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Thursday, June 14, 2018

Greeting From 2014. Or, Dragging Shit From The Slush Pile And Beating It Into A Semblance Of Life



  Sometimes there are advantages to being an incredibly lazy writer. You tend to start a lot of things and then lose interest and forget about them, relegating them to an unpublished life in the nearest Draft folder. This becomes an advantage when one can't find much negative inspiration in one's current situation that's worth writing about.


  That's where I'm at, professionally speaking. The new club I work at is so far improved over any other I've worked at, that it doesn't nourish my inner hate-monculous like all the others used to. And as you know, dedicated reader, my writing depends on rage and the drunken coping binges I use to calm myself down after particularly irritating shifts.


  I have iterated many times that writing about a nearly atrocity free environment would be boring. Who wants to hear about how totally awesome it is to be a Strip Club Floor Guy in a well run club that doesn't put up with standard stripper bullshit? It's in the adversity of the occupation where the real humor comes from, the drive to vent through blog in an effort not to go shit-fuck crazy and do something reprehensible.


  So while I was staring at a blank page forever, trying to come up with something interesting to write about, I got bored and started looking through my unfinished drafts. There are MANY of them. So many....



  Here's some of what I dredged up:



  

                  "I'll kill you, you racist motherfucker!"





  I don't care what anyone has had to go through in their lives. I don't know, I'm not asking and it certainly doesn't have any bearing on my opinion of them based off the behavior they display. Just because you were raised in a particular way doesn't mean your actions are acceptable to society at large. Don't play the race card because it certainly doesn't have anything to do with whether you're a decent person or not, it's all about learned experiences and more importantly the fucking choices you make on a day to day basis.


  It's like saying that certain breeds of dogs are innately viscious. This is fallacy.


  What would be accurate to say is that there are some breeds of dogs who excel tearing other creatures to pieces when they've been taught to do so by a human. Pit Bulls and Rottweilers in particular are very intimidating breeds of dogs, basically lumps of fur covered muscle adorned with some savagely strong jaws, but they aren't intrinsically mean unless they've been raised to be mean. I've met more aggressive poodles in my life than I have Pitty's or Rotty's.


  So that being said, even if you don't care to admit it or feel I might have phased it more gracefully, we supposedly superior species are very much like dogs in this regard. We are often restrained in our choice of responses by our upbringing and life experiences, yet being capable of higher thinking than canines, we should be able to exercise some form of control over our baser instincts.


  Threatening to kill someone over a perceived slight, someone dissrispectin you, is un fucking acceptable, even if you're just talking shit. Take that street BS back to the ghetto you crawled out of and stay there. You are unfit for polite society.


  What brought this on, as it so frequently does, is out fabled monthly amateur contest where any delusional, situationally blind gal of any race, creed or species can scamper up on our stage and try to win some money and/or be offered a job. It's usually a series of individual train wrecks, girls who clearly didn't research their market or are utterly unable to be objective about themselves.*1


  So this one black aspiring dancer felt that the reason she didn't win was because she wasn't white, which was a false assumption, and proceeds to harangue the manage about getting a job. She's berating him, which is always a good tactic to use on someone you're trying to get hired by, and when he finally holds up a hand in the 'Stop In The Name Of Love' fashion and tells her he isn't interested in offering her a job at this time, she goes badger shit on him.


  How dare he hold up his hand to her?


  He a racist, honky motherfucking Ni**a!.*2


  Etc Etc. You get the idea, you've watched Youtube. It went on for a while.



  Seriously, the manager could've handled it more diplomatically, that's a given. But talk about disproportionate level of response. And immediate too. No slow build up, just full on indignant rage. Motherfucker this and mother fucker that. Dozens if not hundreds of N Bombs carpeting her speech like the Allies over Berlin in '45. You would have thought the he had threatened to kill her child with the level of rage and hate she displayed, yet all he did was be rude and abrupt with her. Straight to the point.


  He didn't touch her, he didn't insult her and he didn't use foul language or racial epithets. He made it plain in his gruff, offputting manner that he had no intention of offering her a job and he was met with a shitstorm of threats, insults and racial slurs.


  Eventually her more reasonable friend got her out of the club before we had to drag her out, she made such a fucking scene I was embarrassed to be around it.


  Here was the poignant part for me, after her reasonable friend had got the raging bitch back to the car she came back and talked to me. She explained that we all come from separate backgrounds and nobody knows what anyone else has been through, I agreed with this fact but knew I wasn't gonna come to the same conclusion about the incident as she was clearly trying to get to.


  She asked me how I would've felt if someone had treated my Mom or Sister like that and I responded to her sincerely, "I wouldn't have liked it but I certainly wouldn't have threatened to follow a man home and kill him over it, which is what you just did."


  Seriously, she told me that you can never tell when someone is gonna follow you home from the club and shoot you up, or what it could be over and that's just the way it is where she's from.


  Well golly gee, you fucking Mad Max character, maybe killing someone over an perceived slight is OK in whatever community you were reared in, but in the rest of the country we've been taught better conflict resolution skills than you, and are able to walk away from a potential confrontation before it gets to the murder stage.


  You should try it....





 


  On a related note there's this thing called the Dunning Kruger Effect. The gist of this is that stupid people frequently don't realize how stupid they are. They've cultivated this misplaced sense of superiority in regards to their intellect and truly believe that they'e smarter than most of those around them when empirically, they fucking aren't. The opposite in fact. These unfortunates are actually operating mentally far below most of the rest of the population, but aren't conscientious enough to realize it or come to terms with it.


  It's sad.


  There is a parallel dysfunction*3 that I have yet to discover the name of in which a person is unable to realistically accept that by traditional and popular standards, they just aren't as attractive as they view themselves as to be. Maybe this is a form of narcissism or meglomania, I don't know because I'm not a psychologist, but trust me, it's a real thing.


  I get to witness this first hand once a month when we have amateur night. I have harped on this may a time in this blog, but have to keep bringing it back up because for some reason I keep letting it astound me how unrealistic and delusional some people allow themselves to be.


  And one again, lest you think I'm being a judgy dick, I'll use myself for an example.


  I don't try out for professional sports teams because I'm old, out of shape and was never a great athlete even in my prime. But the equivalent of some of these girls trying out for our stripper squad is literally like me showing up to the Pittsburgh Steelers training camp confident that I have a shot at being their next starting Tight End.


  There is NO scenario where this will happen. What's my 40 yard dash time? I don't know, how long have you got and do I get to rest halfway there? My vertical jump is maybe 6 inches on a good day, but I'll probably blow out a knee on landing. I can possibly run the length of the football field, but it's gonna take me an awful long time and it has a fair chance of killing me.


  Duh. Reality shouldn't be that hard to accept.


  This is what it's like when a 5'8" 180 lb would be stripper shows up on our amateur night wanting to take her shot at winning some prize money and maybe be offered a job. It just ain't gonna happen here, darlin and frankly, I don't understand why you thought it would. Your body type doesn't match a single one of our entertainers, just like my body type doesn't match any NFL tight end's physique, the difference being that I've accepted this and come to terms with it and you clearly haven't.


  And THEN you want it explained to you in great detail just why you didn't win, or in some circumstances, weren't even allowed to compete. Because you honestly just don't see it or are hoping we'll use some offensive terms that you can then get enraged over.*4


  Wake the fuck up, just because we can't all be Barbies and Football Stars doesn't mean we can't be a myriad of other things. Let's say we can be damn near anything we want to be, with some realistic exclusions, and leave it at that?








In closing I'd like to talk about one last topic and that topic is Stench Trench.




  There's this dancer I'll call Trailer. She...and there's no way to say this nicely so I'm not even gonna attempt it...is fuckin gross. Way overweight, big ole gut and an ass like two hairless, dimpled pigs sharing a tragic thong. I'm still trying to figure out why she's even is permitted to work here.


After she's been in a sweaty champagne room for a half hour it smells like a trout made of goat cheese died in the trunk of an '89 Firebird but the owner can't figure out where the stench is coming from. She has the vaginal equivalent of halitosis. Her beaver has minnow breath. Her sushi isn't fresh.


  Make up your own euphemism, it's fun.



  Her lady garden reeks of apathy and well slimed seafood. How her customers endure it is beyond me, it's an olfactory uppercut that you won't soon forget, boyo. None of the Floor Beards want to crack the seal on a VIP room she's been in for more than five minutes, the initial blast of superheated skank stank will hit you like a sauna full of dead rodents. And her odor haunts the rooms she's tainted for hours, defying the Febreze to do it's job.


  So my question is, HOW CAN SHE NOT KNOW THIS? Is her olfactory sense subdued from exposure? Is she in denial? Does her sense of smell work differently than the rest of humankind?


  I'm not a gynecologist, but I suspect that her cooch is gravely  ill. It needs help and apparently she isn't the one who's going to give it. She seems perfectly content to just live with her wafting yogurt cloud, or simply can't smell it anymore.


  It's diabolical.



  And that seems as good an ending as any, I suppose. You've certainly been treated to lesser endings.



 Don't let your babies grow up to be strippers,
-The StripperHerder


 

P.S.  Fuck your pictures


















*1 Personal Objectivity is an incredibly underrated attribute in America's current prevailing mindset that Everyone's A Winner, Everyone's Beautiful and By Golly Have A Trophy, You Deserve It!


I'm not going to get into this whole bit again about how some clubs are looking for one thing while another for something else. We're all adults here. Use you imagination.


Not everyone can be whatever they want.  This is a fact. A 120 lb, asthmatic kid in a wheelchair will NEVER be an NFL wide receiver and as much as you want to rail against the unfairness of this, it remains a FACT and the world would be a better place if we could be encouraging in a realistic manner.






*2  Her exact and oft repeated words.**


 

  ** Which seem sort of contradictory








*3 It's like to opposite of Body Dysmorphia






*4 Like the guy who tried to sue Hooter's because it wouldn't hire him as a waitress. Seriously, man?

Saturday, May 12, 2018

Deep Dahn Yandah Or, The More Things Are Different, The More They Are Fucking Different.





  Hmmmmmm.


  "Well I'll be a shitfaced possum locked in a small wooden box."*1




  
                                                                 Bachelor party! Whoooooo!




  Idioms are big down here. Southerners sure enjoy their colloquial metaphors and similes, but just like Northerners, most of them couldn't tell you what the difference is between the two. It's something that only concerns those of a literary turn of mind, or trivia freaks.


  Sometimes a local will say something to me and I'll have no idea what he's talking about. Usually something containing some sort of animal reference followed by either a social situation or a truck.


   It takes some getting used to...



  I have also learned to slow my speech down. Turns out, to Southern folk, we Northerners talk very fast. Like babbling fast. And compared to the mode of speech down here, they're right. We do talk fast.*2


  Life down here happens at a slower pace, I can't articulate it very well, it's just sort of a general populace-wide consensus that there's no rush, no sense getting ahead of yourself. Life'll happen as it happens and we just try to make it though as best we can.


  It's a completely different outlook from where I'm from, where everyone is in a rush, all the time. Where costing someone ten seconds of their time on their way home can lead to your death in a Mad Max style highway road rage incident that will inevitably find its way onto Youtube.




                                MAYBE NEXT TIME YOU'LL USE YOUR TURN SIGNALS!




   I sort of have to pace myself down here. I have to immerse myself in the local time stream and let myself float around in it like a muskrat caught in a dam eddy.*3




  Some things don't change here from the Big City, though. People still drive like fuckheads. Uber still employs strictly the empathically challenged, humans who are incapable of feeling remorse or shame. There are still homeless people here and they will ask you for money at every given opportunity. And of course, some people are just assholes and it doesn't matter what language they speak or what accent they have.


  Some things never change and most things just get worse.





  However, my glass half full readers, sometimes things improve. Silver linings and whatnot.




  Among which are, as they pertain to the new club:


1) Yes, we have a homeless problem. But so does everywhere else. The system is broken and as a result there are people all over the country who have no real possibility of getting the help they need and they wander around asking strangers for money all day long to support whatever escape they prefer.


  But down here, in an honest to goodness suburb rather than the confines of a Big City, the police will actually show up and do their jobs, gently herding the panhandlers elsewhere or arresting them, depending on the situation.


2) Bachelor parties. The Owner of this club hates bachelor parties and does everything he can to discourage them. Even though the industry norm is that the Bachelor and Best Man get in for free, the Owner of this club gleefully denies them this birthright, willfully tarnishing the luster of their special night out because he despises catering to them.




                                         How the Owner would like to see all limo buses.





 He realizes that bachelor parties, an inescapable evil, are distasteful to his preferred clientele.










3) Everyone pays, you broke prod-twats.


  This club doesn't DO free passes. It's only the second club I've worked at that doesn't print out free passes by the thousands and hand them out like candy. The exception to this rule if for friends of Thy Ownership. If they have a son or nephew who's getting hitched, the Owner will allow them into his club and give them a night to remember, if not destroy his plans for marriage.


  I love that about this club.


4) Moolah. The income at new place is...ahem. Much improved. A slow to average night at this club is like an exceptionally good night at the previous one. This is good because I like money. I don't worship it or throw away more than is prudent, but I've found it's really handy for paying my bills with, my charming aspect having failed me in that regard.


  This club attracts serious money dudes. Serious quiet money dudes. For the titty club uniniated, let me explain:

You see there are two kinds of money dudes, quiet and loud. There's a tiny scrap of middle ground, but it ain't much and you rarely see them as they are generally amateurs.


  The Loud Money Dude only likes to spend money freely if there are lots of people there to witness him doing it. If he can't be seen spending wildly, then there's no reason for him to do it. These guys are usually pretty annoying because they rarely tip and you spend your night running around scraping layers of Dom soaked one dollar bills into champagne buckets for the rest of your night.



  Whereas the Quiet Money Dude would prefer not to be seen by the general population at all. He seeks to swept immediately to a secret VIP room with some top of the line strippers and has an underling hand over a Black Card from a shell corporation to pay for it all. This variety of customer is what every strip club, worldwide, would like to have as its sole customer base.


 Because this, ladies and gentlemen, is where your money's at. These sort of folk pay well for discretion and we provide that here on a scale that's completely new to me. I'm still learning the ropes but appear to have all the skills I'll need to be very successful here. Once I knock some rust off here and there.


5) The Floor Staff here doesn't have to clean the club up every night like at the last place I worked at. Once the last dancer has been herded to her car, the Floor Monkeys are free to leave. Fan-fucking-tastic.




  On the other side of the coin, there's things I don't like about the new club, among which are:



                                         Hold that thought...the club needs me!





1) I'm the new guy. Whenever someone hurls, guess who gets called to clean it up? While there are no real "dud" shifts here, I've already noticed that when an event is happening locally which may lead to increased patronage, I'm not scheduled that night. None of this is surprising to me, it's just the way things work. I have to pay my dues even though I have more strip club experience that any other guy working here.



  It's just the way things are.


  An example of this is that for my first three weeks, I was scheduled on Mondays. Then this big corporate thing happens nearby on a Monday, but for the first time, I was off. The guys who did work made $1800 each and one of them should've been me, but that's what the low end of the totem pole looks like.


  I'm not complaining. Even though my cost of living has increased a fair amount, my uptick in income has more than made up for it. Combine this with my steadfast refusal to spend a single dollar I don't deem necessary and what we come up with is a fast track for me getting out of debt.



2) I'm the new guy. As a result I'm stuck doing whatever anyone else doesn't feel like doing. Like counting dances or working the door. Dealing with the rare problem customer and the much more common drunk stripper and so forth.


3) I'm the new guy. No one trusts me yet with the exception of my buddy who got me this job, and no one wants to be the first to have The Conversation with me.


  "The Conversation" consists of explaining to me all the little schemes and side hustles that go on at this particular club and how we go about pulling them off. New guys are always suspect because management always tells the new hires to narc out the Floor Guys if they do stuff like that.


  All clubs have certain little scams they perpetrate. Anything from light grifts to out and out grand theft, The Conversation is a way of finding out how worldly a new guy is concerning these indiscretions and what he may or may not be on board with.


  All this is fine by me. I tend to keep my distance anyway and am not into anything but revenge scams.*4






  SO, all my surprises here have so far been nice ones. There's so much less drama here than at any other strip club I've worked at that I'm going to have to find things to bitch about or just go to full time stripper related fiction or historical stripper documentary stuff. We'll see what happens, loyal 'Herderheads...



Your large friend,
-The StripperHerder




















*1 I think this means something bad, but I'm not altogether sure. I mean, if I was a possum locked in a small wooden box, I'd rather be shitfaced than sober because if I was shitfaced I'd probably just go to sleep and worry about everything else when and if I woke up. If I was sober I'd freak the fuck out and thrash around a lot. Probably injuring myself.


Sooooo...I take it to mean that the person saying it meant he was sleepy rather than in an enraged confinement.






*2 But no matter how hard we try we'll never be able to talk as fast as an angry Puerto Rican. This is a fact.






*3 Save your judgments. I'm new at this style of simile.





*4 I'm not a shady sort of Floor Host, yes I've ripped people off before but that's because they had it coming. A Revenge Scam is an opportunity an asshole gives you to scam him out of some dough in retribution for putting up with his assholishness. Let me cite you an example:


  There was this one guy who came into the club, an English guy. He's rude to the male staff members because we were all taller than him (I'm guessing), just generally unpleasant to have to deal with. Demanding and terse to the point that if he hadn't been spending money freely, we would've kicked him out long ago.


  So after two other Floor Guys refuse to deal with him anymore, fearing they would end up knocking his crooked, grey Cockney teeth out, I have to deal with him.


  So he gets a champagne room that cost $150 and he hands me three $100 bills. These were brand new bills and as happens, he only meant to hand me two of them but they were stuck together as new bills are wont to do. I catch his error and hand him back one of the bills for two reasons


  A) I have a character flaw which doesn't really allow me to knowingly rip people off until I'm sufficiently pissed off, and


  B) I was quietly hoping he'd reward my honestly by tossing me a portion of that bill.


  But all he did was scowl at me as if I had done something wrong and angrily snatch the proffered hondo from my hand like I'd stolen it from his kid's piggy bank. Well all right then. Game on.


  When this room is done, which I clipped 5 minutes off of, he wants another but this time one hour. This costs $500 and since he didn't have that much cash left he opted to pay by credit card. So I run the transaction and bring the receipt to him for his signature. He rolls his eyes and pulls this huge irritating sigh, as if I was asking him to do something unexpected and exasperating. He yanks the credit card book from my hands and hurriedly scrawls a signature on it and tosses it back to me.


  What he didn't do was fill in any of the totals, so I did it for him and was pleasantly surprised to discover he'd left me a $500 tip. This is a Revenge Scam, if he'd just behaved like a normal, reasonably well adjusted human and not a walking smear of anal butter, it would've never occurred to me to rip him off.


  So let that be a lesson to you, kind reader, if you can't help but be an asshole to those forced to serve you in their line of work, remember to fill out ALL the lines on your credit card receipt or we'll do it for you and be amazed by your generosity.




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 in......you 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.



  And...wow. 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.



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7iXU2sYTo6c






  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.


Pros:

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.







Cons:


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. 





                THE NEW YEAR'S DAY MASSACRE


  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, August 17, 2017

Two Junkies Fighting Over A Chicken Bone. Or, Why Don't You Have Any "Real" Women Working Here?



  The first part of the title to this post has very little to do with the actual content of the installment, but I really like it and it's my blog so I'll write whatever the fuck I want and you can choose of your own free will to read it or not to read it.


  Because that's what Murrika is all about: choices. You can choose to be a whiny twatdrip who complains about every tiny thing that you feel is wrong with this society, while doing fuck all to actually fix the problem or by simply acknowledging that some things that you don't like are intrinsic parts of human behavior and will never change unless the population of Earth is reduced to three or less people.


  Or you can choose to accept that a large majority of the world's populace are self absorbed dick-sores who will never change because they are convinced that no matter what, they are right and nothing you can say or do will demonstrate to them otherwise.


  On this preface, let me dive right into something that I find so annoying and repugnant about today's USA that I can scarcely even write about it without feeling intense rage and loathing. I'm not even going to sugarcoat it or call it something it isn't, I'm just going to call it what it is:


  
  Faking A Fucking Allergy


  Just because you don't like something doesn't mean your allergic to it. Yet in today's everyone-gets-a-trophy culture, it's totally fine to say your allergic to anything you want to be allergic to and everyone somehow must buy into your bullshit or be a horrible person.


  Fuck that.


  By claiming you're allergic to anything merely because you don't like it, you're demeaning and marginalizing all those poor bastards who actually ARE allergic to it and by extrapolation, making their lives more difficult as a cultural backlash against false claims of allergies leads to everyone just assuming that people with real afflictions are just fucking lying.


  Like you.


  This is a despicable practice and it drives me bat-rape crazy. Case in point; I hate the smell and taste of cloves. I believe they are the fossilized turds of tiny demons. But I would never even consider telling anyone I'm allergic to them because it would be self serving bullshit. I'm sure there are folks out there who are indeed adversely affected by cloves, but I'm not one of them. I just hate everything about cloves and can't understand why we didn't wipe them out when we had the chance.


  Lest you think I'm ranting needlessly, let me cite you two examples of this detestable behavior.



A) Lilly, a friend's wife who is allergic to tobacco smoke. When I first met Lilly, within 10 minutes she mentions how she is allergic to cigarette smoke. I refrained from telling her that she is therefore likely to die tonight in my apartment because both her husband and I like to drink and when we drink we really like to smoke.


  Despite her crippling allergy, Lilly managed to not only survive being trapped in a small room with zero ventilation with two almost chain-smoking drunks, she miraculously exhibited zero signs of life threatening trauma, displayed no adverse affects from numerous cigs and, in fact, didn't even cough or mention said allergy again even once in six fucking hours.


  Given the data, I could only come up with two conclusions about her alleged allergy:


  A) She was fucking lying. Or,



  B) She was fucking making it up.



  But in today's Murrikan reality, it's apparently acceptable to just declare yourself allergic to anything you don't like and it's somehow expected that everyone plays along without questioning anything, no matter how absurd, or be labeled a fascist asshole.


  That's what I call Social Justice.



 B) I know a guy named Ray, which sounds like the start of a limerick, but isn't. A couple of years after he stopped smoking pot, Ray decided to become allergic to it. I say decided because Ray didn't quit drinking, he only quit smoking weed, at which point I might add, his drinking got really out of control.


  Just sayin.


  It's relevant.


 So one day there were a bunch of us camping and we all liked to drink and toke some bud. Except Ray, who kept reminding us that he had recently opted to become deathly allergic to marijuana smoke. So, out of deference to his claims, whenever we lit up, we'd politely moved a safe 50 yards out into the woods. You know, so Ray wouldn't die and whatnot.


  Anyway the night progressed and we all got really hammered and much fun was had. As it got really late and we were all sitting around the fire because it had become windy and crisp, I lit up a whopper joint I had rolled up earlier in the night and had been saving for an inadvisable time.


  Ray didn't even notice until it came around to him and when it did he started freaking out. "Arrgh! My throat's closing up" he gasped making really cunty choking sounds and manufacturing a big deal out of it. I waited until the doob had come full circle back to me and right before I took a huge hit, I looked Ray in the eye and said,


  "FUCK YOU, RAY."


  I said this not because I'm a soulless, unfeeling prick who doesn't care about invisible afflictions other people may be plagued with, I said it because Ray was upwind from everyone else in the circle. A steady 8-9 MPH wind was blowing directly on his back and there isn't the slightest chance in Hell that any smoke from the joint or our mouths was getting anywhere near him. Certainly not in any sort of concentration that might've been harmful to anyone with an actual allergy to pot smoke.


  That was 13 years ago and it was my first run-in with a fake allergy declaration and it pissed me off. What's worse is that nowadays it seems culturally acceptable to just declare yourself allergic to anything that bothers you, whether or not it will harm you in any way.


  Utterly reprehensible.


  Gluten.




  
 But enough about that. Let's talk about "real" women, shall we?



  What triggered this for me is an incident that happened a few weeks ago. I say 'incident' when I really mean I overheard a conversation between a drunk, dumpy female patron and my manager, Sir Wombat Vagitorius Von PrickenLance XII.


  The conversation went something like this, although I'm going to shorten it extensively because it was mostly reiteration on her part:



Dumpy Drunk Bitch: "I really like your club. I had a good time. But howcuz you guys don't have any real girls working here? I mean, you know, like 'real' women?"


Sir Wombat: "What are you talking about? All of these dancers have vaginas. I checked."



  I'm wildly exaggerating at this point. I couldn't really hear what Sir Wombat had to say because he mumbles a lot, frequently while walking away from you. What bothered me about this exchange was the Dumpy Drunk Bitch's point of view, mainly that somehow, because a dancer had a gorgeous body and a face that 90-some percent of the male population of this planet would say was "hot", that somehow she couldn't possibly be a 'real' woman.


  I'm sorry, but isn't that the height of misogyny? That somehow a female that a vast majority of the human population would regard as 'attractive' couldn't possibly be 'real'? Whatever 'real' means...


  To me a 'real' woman is someone who started out life without a penis. Hell, even a post-op transsexual is a de facto woman, if not 'real'. To me, Dumpy Drunk Bitch was suggesting that unless you happened to be a cheery, overweight hobbit clad in inappropriate shorts, there was no chance you were a 'real' female.


  I don't get offended about anything, so I don't care one way or another. But this points to a specific prejudice that is obviously a female bias, i.e. hot chicks aren't REAL. To men, hot chicks are real as fuck. So real that some dudes get all creepy and stalky, perfectly willing to hand over their wallets if it might mean a whiff of their panties.


  But to some gals who aren't "conventionally" attractive, it's open season on hotties because they are somehow less than human.


  Way to go, feminists!






  The last couple of things I'm gonna do like vignettes. Short and sweet.




-Junkies die a lot: we lost another girl this week to overdose. She wasn't a good tipper so I didn't allow myself to care, but somewhere deep inside I feel bad for her family. I'm sure they tried everything possible to get her off the horse, but nothing they could do would save her.


  That's fucking sad.


  But despite the sadness of it all I still maintain that the world is always a better place with one less junkie in it.


  Just the way I feel.


  I'm allergic to junkies....




 -The definition of comedy: watching five wasted 21 year old girls try to negotiate cab fare to a faraway town with an obstinate Nigerian unlicensed cabbie.


  It should be a Reality Show.



  Possible names for said show could be:



  1) 'You Pay Dearly, White Suburban Bitch'


  2) 'I'm Slightly Less Scary Than The Next Cabbie'


  3) 'Run Like Gazelle, Giselle'


  4) 'Cute Girls Should Ride For Free Because We're Cute'





-The Mercedes curse: If you're a stripper or have been considering becoming a stripper, don't choose the stage name Mercedes. It's a cursed name. Trust me on this. Not even going to justify my statement, just take my word for it.


  Avoid also: Melanie, any variation with "gold" in it, Lexus, most luxury car brands, Amber, Stephanie, royal titles and any name with four or more syallables that isn't 'Anastasia'.






  Well I'm done writing for tonight. I realize I haven't been consistent with pictures and their horridly amusing captions lately, but then again, fuck you.


  It's my blog.



  See Dick run. Dick run fast.




Rage ala Carte,
-The StripperHerder













































Monday, May 15, 2017

Dear StripperHerder, How Can I Avoid Getting Scammed By A Morally Bankrupt Dancer? Or, If You Feed The Animals, They'll Keep Coming Around, Ruining The Flowerbeds.




 I know, probably as well as anyone, that strippers can be devious, shady gremlins bent on ripping off anything with money. I get it. They can certainly be malevolent cunts who use the Floor Staff like armored vassals, at their beck and call for war and money related shenanigans.


  That's why I'm here for you, venerated reader*1. Offering helpful tips and sage advice that you can use to avoid being taken advantage of by a conniving tit-witch. Most of these truisms would seem to be self evident to the average fan of this blog, but always bear in mind that the standard strip club patron is at best a drooling helmet-wearer and that the combined presence of hot women and booze conspire to make them even droolier.


  So, because I'm contractually obligated to do the occasional public service post, here's a nice itemized list of things you can do to deflect a potential fleecing by an unscrupulous entertainer.








1) Don't Be Drunk.


  Sounds easy, right? Just don't be a wasted victim with 'mark' written all over him. Every school of strippers comes equipped with savage barracudas as well as succulent tuna. So try to be just sober enough to realize when there's a set of wallet-shredding teeth approaching, you witless fuck.




2) Tipping Isn't Mandatory Unless It's Posted On The Wall.


  If a tip is mandatory on top of what a dance costs, legally a titty bar has to post it in multiple places throughout the whole club. They will endeavor to do this as subtly as possible, so look for tiny placards that say things such as "DANCES $20, plus tip" Or,

Private Dance=$15.
                   Plus Compulsory $10 Tip





3) When In Doubt, Ask A Floor Guy.


  Believe it or not, a stripper may have lied to you. I know it seems unbelievable, but it happens and the only way to avoid being grifted in that case is to be knowledgeable about the club's rates. Most Floor Guys will tell you honestly what each and everything costs unless they are in cahoots with said dancers in which case you're fucked.




4) If You've Been Ripped Off At A Club Before, DON'T GO BACK.


  I realize this may also sound like common sense, but it's amazing how often the same desperate lickspittles let themselves be taken by various operators at the same goddamn clam shacks that they've been ripped off at before.


   The fact of the matter is, at any strip club in the world there are entertainers who will scam the living shit out of you if they think they can get away with it. The reason most of them think they can get away with it is because they've always gotten away with it in the past and this points to a very definitive business model on the part of the club in question. The ownership of said club is condoning the predatory nature of some of its work force as long as the club gets it's cut. It expects the Floor Staff to blindly accept the dancers version of any tale, no matter how fantastical or chronologically impossible.


  When I worked at Wendy's Waffle Gulag, most of my Floor Guy energy was used to shake down customers for money they most certainly didn't owe a conniving bitch. But my job depended on toeing the company line which was "Fuck that customer, make him pay. There's plenty more where he came from."



  Chances are, unless you live in remote Sasquatch country, that there is more than one strip club within a reasonable radius of your home. Find one where you don't get bimboozled.




5) Tip Your Floor Host/Bouncer.


  If there's one thing all strip club security staff hates, no matter what they call themselves, it's a dancer ripping off a guy who is a generous tipper. I can't tell you how many times I've lost a big tipper to either scamming, pushiness, or just plain fucking outside of the club.


  A true Floor Host doesn't have a lot of use for prostitutes. Those that do have formally moved on to Pimp status, even if they won't admit it to themselves or others. Might as well sell crack and smack in my opinion. I won't have any part of it.*2


  When you walk in to a titty bar, if you're not greeted at the door by one of the Floor Staff, go find one. Ask them to seat you at a table and when they do, throw them at least a twenty. Ask them about stuff. How much are dances? Who are some of the top entertainers? What will if cost to get you and your people into a VIP room. Even if you haven't the slightest intention on blowing a bunch of money in a champagne room, it gives you the opportunity to get a Floor Beast on your side and it puts you on their radar, in a good way. If you remembered to tip. 


  If you didn't, don't ask them anything.





6) Always Remember, You're The Boss.


  Unless of course you have no balls, then you're fucked again.

  When you go to a strip club, YOU decide if you want to spend some money on a dancer, YOU decide how much and when and YOU decide when enough is enough. By allowing a stripper to decide ANY of these things for you, you're setting yourself up for a wallet-rape the likes of which you will never forget.

  A dancer doesn't decide anything for you unless you tacitly allow her to do so. In which case you're unbelievably stupid. If you don't want any dances from her, it's best to let her know as soon as possible after she starts haunting your table. By allowing her to sit there you're running the risk of having some boozewitted bottle shark deciding that you owe her money for her time regardless of whether she did squat for you or not.

  Wise up, fucko. From the moment you walk into a titty bar, you're in charge. If a bitch is super pushy, rather than letting yourself get strong armed into doing something you really don't want to do, tell her you have no money and if this doesn't make her go away, find a Floor Host and give him some money and watch your problem go away.




7) There Is No Such Thing As A FREE DANCE.


  In almost 20 years in this industry, I've never heard of a stripper giving a free dance. I've never heard a dancer offer a freebie, nor give one. It simply doesn't happen. Free dances don't exist, you're much more likely to stumble across a leprechaun blowing a unicorn in a field somewhere than you are to be offered, much less receive, a free dance.

  So to use this as an excuse as to why you shouldn't have to pay for a dance is the depths of both shittiness and idiocy. Even if a girl says she'll do the dance for free, at some point a bullshit circuit should get tripped somewhere in your primitive brain that tells you to file this under "Too Good To Be True."




8) The Bachelor Isn't Supposed To Pay For ANYTHING. 


  Can't tell you how many times I've seen some poor bastard bachelor shelling out for his own entertainments during his own party. Dude, that's your "friends" job. They're supposed to pay for your poor decisions, not you. So if you've got a group of 5 or more of your buddies with you and they still can't come up with the $50 you need to cover some dances, get new friends.

  I had this guy the other night, wasted as fuck and clearly shouldn't have been allowed to roam around unsupervised. But his support system were a bunch broke, retarded clapstains who between the 12 of them, couldn't (or wouldn't) cough up the $125 their special moron managed to rack up with a gross dancer. We ended up having to call the police, at the customer's insistence and how do you think that went?

  He talked himself into jail, which is pretty typical for drunk twats to do. Also fun to watch.





9) Have Some Notion Of How A Strip Club Works.


  Most of them function pretty much the same and it doesn't take a Mensa membership to figure out the basics. You want something-you pay for it. The air is free but that's only because they haven't figured out an efficient system for charging you for it yet. Anything=money. Very fucking simple.


  AND YET it's simply mind boggling how many scrote-scratchers use the excuse that they've never been to a strip club before and they don't know how it works. You know what? I've never been to a baseball game, but I know how it works. Everything costs a lot of money. Easy.






10) Don't Believe Everything You Hear.


  Some gals are going to tell you whatever it is they think will get you to spend money on them. They will promise you anything, no matter how unlikely, how unsavory or how ill advised it is. Believe them at your peril unless you have ungodly amounts of money and a reckless attitude toward spending it.


  Like Crackwhore, a dancer whose shady practices I highlighted late last year in this installment:


http://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2016/12/the-stripperherder-2016-year-end.html


 On one night alone she told four different guys that she'd bang them after work if they coughed up a couple hundred bucks "retainer". Needless to say she didn't meet any of them after work, and while I applaud her lack of whoring, I'm generally the guy who has to clear out the lot of her would be johns while they loiter around waiting for her chubby ass.


  It's not really a fun task. Most of the guys are timid, vaguely ashamed and are beginning to realize that they've been had. Some are more persistent than others, the kind that doesn't take a hint very well and can't quite come to terms with the fact that he's been scammed. And one day one of them is going to pull a gun on me, or follow the girl until he has a chance to do something horrific.


  Only a matter of time in my opinion.



  Which leads me neatly to




11) Never Pay For 'Extras' In Advance Without A Prior Reference From A Trusted Friend.


  So you met a lovely dancer who says that for a reasonable fee, she'll suckle your member somewhere outside of the club and that she can't do it in the club because they watch the cameras. Sounds great, yes?


  But if you pay her the cash right there in the club, like a moron, your wang's chances of being gulped just dropped dramatically. You see, contrary to what most men want to believe, a prostitute will happily not gargle your stinkhammer if she's already made an acceptable amount of money from the promise of sucking you later.


  Crazy, but true. Despite what Porn would have you think, some women just don't like a frenzied throat fuck, much less having to deal with a high velocity blast of yam yogurt.


  My advice would be to tip her modestly in the club (just to show you're for real) with the promise of more dough in exchange for sucky-sucky or maybe even just a hanjo to break the ice, and thus put the ball in her court. When you do, invariably one of three things will happen:


A) She'll decline to meet you because you called her bluff; she's no hooker, merely a scam artist.


B) She'll meet with you at a hotel where as soon as your pants are around your ankles and your attention is compromised, her pimp/boyfriend will enter the room and rob the fuck out of you.


C) The unlikeliest possibility. You actually get your waldo milked by a spirited amateur for a competitive price. You've done well, Grasshopper.






  There ya go. Hope this helps someone, somewhere dodge an encounter with a medusa.


  Keep Yer Chin Up,
-The StripperHerder



















*1 Relax, oh semi-literate one, this means 'respected' not disease-ridden. Sheesh.






*2 Unless it's really profitable and all parties are amenable. Then it's OK.**


  **We're all adults here.