick and he has no idea whom I'm referring to because we have so many Mexican fake-tittied girls working here.

  So I go back to the champagne room and ask her again what her stage name is and she says "It's Lexi."

  That's not what you just told me bitch. You said "Alphonsa", plain and simple. Now, in 3 minutes time it has somehow changed. Make up your drug-addled mind. Remembering what your 'professional' moniker is shouldn't take two tries. Doesn't make any difference how long you've been in the industry or how many goddamn stripper names you 'performed' under, it should be something you remember at all times, because a stripper that can't remember their stage name is about as useful as a dishwasher who refuses to use water.

  It would be like coming into our club three nights in a row and when I greeted you and asked for ID, I'd say my name was Bill On Monday, Cassius on Tuesday and Just Ted on Wednesday, just to fuck with you.

  I'd like to take this opportunity to state that World Class Strippers NEVER change their name, only hackneyed, stretch marked, droopy/fake tittied winkle-gashes do. Thinking perhaps in their opioid-dependent excuses for brains that by changing their names they will somehow change the course of their misbegotten lives and negate the constant rain of poor decisions they make.

  Fucking useless.

  Yet no matter how many track marks a gal may display, there are always guys lining up to throw money at them. This is because they are prostitutes and dudes love reasonably priced sex. Most of these guys couldn't get laid if they didn't pay for it, so an obvious heroin addiction just adds to the danger and allure of an already uncommon experience.

  "I fucked this junkie ho! Spuzzed on her mug because that's what porn dudes do. Cost me $32.41, with tip. Stained the seat on my Fiat something fierce."

  OK, that's enough of that so-called List.

  It sucked and I apologize for that yet at the same time have no intention of fixing it. If you found it unsatisfactory in a StripperHerder's Best Lists sort of way, I urge you to forget about it and move on with your life. If you just can't let it go however and simply must have vengeance upon me, then start driving for Uber or Lyft and get in front of the Bus when I've decided one more 'no use of turn signal' was the perfect amount for me to go all ostrich-rape crazy and make an example of you with my V-10 powered War Shuttle. See what that gets ya.

  Whether or not I die in a hail of gunfire or you die under the wheels of my Party-Panzer, someone's got a great lawsuit*2 and it ain't gonna be my team....

  Thus you (or your surviving family) gets sweet revenge against me, a would-be Mad Max villain with a faggily painted Battle Bus, by suing eighteen kinds of shit out of a company with relatively deep pockets that will most likely settle out of court for several times what your smiley, selfy-taking ass would ever amount to.

  Shame on me. I'm getting all off track again.

  Here's some slices of the past two night's headcheese. Enjoy.

  -There's this thing where 'problem' dancers will try to assert their power over your average strip club patron (loser) by threatening to get said losers kicked out if they don't buy dances from them. This practice was the main reason I quit Sally's Snizz-Market; I got sick and fucking tired of shaking dudes down for scam money, or throwing them out for some invented slight. Never mind the theft I endured at the "Senior" Floor Guy's hands, the strong arm bullshit involved with the corporate ethos there disgusted me.

  Especially since after I intimidated a guy into coughing up what he didn't owe in the first place, the strippers involved usually tipped anywhere from 'crappy' to 'Lap my whore-crust, Floor-Bug!"

  If I wanted to do this kinda stuff, I could've become a leg breaker for some sort of organized crime outfit. It's not like I haven't had chances, or haven't worked for 'questionable' people. And by 'questionable people', I mean businessmen with clear ties to organized crime.

  Cuz I have.

  That's all I'll say about that.

  And now I'd like to remind all my readers that frequently an installment of the Plight that you may be reading might very well have been written over the course of several nights. This is one of those.

  Normally I like to mention it, you know, for transparency. Which I strive VERY hard to maintain.

  So, I'm mentioning it here. Everything you read up until "That's all I have to say about that" was written after a brutal Saturday night, and everything after it was written after a brutal Wednesday night.

  Let me break it down for you:

  I can't do this shit much longer.

  This is a fact.

  My escape used to be driving the fucking shuttle, and I hadn't realized what a longevity booster it was to my career in drunk-tolerating, but now that it's virtually gone, I'm in a world of service industry shit, folks.

  I never acknowledged how short I was on patience with everything: strippers, customers, pieces of shit, more strippers, regulars, other humans, drunks, management and even my fellow Floor Dudes.

  I'm fed up with it all.

  Current plan is to be so bad at my job that management is forced to fire me, collect unemployment for as long as I can get it and work on my script while I rapidly succumb to poverty, hoping I can sell a finished script before I repaint the walls with my thinky bits.

  It's what I came up with on short notice, maybe something better will present itself.

  And finally, remember when I said that this installment, like so many others, was penned on multiple nights?

  Well here we are three weeks later from everything written above and my attitude has changed dramatically. The reasons for this are twofold:

A) The money has improved markedly through October, and

B) I researched and put myself on a couple of natural mood boosters and they work really well. Turns out my body wasn't producing enough feel-good hormones and as a result I was a completely miserable sack of shit in every facet of my life.

  I'm much better now, thank you.

-The StripperHerder


*1 In all honesty I should've been aware of this particular Happening because as the primary Driver of Das Shootle, it behooves me to know when opportunities and obstacles are going to be thrown my way.**

  **How's that for honesty and transparency? You whining, post-liberal Utopia-Thugs.

#anythingsoffensiveifyoutryhardenough  #imoffendedbythathashtag

*2 The NEW American Dream

*3 Sounds like a Christmas song, doesn't it?

Tuesday, October 24, 2017

The One Dollar Tip, A Clear Indication Of Assholery. Or, More Wonderful Shit From The World Of Drunken Everybody.

  FUN STATS: I'll do them later.

  And through the magic of lazy writing and sloppy editing, here they are:

-Number of dancers living on borrowed time who continued to exist, against all odds, since my last post=

  All of them. I know. I'm shocked too. Females are resilient, dude.

-Number of times someone else in the past month, besides me, has swept the entrance area of all the assorted detritus accumulated nightly by the drunken scum who haunt this place=

  Twice. I was out of town and our Manager, Sir Snafflin Coobeastie XII probably did it himself rather than tell an underling to do it.

  Ostrich Style!

-Number of new DUI recipients since my last post=

  Three. Bitches rackin em up.

  Two out of three are girls I walked out to their cars personally. I only feel a vestigial stirring of remorse about this. One might argue that it's part of a Floor Guy's job description to stop hammered dancers from reinforcing Darwin's theories on evolution when they leave the club, i.e. killing themselves before they can pass on their genes.

  I argue that without the legal ability to bear hug their tiny asses and carry them back to the club, which would be SO easy, I merely have to offer and/or suggest a cab, or to speak in modern terms, an Uber -at least three times. It's like a magic spell that legally gets me off the hook. If I were to pick her up and haul her back into the club, against her drunken will, I would be up for several felony charges should she choose to pursue the situation.

  And, through experience and bitter hindsight, I now trust most strippers about as far as I can throw them through plexiglass, which isn't far at all.

  Charmingly enough, I am an employee of the club, and as such the club is legally liable for my actions. This is an important reason why the recent trend in stripper-employment is all "Private Contractor" as opposed to "Bitch works here", Private Contractors carry much less legal liability than 'Bitches who work here'.

-Number of customers maimed/injured by one of our contractors since my last post=

  Zero. At least physically. I'm sure some mental damage has been meted out but it's not my problem nor am I qualified to diagnose it.

  All right, enough of that horseshit.

  Right now I'd like to talk about the infamous service industry fuck you, the One Dollar Tip.

                                                  "Here ya go, Driver-Snizz, but yourself a gumball."

  The concept of tipping was conceived to reward those poor bastards who had to deal with drunk cunts in exchange for paying their rent and feeding their wee babbies. From there it has branched out to encompass all kinds of services and it is primarily an American thing. Folks from the good ole U S of A are the tipping kings of the world.

  No one tips like a Murrikan.

  That being established, let's move on.

                  The Stiff vs. The One Dollar Tip

  Stiffing people, or tipping absolutely nothing, can mean one of the following things:

1) You're an inconsiderate jizzstain, or

2) You honestly didn't realize that it was customary to tip that particular person/occupation.

 I was guilty of this when I was in my late teens/early 20's with my barber. The haircut was $10 and that was what I gave him. I was completely ignorant that this was an job where tipping is sort of expected.

  I feel bad about it to this day.

  But at least I wasn't a One Dollar Tipper. This says:

1) I'm an inconsiderate jizzstain, or

2) I'm well aware of the fact that I should tip you but have decided that whatever effort you put into making my life more enjoyable is only worth a buck. It's a garbage move and I'd rather they not tip at all than toss me a buck.

  I had a group of maybe 30 loudmouthed, cokehead foreigners the past two nights and each time one guy would hand me a crumpled dollar bill. The first night I had to split that Washington with six other Floor Grubs, for a total gain of a bit over 14 cents for me.

                                               "TITS AND CLITS, JA JA JA!"

  Tonight I had a four way split, which meant I got to keep a shiny quarter all to myself.

  I think they might've been Latervian. Voting for Dr. Doom every four years because no one else ever runs against him.

                                                    Totally unaltered pic.

  Super Fun Happy Drunk Time, Sponsored By Ivana Poutvainly, Russian Drink-Twat, Level 43.

                                     That's a $5000 shoe she's pouring $3 vodka through.   

  I really wish we could fire people at this place. I don't know why it's so hard. It's the polar opposite of virtually every other titty bar I've worked at where getting fired was as easy as looking at someone the wrong way. It's abso-fucking-lutely amazing how hard it is to get fired from this Nipple Hut.

  I guess the management team here would rather put up with the idiot practices of some of its employees rather than have to go through the hire/train process with new people who may or may not suck just as much as those they're meant to replace.

  Ostrich style leadership in (in)action!

  Our Russian Booze-Slinger, Ivana Poutvainly is the purest example of I can think of to illustrate this.

  This loony menstrual sock will serve drinks to anything, no matter how obviously obliterated it happens to be as long as they are a few rubles in it for her. She will sell booze to someone lying on the ground and mumbling about Camaro's. She'll sell drinks long past when she should and in inadvisable amounts, like ten beers for one guy thirty seconds before we have to pull alcohol.

  No effing problem comrade, just toss her a few bucks so she can continue to buy idiotically priced items to try to mask the utter and complete emptiness of her soul from the rest of the world. No one notices that you're a worthless, vapid douche-hole when you wear a Gucci dress and $1200 boots.

  I've written about Ivana in this blog before, multiple times in fact. She makes all Russians look bad and they should send a Spetsnaz unit to eliminate her with extreme prejudice. Remember when she got a weed brownie from one of the cook's and when she ate the whole thing, against his advice, she freaked out, couldn't work and promptly narced him out to management, resulting in them both being suspended two weeks.*1

  Or how about when she wrecked her expensive German sedan against a guardrail less than a mile from the club and ended up getting off scot free from a DUI charge.

  SO tonight one of our more disturbing dancers, Vulcana, got extremely hammered. This only happens 50% of the shifts she works, so we were all taken by surprise.

  Here's the inside deal on this though, the parts not obvious to someone outside the stripperherder industry:

A) I had heard the DJ "call off" Vulcana about an hour or so before I heard the gravelly tones of her wasted vice grating out from the main bar. Being "called off" meant the dancer had informed the DJ that she was leaving and that he should take her off stage rotation.

This means she should've taken her skunked ass to the dressing room and got ready to leave. Once girls call off here, they're not allowed to be on the floor anymore, much less parked at the bar throwing more booze down their suck-hole.

B) Vulcana is CLEARLY intoxicated, but small details like this have never stopped Ivana from serving up more drinks and it certainly didn't this time either.

C) I watched the booze-hag pour back her drink which was something clear with lime in it, probably a vodka tonic. I tried to catch Ivana's eye to give her the "cut this bitch off" sign, but she steadfastly avoided making eye contact with me. I went to find the Manager, Sir Smedly Snotmyproblem XI and told him that Russia's greatest treasure was over serving again and that the world's 6th oldest stripper was a wasted fucking mess who was getting drunker thanks to Ivana's utter lack of conscious.

D) When I returned to the main bar, Vulcana was just setting down a shot glass with a few drops of some sort of brown liquor in it. Clearly Ivana had poured her another shot the moment my back was turned.

  Ivana steadfastly refused this of course, whining that she cut people off all the time, which she does, all of them crappy tippers. But Vulcana knows how the game works, she tipped Ivana handsomely and therefore could blow lines of meth off the bar for all Ivana cared.

  I think it bears mentioning that if we'd breathalyzed our dear soviet bartender, it would have turned out that she too was drunk, just not as drunk as Vulcana...

  Let's see what else?


  Fuck it, let's get into this new guy they have working in the kitchen which they've given two of my bus shifts a week to. He's his own whole thing.

  Christ, where to start?

  Let's do the basics.

  I'll call him Malvio. He's of some sort of South American descent, used to work out a lot but has clearly let that go for the past couple of years. He has the expressionless face, uncomfortable levels of eye contact and bland demeanor of a serial killer and he enjoys twisting people's words to mean what he wants them to mean, rather than what was clearly intended. And he lies a lot.

  In other words, he's fucking creepy as hell.

  I feel a list coming on. Please bear in mind while reading this list that this dude has only worked here three weeks or so.

1) Kitchen experience.

  Obviously lied on his application. He has never worked in a kitchen and it is painfully obvious to anyone who has. Doesn't. Know. Shit. Doesn't know how to cook a burger. Doesn't know how to cook chicken. Doesn't know how long fries take to cook. And this my friends is only the beginning....

  Training in this kitchen isn't very good. Our culinary team members don't do anything very good. That being said they have shown Malvio how to do a lot of stuff, he is just completely incapable of learning it. Rather than getting into enough detail to fill 30 pages, let me give you this one very critical example.

  The dreaded Temperature Log.

  This fiendish practice requires a kitchen employee to check and log the temperatures of the various coolers once a shift. The onerous task forces the unfortunate cook to look at a two digit readout on an LED screen and then write it down on a sheet of paper with the date and time.

  Fucking grueling.

  Malvio has stated that he doesn't know how to do this because he was never shown how it's done. In fact Malvio wrote a six page explanation of the things he doesn't know how to do because the staff never trained him how to do them.

  Not even kidding you, not exaggerating for comedic purposes. Six fucking pages.

  Among these pages were things like the Temperature Log Crisis, and these other gems:

-Checks burger temps by cutting them in half

-Doesn't know how long our french fries take to cook

-Doesn't know when chicken is done

-Thinks pepperoni goes UNDER the cheese on a pizza

-Thinks raw chicken wings take four minutes to cook properly

-Doesn't know the difference between romaine and iceberg lettuce

-Was never shown how to make a quesadilla, one of the most challenging dishes on any menu

-Doesn't know what penne pasta looks like

-Has no idea what the main ingredient of alfredo sauce is

-Can't tell shredded parm from shredded mozzarella

-His third shift in he calls and reports the kitchen to the Health Department. The kitchen he works in but yet has no idea how to do anything. Health Dept does an inspection and gives us a glowing report

  Shitcicles. You get the idea. It went on for six pages.

  The other side of this is that he also drives the bus now on two nights a week, two nights where a certain large, dimpled ass used to sit, doing a much better job of it if I do say so myself.  He also has very deranged ideas of how a bus driver for a gentlemen's club should dress.

  His notion is something like this:

                                            "Hey fellow males. Get on the bus."

  Again, not even kidding you. He showed up for work on his first day with a sport coat over some kind of spaghetti string 80's musclehead shirt with a fucking bowtie on. I would've never thought to make something like this up. He has since come in with the same sport coat and NO shirt, yet still with the choker bow tie.

  Reports I've received from bouncer and valet friends at other area clubs assure me that he drives around with a blazer and no shirt, plus bow tie.

  He's a meltdown, which is much more tit's up than a trainwreck.

  Has already showed up on the dancer creep-o-meter. Multiple complaints. Dude stares like a psycho and whatnot.

  I am changing the name of our management team from Laser Falcon to Ostrich Thunder Alpha.

  Make a note of it.

 Have a terrific night,
-The StripperHerder

*1 They BOTH still work here. Ostrich-style!