Pages

Friday, March 24, 2017

Wot I did ON my slo nite, by A. Strpperhirder. Or, Your Beliefs Are Like A Steamy Pile Of Dog Squeezins To Me, I Don't Care For Them And Don't Want To Have To Step On Them Because They'll Be Squishy And Will Smell Of Shit.



  Slow nights suck. Time goes really slow, you know you aren't gonna make any money and anything you have to deal with that normally only happens on a busy night just seems doubly aggravating.


  This was my night tonight. I had barely punched in when I had to deal with a customer that refused to pay a dancer the full amount of money he owed her. I told him as he made a spirited attempt to flee the club that he was short a few bucks and would he mind paying the girl what he owed her.


  He revealed to me a couple of interesting yet irrelevant facets of his belief system, they went something like this:


A) He believed that dances were only X amount of dollars when they are in fact Y amount of money.


B) He also believed that Missy's Mump House was a better strip club and that "everything is better there".


  I told him I it didn't matter to me what he 'believed' our dances cost, it's posted on the walls of the dance room for all to behold. They're called signs and they often convey valuable information, such as how much dances cost.


  I also asked him why, if Missy's is so much better, was he here trying to cheat my dancers? which he didn't like very much. For some reason a lot of people don't like it when I infer that they may be a broke piece of fecal cheese. So he again refused to pay a measly $20 and I let him walk out the door and told him don't come back.


  Fast forward 10 minutes and there he is again, holding out $20 to me. We conversed a bit further but I'm not going to bother you with the details. Suffice to say he used the phrase "don't try to play me" and other things I don't really understand because I'm about as ghetto as a Scandinavian mountain range.


 

                   "I know what 'trap' and 'stack' mean, but you seem to be using them incorrectly."





  I'd like to think that when all was said and done, that he left the club slightly more educated about out price scales and that I walked away still mystified about certain urban expressions. Therefore I call it a win for both of us.


  Why some people think I will care about how much dances cost at other clubs is beyond me. If you were at that club then it would be relevant, but you're not, you're in this club and dances cost more here. It's like going into a shoe store and complaining that a certain pair of shoes cost more there than at another shoe store on the other side of town.


  Guess what? No one gives a fuck but they aren't allowed to say it. If you want the cheaper priced shoes, go to where they sell them, you broke, soulless genital cyst.





                                         "I am apathetic and filled with a stinky mustard."







 But that's not all that was annoying about tonight. I had another "A" team/"B" team moment this evening. It went something like this:


  I was, as usual, driving the shuttle around, desperately seeking customers for our starving strippers to feed on, but had to make a pit stop back at the club to take a leak.


  I had just opened the door to the place when this little drunk guy who was trying to leave the club ran into my chest. He looked up at me and I looked down at him and then the bartender came around the corner and said that he was trying to leave the club without paying his tab and held up his driver's license.




                                "On second thought I DID forget to pay my tab. Oops."


 


  I smiled my most disarming smile and said "well you need your license back, right? Let's go take care of that tab and we'll get you all squared away, OK?" I was patronizing the living quim out of this dude, but he didn't notice, so wasted was he.


  The little imp merely nodded and headed off uncertainly toward the bar. "That's right, you're doing great" I encouraged him, grinning at the Door Girl.


  He refused again at the bar, not seeming to comprehend the whole 'money for booze' concept and I gently loomed over him, being all kinds of helpful. It was only $30 for chrissakes.


  He got all ballsy again and said "I'm not gonna tip her" to which I replied, "that's up to you sir, but the $30 is your bar tab and that's all we need." He would end up paying and leaving quietly and I was just going to walk to lizard when I noticed my fellow B teamer, Tektroll, waving frantically at me from the Counter station.*1


  So I wander over and he asks me if I could watch the Counter while he took care of something, no more than 5 minutes. I said sure because I like Tektroll and us B teamers have to stick together. But as I did so, I suddenly thought to myself, "hey self, aren't there two other Floor Sloths working tonight? "Yes self" I thought back to myself, "I wonder what they're doing since they are clearly too busy to walk forty feet and help a fellow Floor Stiff out."


  So I glance over to where the A teamers hang out when they're doing nothing, which is 90% of the time, and there they were, Seamus and Lo-Jaq, faces buried in their phones, doing fuck all.


  It was at this point when I realized how wide the whole "A team/B team" schism is here. The other B team Floor Guy was more comfortable asking me, who was actually doing something for the club and had to piss so bad my belt was getting tight, than the A teamers who were both doing absolutely nothing, forty feet away.


  Nice, eh?




                                          "Huh? No, sorry bro. Super busy here."


 

  In a related side note, when I called off recently due to a bad case of I Don't Wanna Work, I texted the M.O.D. and told him I couldn't make it in and that I had already tried all the B-teamers, two of which were already scheduled and the third I hadn't heard back from and that I wasn't going to waste my time asking A-teamers to cover my shift because we all knew how that was going to work out for me.


  Since they haven't managed it in almost five years, I feel like they certainly aren't going to start now.






  And you might be thinking at this point, well crap, that's gotta be it, right? What else could've possibly happened on such a miserably slow Thursday?


  Well there's one more shit-cherry on the cupcake, dear reader and it's something that normally only happens on a busy night.




  

  SO we have this one dancer, I'll call her Saber since she's named herself after a weapon of all things. Saber is what I refer to as a World Class Stripper, i.e. she could walk into any strip club on the face of the planet and instantly be hired. She's insanely good at her job and I'll admit she's one of the most trouble free dancers I've ever worked with. She doesn't get hammered every night and on the rare occasions she does, the girl can handle herself. She also doesn't dabble in the sordid world of intra-club politics/bullshit and thusly I've never had to pry her apart from whatever other entertainer she's currently trying to maim.





                             "Your wallet is so huge and veiny. I will pretend now to want it."


 


  She appears Asian, but is actually Merznakistanian if I remember correctly. She speaks with a heavy Russian accent, like a Bond Villain, and has all the naughty bits you can handle, muchacho.


  If this chick makes less than $150K a year, I'll eat a small child of the readers' choice while riding a a polar bear down Wall Street wearing only clownface and a chainlink jockstrap.


  But I won't have to do that no matter how much I want to because Saber hauls in money like sardines in a net.


 The reason I bring her up is because tonight, like many nights, she's lingering around after hours because some dumb prick with more money that sense is doing a seemingly endless chain of dances with her after we've closed. At $25 a pop.


  On a busy night I don't begrudge her this because we're going to be there longer anyway, cleaning up the destruction drunks leave in their wake and waiting for the manager to do all the esoteric money stuff that always takes him forever. Plus she can be a generous tipper from time to time, recognizing that every now and then she can be a lovable pain in the ass.


  But on a night where we could've been home very soon after club close, it sucked. And then she added a couple more coats of suck-gloss to the finished product, namely:


  Just sitting down right in front of us with this apathetic cumbubble, chatting gaily about stuff that doesn't mean anything, while the entire staff of the club sat abjectly fifteen feet away from them, clearly wishing they could go home after a disastrous shift, yet trapped until this fucking customer was out of the building and this fucking dancer was in her goddamn street clothes and also ready to GO HOME.




                        "What? Oh them? No, they love sitting around for free. As all my Minions do."


 


  Next part of the saga is that the customer had to pay with a credit card, which makes it so easy to tip someone, such as someone you've kept from their bed for an extra hour or more for example. Yeah, that kind of person.


  But Mr. Bubble wasn't that kind of guy. Zero fucking situational awareness in this one. He gladly signed a receipt for over $700 and didn't tip a miserly dime.


  What a cunt.


  Then Saber broke the tension with this question, "Does one of you (referring to us Floor Guys) want to run him to his hotel in the shuttle?"


  Insert chirping cricket sound effect...here.

 

  Did she seriously just ask that? Best call him a ride and leave it at that. So she did.


  Finally the panty-whiffer's uber arrived and he left the club. That's when Saber unleashed her final suck-salvo. She sat down at the bar in her thong and bra and proceeded to light up a smoke and start talking about more inane crap with the bartenders, instead of, and I stress this, going to the fucking dressing room and fucking getting ready to fucking go the fuck home, where we'd all like to have been an hour ago.


  I don't care if she tipped a hundred, which I seriously doubt and am checking up on right now. After the split it would've only been $25 each and I would've gladly paid $25 to just to go home at that point.


  Another $25 wouldn't have even put us over $100 tonight, it was like January bad. Utterly bereft of hope.


 It galled me. Both Saber's and Ass-Tonguer's total obliviousness to their inconveniencing of a bunch of already exasperated service industry folk, pre-beaten by a slow, unrewarding grind of a night and now forced to wait until she felt she had squeezed the last cent from him and he felt all avenues to Coitusville had been explored and found to be dead ends.


  Had it been me who was loitering in a business that had closed an hour ago*2, I would've acknowledged the unhappiness of the employees whether they had made it obvious or not, and let me be clear about this: I would've tipped them generously.


  Because I hate working for free and I'd expect every other human does as well and am sympathetic enough to understand this.


 


  In closing I'd like to say that if I'm ever put in charge of stuff, then by law, everyone would have to work a minimum of six months in the service industry. It would make the world (or at least 'Murrika) a better place to live in and if it didn't I'd execute a few more people, just for the hell of it.



  Meh. I'm done. I'm gonna go back through and reread this post for a final edit sorta thing, so if I feel like doing pictures, you'll know because you'll have already seen them by this point. If there are no pictures, it means that after rereading the post, I decided not to do any.


  Just wanted to give you a head's up about it because time travel can be very confusing.




Asmodeus is the wings benath my wind,
-The StripperHerder


 



 









*1 The Counter Station is the most static position in the club. Whatever poor, misbegotten wretch is saddled with this job has to mark the sheet for each song any given dancer does so that the club can take a goodly portion of the money from those dances. He can't leave his post unattended without risking a serious word-fucking by our manager, Sir Ominous Thunderblam VII.


  Experiments in trusting dancers to be honest about how many dances they performed have proven to be wildly unsuccessful. One might even use the term 'catastrophic failure'.





*2 This is complete hypothesis because I would never do this unless I was friends with the owner and had been specifically invited to stay.**



   **I won't even go to a restaurant within a half hour of closing because I've worked in enough kitchens to know that it's a dick move and you'll be lucky if your food doesn't have some 'special ingredients' added.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

St Fat Prick's Day: A Postscript. Or, Some Day My Rage Will Consume As Many Uber Drivers As I Can Get To Before The Cops Kill Me.




  Before I get into the sordid details of my beloved Irish holiday, I thought I'd throw some facts and figures at you from other nights this week. You know, to build up the anticipation for some creative uses of the word fuck that will inevitably happen later on.


  Since it's fresh in my mind, let's begin with Thursday night, bullet point style.


⤏I walked 18 dancers out last night. Walking out a girl at the end of the night doesn't just mean watching her from the doorway to make sure she stays rape-free. No sir, we walk all of our entertainers right to their car door, frequently carrying their inexplicably heavy stripper bags for them.*1


  Often we have to deter lingerers in our parking lot from trying to talk up the girls. Usually a gruff, "she's off the clock, jizzsop. Come back tomorrow and talk to her when she's working and maybe bring some money this time" will do the job, but every now and then people force us to be more direct.


  Of the 18 (I counted) gals I walked to their cars, 3 tipped me. This is what's known in the industry as 'fucking shitty' which is a technical term I don't expect everyone to understand.


  I realize it wasn't the best of nights, but for fuck's sake, would a fiver kill ya? Who would you be more apt to tip, the guy who made you an extra hundred bucks, or the guy who blew the brains out of an armed mugger who had robbery as the most gallant of his intentions that night?


  This job can be dangerous. Security people are attacked, injured and killed all the time, but you never really hear about it because no one gives a crap. Bouncers are dicks, remember?


⤏Speaking of tips...


  America is the tipping capitol of the world. Tipping all sorts of professions is ingrained in our culture like no where else on the planet. (I'm excluding really corrupt, third world nations in this statement because bribes aren't the same as tips.) We're the polar opposite of most Asian cultures where tipping is seen as rude or unnecessary and just isn't done.


  Us Murrikans tip everyone: waitresses, bartenders, taxi/uber drivers, hair dressers, valets, Subway sandwich makers, limo drivers, strippers, door people and everyone and anyone who puts a tip jar out. Since I am dependent on tips to make over $6 an hour, I tend to tip generously and in a wide swath.



  Therefore when I go above and beyond my duties to make customers happy, I don't feel like it's too much to expect for them to show their gratitude in a munificent fashion. Fork over some goddamn cash you cheap, classless twat.


  What happened was this. I received a text from the club to go pick up Shitmouth or whatever his name was and a party of 10. The bar they were at was literally a mile away, so it's not like it was a major inconvenience or anything, all very routine.


  At least that's what it should of been, but Shitmouth was a real piece of work. When I pulled up to the bar he was at, he runs out and leaps onto the bus and starts yelling at me. Literally fucking yelling. "HEY MAN CAN WE STOP AT THE INSERT HOTEL NAME HERE AND PICK UP A COUPLE MORE OF MY WHOLESOME AND VERY QUIET PARTY?" IT'LL ONLY TAKE 3 MINUTES!"


  "SURE!"  I replied, getting into the spirit of the thing.


  So he and his people climbed onto the bus and proceeded to yell and scream at each other for the two minutes it took to get to the hotel. Once there, Shitmouth staggered inside with a couple of his cronies while the rest of the party stayed on the bus, where they annoyed me with their full volume zoo shrieks.


  Twenty three fucking minutes later, (I timed it.) Shitmouth comes shambling back to the bus, soaked in milky beads of semen.*2 I shit you not, venerable reader. Twenty three agonizing minutes I waited for this soulless prick, the innane cackling of his friends driving me slowly and inexorably towards horrific acts of violence.


  SO finally he's back on the bus and then we wait for another 4 or 5 minutes for the final three members of the group to grace us with their presence. I was thankful it was only a 60 second ride back to the club because I was developing an acute case of murderection*3 with the whole situation.


  In closing, the entire group shuffled off the bus, tossing me a "Thanks, buddy!" or a "Good job, man!" on the way out. What they didn't toss me at all was any form of currency whatsoever. Not a dollar, not a dime, not a peso, not a pretty seashell. One guy even had the notion that patting me on my head like well behaved Irish Setter was a fine idea.


  What I said to him was "Don't ever touch my head like that again."


  What I should have said to him was, "If you ever pat my head again like I'm some kind of service animal deserving of praise, you'll never jack your buddy off with that hand again you plaid shirted fuck."


  This half hour ordeal would've taken three minutes if they'd just all been in one place, filed efficiently onto the goddamn bus and let me drive them the 5,000 feet to the club.


  Not even exaggerating in the slightest, three minutes.



⤏A lot of people just suck. I realize that this is common knowledge, or at least it is if you're a realist, or have been pummeled into human hate pudding by the service industry, but I feel it bears mentioning again.


  I have revealed in this blog before that we Floor Scum have to clean the club every night, the least pleasant job of which is doing the Dressing Room. The strippers are a catastrophe in a glitter bra. The heinous acts of hygiene, eating and fucking about they commit in that poor room are too numerous and vile to print in this upstanding blog. I'm here to inform and entertain, not revolt and disgust my beloved readers...


   That being said here's a crude diagram of the bathroom in the Dressing Doom:



  Notice how the trash is strategically located a mere five feet from the sinks? Even for a tiny stripper it couldn't be more than 3 steps. Three. Fucking. Steps.


  Yet every night I'm blessed with the task of cleaning up this badger pen, there are always at least a dozen balled up wads of paper towel thrown onto the counter top and even more strewn across the floor all willy-nilly.


  How much of a shitball do you have to be to just throw your nasty wads of who-knows-what stained paper towels wherever you happen to be standing when a trashcan is literally five feet away from you?


  The answer is you have to be a big shitball to do stuff like this, and big shitballs come in all sizes.






  All right, enough about all that. You want to hear how my favorite irrational holiday went, no?


  That was the whole cunting point of this post, right?




  Well, satisfying your abnormal hunger for tales from the oily, tawdry industry I work in is my specialty folks. It's what I do. So here's the grim details:








  Tonight wasn't bad. 





  I realize that it's a bit anticlimactic after all the crying I did about the Douchepacalypse and whatnot, but it just wasn't anything at all like I was expecting. Nothing whatsoever like last year, which sucked huge amounts of flying custard.


  This Fat Prick's Day was pretty mellow and we made almost $300. So really, I have nothing to complain about outside of a couple a normal stupid things that may well have happened without the aid of a poorly conceived homage to the Earth's favorite drunks.


  This surprising tameness can be attributed to two factors:



1) The weather sucked and people didn't like it because they are pussies. Either that or they'd rather be dead than be caught wearing coat outside in winter.


2) Much more important to the chillness of the evening was the substantial amount of vodka I drank while driving the shuttle around streets littered with assholes and half digested reubans. Yes. I did that. I stopped at the only place in town I enjoy going to and had between three and five double vodka tonics. I wasn't really counting.



  This isn't typical behavior for me, but I figured what's the worst that could happen as I piloted my land whale through a minefield of human rectalness. Death, I suppose. But it probably wouldn't be mine and chances were, even with a few belts in me, that it wouldn't be my fault anyway, so I got all "Irish" and shit.



  Well on that disappointment, I'm done. I have other things to do. Important, meaningful things that will enbettermify the whole world and shitforth.



  So fuck off.





Call Me Maybe,
-The StripperHerder





















*1 Seriously. Why do they bring cinder blocks to work? Your average stripper outfit's weight is measurable in fucking grams and their shoes aren't much heavier. If you're to the point where you need 35 lbs of makeup, it's time to retire. I'm constantly baffled by the weight of some girls bags.




*2 OK, I may have embellished a bit about the spuzz, but I'm pretty sure he was doing blow and sucking cock while he was up there.




*3 Murderection: Lit Murder-Erection, also known popularly as a Kill-Boner, Stab-Stiffy, Death Helmet, Battle Rooster, Chaos Cock, War Bulge

Thursday, March 16, 2017

In Two Days, Hell Comes To HospitalityTown. Or, I Enjoy The Sound Of Your Spine Splintering In My Wheel Wells. Please Stagger In Front Of My Bus.




-SUNDAY



  Five days from today it will be St. Fat Prick's Day and this year the travesty will land on a Friday. This is as close to an Apocalypse as the service industry gets. It doesn't matter if you make slightly better than average money due to sheer volume, the amount of cockery you'll have to endure will more than make the extra money seem pointless and unrewarding.


  This debacle masquerading as a holiday is the single worst day most hospitality folk will have to face the entire year. Ask anyone who slaves in the drinky-feedy portion of the labor market and they will almost unanimously tell you that St Patrick can go fuck himself with a handful of serpents and that drunk people in general can choke on a bag of dick-shaped snakes and die already.


  I for one am not looking forward to this abomination of a national tradition, especially on a weekend. It's bad enough when it falls midweek, but a weekend Irish-Cunt-O'Fest is truly something to be dreaded. When I think about it I get butterflies in my stomach. Butterflies with razors taped to their wings that feast on my mucal lining.


  I'm gonna have to score some valium to get through this. I'll have no choice.






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



-MONDAY
 


  It's kinda sad to say that last Monday was my best night of the year so far. 2017 hasn't been a benevolent master to us Floor Jokes to this point. We managed to make $330 tonight because of some monied button down shirt wearer who blew $8000 at our establishment, 5K of which went to a single stripper who vaguely resembles ET, but in a hot way.


  Sorta.


  As a result we broke the $300 mark for only the 5th or 6th time this year. If you take Button-Down out of the equation, or if it had been a night where we staffed four Floor Turds instead of only two, we would've made maybe $120 or so. This is what I like about the titty-shack industry, like Knight Rider, one man can make a difference.



                                "Here's $50, Floor Scum. Look away as I get pleasured."





  And if he had chosen one of our more....saavy dancers, we could've made a whole bunch more. Let me tell you why.


  Mr. Button Shirt was what we Floor Animals refer to as a "Rich Pussy". This means he enjoys expending cash if a suitably dominant stripper/female tells him to do it. I've seen it many times in my career and it always feels good spending a rich man's money on a new firearm or something even more frivolous.


  A Rich Pussy will tip the Floor Cunts whatever the stripper tells him to. This is a way of symbolically offering his wallet-vag to her. Therefore if a more aggressive/adept entertainer had got her hooks into him, say like a Dallas or an Alanna, us Floor Guys would've made a fuck ton more money because a wise stripper knows when she can financially smack a dude's balls, whereas a green stripper thinks $20 is a good hustle and doesn't understand symbiosis, or, and let me clear about this, certainly can't spell it.




-FRIDAY


  Typical twat convention. All the usual suspects were present and accounted for: Vomit, Belligerent Dudes, Wasted Strippers, Angry Managers, Self Important Fuckstains, Professional Matffletes*1, Reluctant Female Patrons, Puke, Cheapskate Dickholes, A Bachelor Party (Shitglob), Clueless Drunks and even a Rampaging Transsexual.*2




-SATURDAY



  Seemed to be a dry run for the upcoming Douchepacalypse next Friday. I got gurge on me from helping to carry an unconscious girl out of the club who'd been hurling into a trash can for the past ten minutes with mixed success. I enlisted her male companion to help me carry her bodily out of the club and he kept dropping her head onto the floor because he was a weak cunt, so any ensuing brain damage is totally on him.


  The security team had to subdue and eventually pepper spray an unruly tough guy/pussy. I wasn't there for it, but apparently he grabbed my Manager, Sir Osprey O'Lottalip III and the assembled floor team put him on the ground. He laughed at their efforts but agreed to leave peacefully if they let him up. So they did.


  And guess what? He became a tough guy again when given his freedom, running his mouth like a sled dog and squaring up to anyone near him. Needless to say the floor staff put him on the ground again where he continued to be a complete jizzstream. This was where Sir Osprey stepped in and tried to taze the guy with his legal flashlight/tazer. The guy literally laughed at him as as he was doing it, saying "it don't hurt" whereupon Mr. O'Lottalip sprayed his fucking face with pepper spray.


  This changed his tune dramatically. One of our Floor Guys has video of him crying, seriously crying, like a toddler, all 6'5" of him. He became very apologetic and remorseful. Had I been there I would've been sorely tempted to get in his face and ask him where that tough guy went? You know, that shit talking buttplug who'd just caused a disturbance on our patio when he verbally abused a 5'0" timid dancer.


  Where the fuck did that guy disappear to?


  I miss all the good stuff when I drive the shuttle...





-Wednesday


  Second best night of the year thanks to some overgrown frat boys who've made a lot of money in the boutique rehab center racket. You know, those places where wealthy folk go when they need a break from their drugs and booze. Costs a lot of money, is super luxurious and isn't designed to rid you of your addiction but merely postpone it long enough for you to go to rehab eleven times before you O.D.


  Their ringleader offered me $500 to bring him back horny, slutty girls from the club. Gals who'd slaver his knob and presumably look favorably on anal sex, provided there was a couple of franklin's in it for her.


  I told him it probably wasn't gonna happen but I would give it the ole college try. In reality I didn't even try because, and I feel a list coming on here...


1) I make it a point to not even work the floor enough to know who the whores are anymore at my club. And let me make this perfectly clear, in any club that has more than 3 dancers, some of them are always going to be open to the offer of cash for jizz. It's just the lay of the land. Some places are more ho-infested than others, but you can't stop it so you may as well accept it and choose whether or not to profit from it.


2) A fucking tip up front would've told me you were serious and would've had me making some inquiries. A promise of a tip is a big mythical sasquatch-unicorn which I have no interest in attempting to hunting down.


3) I'm not a pimp. A time or two in the past I have facilitated the congress of two consensual humans in a fiscal/sexual context, but it's not like I run a stable of bitches and choke prostitutes for not having my money.


4) I kinda find the whole situation distasteful. My moral compass isn't all that accurate, but there are some territories I don't feel comfortable dabbling in. When it comes to pimping girls out, I'd rather not. Call me old fashioned, but it's not my thing even if I could make free, easy money from it.






  And finally...


 
  I'm gonna have to drive the bus on St. Patty's day. This is my chosen path. My blessing. My curse.


  You see, driving the shuttle on slow, boring nights allows me to fuck around, something which I enjoy. But driving the behemoth around when there's carefree idiots shambling through intersections, challenging me to cripple them, is another story.


  I remember when I was maybe five or so, my Mom showing me how to cross a street. Stop. Look both ways. Cross quickly and efficiently.


  But when you're on the green beer, fuck all that shit, yo.


  Cross inappropriately and at unpredictable times. Linger in the middle of a busy street full of drunk drivers to make an obscure point about Star Wars that no one cares about. Hold a hand up imperiously as if that will stop a speeding automobile, much less a pitiless limo bus. Stop to shout and gesticulate at the strip club bus, because it's awesome, NOT because you want a ride to the club.


  That's what makes me happy. People gesturing and screaming at the bus not because they want to go to see titties, but because they saw a strip club limo bus driving on a city street.


  Take a fucking picture, you miserable quim-malady. Share it on SnatchChat.




  Fuck all this. I'm done. Shove your pictures up your ass.





I meant that,
-The StripperHerder














*1 Professional athletes, usually NBA players.**


** Quick side story about one of our quality encounters with a professional mafflete: one sparkly night a few of our local pro B-ball players came into the club and went back into a VIP room. They ordered a bunch of booze and a bunch of wings. During the course of the room, one particular player is just throwing his wing bones on the floor along with his dirty napkins and eventually his half empty cup of ranch dressing. There are dollar bills littering the floor and he takes great delight in rubbing as many bills as possible in the remains of his wing-feast, getting a fair portion of the bills on the floor covered in buffalo sauce and ranch.

  This was big fun for him, being an asshole.





*2 I'm just kidding. The closest we got to a Rampaging Trannsexual on Saturday was when or Biggest Clitted dancer got angry with a customer.**


** The thing is huge.

Saturday, March 4, 2017

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



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


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




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



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


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


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



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


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


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


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





                            Goldi showcasing her tree skills shortly before her untimely death.


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





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




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


  


  But I get ahead of myself....




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


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



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


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


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


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


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



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




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


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


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


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


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


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


  I'm gone eat you Granny."


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


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


  Sorta hot if you were blindfolded...


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


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


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



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






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


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





                                        "Are you coming to their soccer game or not? 







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






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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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






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


  Because I am thinking of doing this.


  Squatch gotta eat.....





Viva Currencia!
-The StripperHerder























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

Friday, February 17, 2017

Floor Guys: We Always Got Each Other's Back! Or, Sometimes You Gotta Take A Stand And Teach A Lesson To Someone Who Doesn't Care And Isn't Even Paying Attention.






  I'm the type of guy who believes firmly in the "I Scratch Your Back And You Scratch Mine" philosophy of life. It's a simple equation that has been fundamental to the development of mankind since we looked at the ground and thought 'hey, maybe if we worked together we can live down there instead of in these damn trees. I mean that's where the fruit falls when it's ripe, right?'


  People helping people with the expectation of being helped in return some day when one needs it is an integral part of society. It's like the barter system for services rather than goods and the fact is that without cooperation, human civilization would've never progressed beyond one monkey hurling bananas down to his buddies.


  So it's with that in mind that I kinda look at my job as a split society. The A team looks out for each other and no one else and thusly the B team is forced to rely on other B teamer's for their only source of support.


  This is in terms of covering a shift or switching start times for a fellow Floor Monkey. I've kept tabs on every time I've covered another Floor Hosts's shift or come in early for them. Currently I'm fairly equal with the B teamers because we help each other out. With the A teamer's however, I'm working out of what I'll refer to as a fucking deficit.


  In my time at this club I've covered 8 shifts for one A-Whole or another, and in return they have combined for a total of one shift covered for me out of of maybe ten times I've asked. They always have an excuse as to why they can't do it and sometimes the excuses are just plain weak as shit.


-"My Aunt is coming into town and even though she'll be here a week and I won't be seeing her on the night you asked me to cover, I can't do it for reasons I am unable to articulate at this time."


-"My dog seemed especially unhappy today and I am concerned for his well being. He recently lost his favorite toy to a chewing accident and has been glum ever since"


-"I can't tonight because I'm planning on getting my dick sucked by a stripper from another club and even though this will only take 5 minutes, I'll find other shit to do because it's more important to me than paying you back for your past help."


-"Man. I just don't feel like it."




  I get it. Coming in on a night you're scheduled off sucks. I don't like it either. But if I owe someone a shift, I fucking well do it because it's the right thing to do. You have to take care of those who taken care of you, if you don't then you're a piece of shit and should throw yourself off something high into some jagged rocks. Do everyone a favor.




  So here's what brought on this latest disappointment for me:


  I just wanted to switch start times with another Floor Grog so that later tonight I could come in at 9 instead of 7. I figured with the positive shift-karma that I had accumulated with the three other Floor Beasts working tonight that it shouldn't be a problem.


  But in this, like in so many other things in life, I was wrong.


  I started with McQuim, our half Irish, half Samoan bouncer. I've covered 3 shifts for McQuim in addition to coming in early for him another 4 times and staying late for him uncounted times to make sure the Manager isn't killed after everyone else has left, because McQuim lives an insane distance from work and "has a long drive, dude" when his work week is over.*1


  I don't care if you live 6 hours away. Move fucking closer, man. All I know is that I fully expected McQuim to say 'yeah, I got you covered, bro', but this is not what he said. He said he has to "have lunch with the wife's grandparents" and this is why he can't possibly make it into work by 7 PM to help pay back his karmic debt to me.


  I almost shat myself with anger. This is the same Floor Guy who just last week when we worked together, completely fucked me on the after-work cleaning duties. We agreed he was going to do trash and the dressing room and that I would handle all the other crap we have to do. Well first off, I did half the trash myself in addition to everything else. Then when the Manager, Sir Grumpalong De'Holdaylong VII comes down at then end of the night he says "why isn't the dressing room done?", I had to do that too.


  Mcquim was very apologetic about the whole thing. Apparently we'd had a miscommunication. What he meant to say was "do everything yourself, I'm fucking leaving now even though I'm the late guy."


  So bearing this in mind I figured it was a slam dunk to get McQuim to cover a measly two hours for me.


  And I already told you how that worked out for me.


  So I turn to Seamus and Lo-Jaq, hoping one of them might remember the five shifts I've covered for the pair of them and be prepared to scratch my mudderfekkin back in return.


  Insert sound effect of the 'wrong' buzzer from Family Feud....here.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5X8qDDMC-o&list=PLx_7IGj6a8FwD78SmRnUF3ThVShNu1m2F



  You guessed it fair reader, both of them declined to help a brutha out.


  And that being the final strike, this dumb Floor Squatch will no longer help an A teamer. I will only look out for my fellow B teamer's and I admit it took me too long to come to this conclusion. I always try to hope for the best in people and am seldom rewarded for it.


  Done with all that.







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





  Let me clear about something, I am not a subtle guy. I don't just blend in to a crowd, I stand out. Not much of a choice in the matter unless I'm sitting down.


  I'm big. I'm opinionated. And I'm not shy about voicing those opinions if I feel the situation merits it or I stand to gain something by speaking up. I have a very deep voice and I've been a vocalist in two metal bands in my day and therefore..


  If I yell at you you'll know it. There won't be the slightest doubt in your mind that you're being yelled, you'll be crystal clear on the matter. I very seldom yell at someone, but when I do, rest assured that it's a roar.


  That being said, I had a Latetress*2 ask me tonight if all the customers were out of the building so she could smoke*3. I said yes they are. The she asks me "so can I smoke or not?", obviously having not heard me.

 
  I said, slightly louder, "YES YOU CAN SMOKE."


  She gets all serious and looks me in the eye and says....I shit you not.....


  "Don't ever yell at me. You don't get to yell at me, pal. I don't have to take that from you."


  I'm sure some sort of blankness rolled across my face for a moment while my brain processed her utterly wrongful premise and misplaced audacity. When I did respond all I had to say was:


  "I didn't yell at you. If I had yelled at you, you'd fucking well know it. Smoke your cigarette."


  Among the numerous things I didn't yell at her may be included the following:


1) "How can you suck so much at such an easy job?"


2) "When a large measure of your job success as a cocktail waitress can be directly tied to how attractive your are, why is it that on you, your outfit looks like an inexplicably large mesh cheesecloth that your body is slowly oozing from?"


3) "WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"



  Considering my mood after being burned by three Floor Grubs, I felt that I exercised great restraint in my reply to her cuntish remark.





  When I yell at people their fucking hair moves, like in cartoons.







  And finally,


  I had to cover the kitchen for two hours tonight because the cook was late. I should've just said no, it ain't in my job description. This club certainly hasn't done me any favors lately and I'm not feeling all that anxious to go out of my way to help them even more.


  What I ended up saying of course was "OK".


  The thing I especially liked about the whole deal was when Manager De'Holdaylong came up to me and the other early guy*4 and asks "So does one of you want to cover the kitchen until the cook gets here" full well knowing that I'm the only one of the two of us who's worked in a kitchen before.



  I'm assuming he thought he was being clever and managerial, but in reality we both knew how it was going to play out. He just got to go home feeling good about himself for not ordering me to do it, which I could have refused because I'm not a fucking cook, nor is it my job to do so.


  I should've never let anyone know that I knew which end of a potato masher you point at the spuds.


  Fuck me.




  That's all you get. I don't care about the pictures, I really don't.



Gratin Gluten,
-The StripperHerder












*1 Traditionally speaking, the "early" guy gets to leave when everything is done while the "late" guy stays after until the Manager is done with all his stuff. It's annoying because if we're unarmed, what the hell are we supposed to do other than get killed with the Manager? And if we're armed, why the fuck can't the Manager just buy his own damn gun and get a permit for it?





*2 Latetress: A server of food and drinks who is never on time for her shifts and sucks at it even when she is there.




*3 Club employees aren't allowed to smoke in the building when there are customers still inside it.




*4 My fellow B teamer and all around good guy who I'll call Tektroll because he's good at techy stuff and is a large mammal to boot.

Sunday, February 12, 2017

I Think About Stupid Shit And Ask Myself Questions I Already Know The Answers To. Or, Perhaps It's Time You Considered Retiring From Stripping.



  Sometime I realize that I lack perspective. My hatred and loathing of the drunk masses blinds me to some very basic truths from time to time and it takes a great effort of will to see beyond them to the underlying reality of the bigger picture.


  Which is the primary reason I write this blog-I allow myself to be blinded by trivialities into feeling like I have a shitty job, which I most certainly don't.


  The truth is I would hate ANY job I had within a few weeks and that it's probably not the job's fault, it's mine. I'm just plain sick and tired of working for a living. I've had a job almost constantly for nearly 34 years and it grates on me that I haven't used my meager talents to create something better for myself. Instead I've merely lived a life of low standards, happy that I have it better than so many people in the world and allowing myself to be a slave to the instant gratification that Amurrika is so adept at providing.


  I wallow in mediocrity, self indulgence and a lack of responsibility, all at the cost of having to work for a living doing something I mostly fucking despise.


  In short. I'm Murrikan as fuck.


 

  Now with that being said I often wonder about stuff that I encounter very regularly in the line of my job duties. My innate but somewhat withered sense of curiosity still pokes me in the brain every now and then and I find myself thinking about what's going on in other people's skulls that make them do the things they do.


  For instance:


1) How can you not know that your breath is so pungent and malodorous that it stinks up the entirety of a 28' limo bus with seven rows of seating? What the fuck did you eat? How can you not tell? This happened to me twice tonight and I only picked up two groups of people and one lone passenger.


  The first time was just one single guy who sat in the very back of the bus. Within a minute I could smell the dumpster-in-Jamaica reek of his breath wafting from the back of the bus, some twenty feet away. In another minute or two the whole interior of the giant vehicle was awash in his stale. rotten mouth fumes and I seriously had to roll a window down and gulp the precious night air. His maw was like a leper colony that lacked even the most basic sanitation in the middle of a god forsaken jungle.


 
                  "I know it smells like I at 30 decomposing rat dicks, but they were were actually meerkats.




  The second time was a group of fuckwit twats and it only took 20 seconds for the hot, fetid breath of one of those dildos to overrun the bus. It smelled like someone had shoved a greasy, day old cheeseburger into a corpse's asshole and then crammed the whole thing into a microwave for 60 seconds before tossing it in ranch dressing.

  The stench from the second guy lingered on in the bus for almost twenty minutes after I dropped him at the club, even though I had the windows down. Eventually I stopped at a ghetto gas station and bought one of those green pine tree air fresheners, which I freebased until my sense of smell was gone.


  Good fucking Lord people. Eat a goddamn mint every now and then you beer swilling cunts.



2) Why would you go to what is essentially an after hours club and not be willing to pay an outrageous cover charge? If it's the only game in town, it can charge whatever the hell it wants and you either pay it or go home. If money is that much of an issue for you, why are you even fucking out at all, spending it? Why not choose to stay at home and value drink? Or, even better, save the money and do something smart with it. Paying anything more then $3 for a beer is dumb as fuck anyway, so don't bitch about cover charges if all evidence points to the fact that you shouldn't even be out in the first place, you miserable shitcicle.




                                                      "We don't have $20."




3) Why do people insist on dropping names at the door? It never works. Only money works and it works every time. On any given Saturday night at least 30% of our post 2 AM crowd will try to drop a name at the door, hoping/expecting that the person will get them in for free. Or they feel that they are clearly important enough to not have to pay a cover.


  I don't care who you know and I don't care who you are, pay the cover or walk out the door and back into whatever broke ass life you were leading before you graced my lobby with your presence.


  On a personal note, since it's relevant to the topic, I never pay a cover charge, which absolutely makes me a hypocrite. On the incredibly rare occasions I venture out from my lair, I always go to a venue where I know the people who run it and the majority of the staff as well. I do this because I feel comfortable at these establishments and because they never charge me at the door because I won't charge them at my door. Scratch my back sorta thing.


  Also I never pay a cover because I NEVER GO TO A PLACE WHERE I GET CHARGED AT THE DOOR FOR THE PRIVILEGE OF PAYING TOO MUCH FOR EVERYTHING. Not saying I've never done it before, but it's not something I relish, even before the service industry ruined going out for me.


  I for one resent being gouged for drinks. I know what they cost a bar to make/buy and I know what they pay their bartenders to get it for me. Seeing as how I ALWAYS tip*1, the cost of paying anything over $3 for a drink galls the fuck out of me. I have better things to do with my money.





  The answer to all these musings is of course alcohol. Alcohol makes people do insanely stupid things and be able to perfectly justify them in their own heads.


  Eat a basket of fried raccoon assholes? Sure.


  Pay $20 just to get into a club? OK.


  Shell out $6 for bottled water? Why not? Yeah, you just paid for the entire case of water and the owner's third Porsche, but what the hell? You're drunk and thirsty, I get it.


  Luckily for me, I've moved past all that. I don't enjoy any part of going out to a bar or restaurant. I end up spending most of my time thinking about what I should be doing with my dough rather than spending it there.



  Such is life for the Service-Poisoned among us...












  Maybe it's time to hang up the pasties, darlin.







 You'r body's still OK to look at but you're face is like clown porn and not in a good way. Or maybe your face is still getting you business, but the body has become a liability. I know strippers who fall into both these categories and they all have one thing in common-it's time to retire, hon or make some serious lifestyle changes.


 

                                                               "What? I'm only 35..."




  I got the shit-business from one of our "senior" dancers tonight because I let a guy walk out the door who she says owed her more money. She is one of the more common dancers that this happens with because she stacks stupid amounts of dances on a drunk retard and expects him to understand and honor his debt to her. And if he doesn't then she relies on the Floor Squids to retrieve her money for her but doesn't tip accordingly.


  Before I go any further I'd like to point out that on the many occasions I've had the misfortune to be the nearest Floor Pig when she was having a dispute with a customer, I got her money, or most of her money, about 90% of the time. I can be very convincing when I want to be.


  She had stacked 15 fucking dances on a guy who was barely operating at a 3rd grade level because of his drunkenness. This amounted to $375 and she received $300 of it without me having to lift a finger. All the time I was overhearing her talking to the guy she kept mentioning the 'agreement' they had, and 'didn't he remember their agreement'.



  Your agreement doesn't mean fuck all to me, you slack tittied bird-frightener. He could've agreed to sign over ownership of Google for all I give a shit. What matters to me is how many dances you actually did versus how much money he actually gave you. These crazy bitches act like any drunken promise they secure from a wasted guy is a legally binding contract or something and as a Floor Peon, I'm legally obligated to obtain it for them. Virtually pro bono in most cases.


  So I let the guy walk. I'm sick of her 'he owes me for 15 dances' BS and she had already made $300 for 40 minutes of her time. If that's how you have to make a living in this industry, it's time to cash it in baby. Most dudes will fall all over themselves to hand money over to a super hot girl, when you have to start fighting over every dollar, your time is done. Move along. Maybe someone needs a "before" model for a cosmetics line.


  She screeched and moaned at me for a few minutes before shuffling off to the dressing room, all beef-curtain hurt at being shorted $75 for her dick-kneading time.


  Go die on a cock somewhere you wretched hag.


  Old gals can be either very tedious or very good at their jobs, just like younger ones. They tend to be more reliant on scams as their looks fade and their voices start sounding like gravel stuck in a food disposal. They've learned a large number of hustles to fleece the unwary and as their assets wane they're more likely perpetrate them than if they were still a young butterfly rather than an dried up old potato bug past its Sell By date.



 

  And on a final note, we've already hired a new Floor Guy to replace the 2 we've lost and the one additional one we're gonna lose when his new job kicks in. Management told at least one of the Floor Staff that we weren't going to be hiring ANY new hosts, but apparently that turned out to not be true.


  Supposedly the new guys is going to be 'one night a week and for fill-ins', but I'd bet good money that within 6 weeks he'll have a better schedule than me.


 


                                                          Faster that a speeding stripper......





   But then again I'm a pessimist.





Yours Truly,
-The StripperHerder




 


































*1 Unless the service is super shitty. The trick to this is to tip fat right up front and let the bartender know there's more where that came from if they can just be bothered to remember your face and serve you before some other cheapskates. It's worth it in the end if you happen to be at a busy place.

Thursday, February 9, 2017

When I Asked The Magic Eight Ball About My Future It Said 'ANSWER UNCERTAIN, ASK AGAIN LATER'. Or, The Saga Of Lout: Botulism's Hired Gun.






  Christ.


  You ever get that fed up feeling after a particularly hard stretch at your job? The feeling that you would cheerfully watch most if not all of your coworkers slowly burn to death while a churning metal song plays at deafening levels so you don't have to be annoyed by their screams?


  No?


  Well golly. It must be nice to be less fucked up than me.


  I'm about up to here (picture me holding my hand at about forehead level) with my workplace. The job itself isn't that bad, the stuff that's actually in my job description that is; you know, crazy strippers, drunk twats, drugged out people, assholes, puke, belligerent thong pirates, etc etc. It's the stuff that isn't or shouldn't be in my job description that's driving me all apefuck.




                         "My goal is to fingerblast bitches until my digits are wrinkled and musky."




   I've had a fair amount of occupations in my life, I haven't always worked at a strip club like I would sometimes have you believe. For a sample, here's some of the jobs I have used to pay my bills over the years:


  Paperboy, Burger King, garage janitor, industrial maintenance, busboy, cook at 15 or so restaurants, delivery/collections/repo for a Rent A Center knockoff, warehouse, club security, more cooking, house painter, car salesman. I'm sure I missed a couple here or there, but you get the idea, I've labored in a lot of varied work environments before.


  And I have to say I've never worked at any sort of job before where it is commonplace for me to do other people's duties for them. Or where the rules of my employment change enormously depending on what mood my manager is in.


  For those of you who work in a stable, relatively sane line of work and may not understand what I'm talking about, let me illustrate it for you.




                                      "Hey Jim, Here's that report on systems analysis. 
                                                 Note that at no point does it refer to a drunk stripper
                                                  attacking a patron with a rocks glass. Odd, huh?" 




Bear in mind as you read the following that is has all occurred since my last post which was only nine fucking days ago.



1) "YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO DO THAT! I'M GONNA SCREAM AT YOU, MAKE YOU LOOK LIKE AN ASSHOLE IN FRONT OF A BUNCH OF PEOPLE AND THEN LIE RIGHT TO YOUR FACE REPEATEDLY BECAUSE I AM A BADGER-STYLE MANAGER!"


  This one got me so pissed I just went quiet and calm. I passed right over the stormy waters of Rage and landed in Fragile Serenity, which is where I go for souvenirs right before I snap and do something barbaric and regrettable.


  Here's the tale:


  I was working the door last Saturday just after 2 AM, when it seemed like 5 buses had pulled up and disgorged 200 drunk people who had no cash on them into our club. And since it was cold out and most clubgoers are far too cool to wear coats or even a long sleeved T shirt, everyone was trying to crowd into the lobby at the same time and the doors were wide open which quickly made the entire lobby as cold as it was outside.



  I'd say easily 80% of these insidious morons had to pay the cover with a credit card, which makes the line move really fucking slow. The pressure in the lobby was building to critical mass and I was about to get overrun in the ensuing jackalanche.



                                                    "Next stop: TITTIES!!!"




  So I called for another Floor Creep to help me with crowd control and I made a separate line for cash paying people to alleviate the weight of bodies keen to get out of the cold. I've done this many times before, frequently at the behest of the very same Manager who ripped me a new one for doing exactly that this time.





                            "INCONSISTENCY! LOTS OF GUESSWORK! YOU'RE ALWAYS WRONG!"




  He screamed and raged at me in front of everyone, denied he'd ever let me, much less told me to do it before. "That's how people get fired!" he screamed, foaming at the mouth in indignant fury.



  And to frost his shit cake for good measure he made the last group of seven people whose ID's I'd checked and who had paid their cover go back into the line and pay the Doorgirl, 'like they were supposed to'.


  As if this were somehow their fault, like they had done something wrong, not me.


  Total and complete shit show. Degrading for everyone involved.



  Dynamic Management Team Alpha: Forward Without Foresight!





 2) I am a bartender, yet somehow it's not my responsibility to clean my own workspace after my shift on night when there's no Barback scheduled. I'm not sure why this is but I like it because I am a lazy wretch. I used to tip them for their trouble, but since the Floor Guys aren't allowed to say "I'm not doing that", I recently made the decision to stop tipping. It's like finding $10 on the floor every shift!"




                                "Slave for me, Floor Goat. Your labor is sweet to behold."*1
  


  I don't understand this. Surely if there is somewhere that needs to be cleaned after a night at the bar, it's the floor behind the bar. All kinds of crap all over and everything's sticky. THAT'S how you get ants.


  But at our club, even on a night when there's no Barback working, a Bartender need not worry about sullying her fine drink-serving hands by having to pull up her own mats and sweep and mop her own work-hole. Nope. The Floor Drools do it all! Now free of charge I guess.


  You see a strip club is the epitome of a Tip Based Economy, perhaps no other industry outside of casinos rely so heavily on tipping as a way of keeping the dough circulating. Everyone tips everyone else for everything.


  A waitress punches up a food order for me when one of our non-nauseating cooks is working, I tip her a buck or two. Sure all she had to do was punch four or five boxes on a screen, but I'm not allowed to put in my own orders and I appreciate her taking a few seconds from her day to order my grub. The I'll make my way into the kitchen and let the cook know that the order is mine and flip him a few bucks too.


  Yes it's their jobs, but I appreciate their effort. A couple of bucks ain't gonna buy much but it at least let's them know that I understand how the system works and I'm goddamn well on board with it.


  So, to me, when someone does something for you that's supposed to be your fucking job, you need to tip that magnificent bastard. This Bartender, until very recently, used to do that. But for one reason or another, she no longer does. Yet I still have to pull her mats up then sweep and mop HER floor every time I work with her.


3) "Since a certain security incident at the club, us Cooks are no longer allowed to to take the trash out on their own. So now we can't even be bothered to drag our trash cans towards the door or break down our cardboard boxes for the poor shitstains who are forced to do this part of our jobs for us. And by shitstains I mean the Floor Staff."


  This is one of the many things you encounter in your life that don't bother you the first time, nor maybe even the tenth. Like Abe's asspaper that I used to have to brush into the toilet every day I worked. But this has been going on for over a year and now...


  This motherfucking infuriates me. Never, in all the kitchens I've slaved in have I ever worked in one where the cooks could just leave their trash laying around for other people to clean up and it's OK. Management here can't be bothered to apply even the most minimalist notion of standards to our cook staff. As long as you show up for your shifts, all other failings are overlooked and ignored.


  Let me cite you the prime example. For the sake of protecting his identity in case he ever wants to run for political office, I'll refer to him as Lout.




                                                "It thawed right? It awful squirmy..."




  Lout had zero kitchen experience but could navigate the public transportation system, which was good enough for us! He wastes more water than the Ford Motor Company and has probably killed more people with his culinary weaponry than Mao. He just doesn't have a clue about anything food related, safety being right at the top of the list.


  To give you an idea about how bad Lout is at his job, here's a few gems from my experience with him:


-Lout doesn't know what venison is


-Lout isn't familiar with the concept of cross contamination.


-Lout don't like sanitizing stuff.


-Lout not know how to thaw food properly, him like ranching bacteria!


-He doesn't use date stickers.


-Him no like to clean out the screen on the dishwasher, derefore the whole back of the club smells like leftover food that been allowed to boil for a day or so. It smells much less pleasant than it sounds, I can assure you.


-I watched him make a buffalo chicken salad today. Saddest thing I ever saw. The order called for chicken breast rather than tenders and Lout dutifully cooked a six ounce chicken breast and fixed the salad. Then, when the chicken is done, he pulls it off the grill and proceeds to dice it. He then takes the cubed bird and throws it into a bowl of buffalo sauce, stirs it around a bit and starts plucking individual cubes of chicken out of the sauce and painstakingly placing them onto the bed of salad.




                                    Lout does not acknowledge this dish's saladness.      




  Again, for those of you who've never worked in a kitchen before and maybe aren't so good at the art of cooking yourself, let me list all of the things that Lout did wrong just one this one salad.


1) He used the same tongs he had turned the half cooked chicken breast on the grill with to fish the meat cubes of of the sauce he had drown them in. Now not only was the chicken itself contaminated, so was the wing sauce and therefore everything that went into the wing sauce for the rest of the night.


2) He cut the breast before he dunked it in the sauce. Wrong, bad Lout. You dunk the whole cooked breast in the sauce and then you slice it, not cube it, and place it on the salad. By doing this Lout's way, the chicken gets cold swimming around in the room temperature sauce, the dish looks far less appetizing than if the chicken was thinly sliced AND it makes a puddle of wing sauce from where all the excess sauce in the tongs drips down into the salad. On top of all that, it's fucking slow as hell.


3) LOUT NO LIKE WIPING KNIVES OFF AFTER USE. RUINS FLAVOR.


  He has the filthiest knives I've ever witnessed. Fucking crusted with dried bits of whatever culinary nightmares he's Krugered that shift. He also knows absolutely zero about knife handling and care. He and the other cooks regularly use their knives to cut meat on the surface of the grill. This will ruin not only your knife, but your grill as well. And Lout not understand why knife no cut anything anymore....


  Utterly appalling.


4) He placed the completed salad under the heat line. Because intense heat is good for every facet of the salad experience.


5) After placing the salad under the salad destroying lamps, he sat his fat ass back down and went back to watching Superbowl commercials on his phone, completely indifferent to the fate of the unfortunate mess he'd just created.




                                 ***Subject Update***



  This is new since I wrote the above content:


  Lout has now mastered putting food into containers, ones without holes in them, when he thaws food products out. It only took twelve or so times and my Manager, Sir Whompalot Frenzymuff O'Smegmakin screaming at him for it to take.


  Now if he could just learn to put thawed foods into the walk in instead of letting them sit in water for the entirety of his shift, we'd be making real progress against bowel distress.






             Floor Team Logistics: A New Hope




  The whole Floor Staff situation at the club is changing dramatically. First Strider got fired, then over the past week, Keen Kenny Dean quit and another unnamed Floor Guy landed a job with the gubbamint that starts in the Spring. This level of change is unprecedented at this particular club, which is fairly hard to get fired from and is attractive enough money-wise to keep most Floor Squatches around.


  It'll be interesting to see how Dynamic Management Team: Blackbird handles the crisis. Do they hire a new guy? Spread the shifts around to some hungry B-Teamers? Make everyone work five shifts a week? Hire five new guys to replace three?


  Anything is possible with their quantum management style. I have no idea what to expect.


  The best solution of course would be to hire one new guy and move everyone to four shifts a week, us lowly bench team members included. That way, everyone wins and management comes our looking reasonably competent.


  Personally I'm just hoping that it all ends up equaling a few more shifts for this good 'ole stripperherder. I know my attitude can be really crappy sometimes and that I lack the will to change it for the better, but I can still work a mean door and sometimes, when I'm in the mood, I can be a charming motherfucker.





  That's it folks. Go to work.

-The StripperHerder
















*1 No matter how many times I tried, this website would not let me change the color of this caption's font back to black. Just wanted you to know that. It's not an editing error.