More Stripper Codenames and Strip Club Acronyms Revealed and Explained

  There's too many dancers at my club to learn all their names. If they tip good then I will remember them. If they hand me $2 consistently, they'd best be prepared for me to ask them their name every time I walk em out because I'm not going to bother even trying to remember their cheap asses.

  Therefore codenames are big for me here. Most of these are just a way of communicating who I'm looking for/talking about to other Floor Beasts, we don't actually call the girls by their codenames.

  That would be uncharitable.



  Some call signs currently in use:





Skeletor- This gal is 2 years younger than Jesus and looks every minute of it.

                                                   Close up view of Skeletor's cheek.









Oompah-Wok: Picture the rape child of an Oompa-Loompah and an Ewok and you get the idea. Slap on a quarter inch of clownish makeup and things get creepier fast.

                                             Rare daylight sighting of an Ommpah-Wok









Sinead O'Connor-Smoking hot chick with awesome body who either decided she'd look better with hair like an MMA fighter, or who recently had chemotherapy. Lack of hair totally ruins it for me. Shame.

                                                    Look doesn't work for author.





Amy-Ever see that horrible movie 'Congo'? This girl resembles the ape in that movie who could talk using sign language. Actual dancer is far less intelligent.

          "Amy says you owe her $40, but she'd be willing to settle for 20 lbs of leaves mixed with some termites and grubs."






  


  Perma-Rag-If you go by what this crazy bitch says, you be forced to believe that she never stops menstruating. That she bleeds in perpetuity, yet somehow never dies. Every single time she's supposed to be nude, she says she just started her period. Although, between you and I, I'd wager she just doesn't care to expose her swollen, recently mauled pudenda.

  By my count (if she's telling the truth) she's dropped more eggs than a salmon.



  Brains-This is what's known as an ironic nickname. The girl in question is so whacked out on heavy drugs that she just kinda staggers around the club like a zombie seeking the green matter she needs to live.

                                   "Casssh...caasshh.............Or like some oxys maybe"




Dust Bunny-This girl is so dumb its tragic. But then God gave men penises and money so everything turned out all right.

                                              Dust Bunny-"I had more Camry last yesterday."
                                                          Me-"Do you mean your car broke down, hon?"
                                                          Dust Bunny-"That's a cow. New booties!"
                                                          Me-"Oh, you're getting new tires put on?"
                                                          Dust Bunny-"Easy Mac. I Goal Jews."








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





Strip Club Acronyms: I tell you what they mean and then use them in a sentence.

FUBWABA: ('fubba-wubba') Fat, Ugly Bitch With A Bad Attitude*- Self Explanatory.

  "I just got bitched at by a Fubba-Wubba!"


BBD: Baby Battle Damage- Severe stretchmarks.

  "Her kid must of weighed 30 lbs or she had a litter cuz that bitch has some Bee Bee Dee."


DWBDW: Driving While Being A Dumb Whore/Drunk Whore (varies from state to state)- The stripper version of an DWI/OVI which is slightly less serious than when real people do it and much more entertaining for the police.

"She lost her license for 9 days because she got a DWBDW."


SO: Sockin Out- When a strippers less than firm boobs hang down while she's on all fours like 2 tube socks half filled with curds. This is synonymous with BWT, or Baby Wasted Titties.

  Us Floor Dicks used to nudge each other and say things like "Dude! Her tits are SO......", all enthusiastic like we were going to say "Dude! Her tits are so awesome!" or something to that effect. But just ending with 'SO'.

  It doesn't sound like much on paper, but dammit its all we had and we were glad to have it.


WAG: Wipe And Go- When a dancer makes a fast pit stop to ambush her hoo-ha with a baby wipe.


"Dude said your cooch was smelty. Better WAG that kitty."


DPN's: Dinner Plate Nipples- (Should really be DPA for Dinner Plate Areolas, but people are stupid.) When the colored area around a dancers nipple has room for a steak dinner with potato and veg.

"I could serve an array of pork products and sauerkraut on her enormous Dee Pee Ens."


SRF's: ('serfs')- Sheep, Ready to Fleece. Dudes with no looks, game, style or drugs but a few bucks to be blown before they leave disappointed. Also known as 'Peasants'.


"Do we have a table for 11 peasants? 11 filthy, unkempt serfs who crave a Lord's table without even a by your leave"?










And finally, not acronyms but still lots of fun,

Doppelskanker: (GER. meaning 'Double Skank) A stripper who looks amazingly like a different stripper.


"When I worked in Pittsburgh, I battled that bitch's Doppelskanker."


Rain Dance: A weird, erratic dance style some girls have that make them look like Rain Man with a botched tit job and Restless Leg Syndrome.


"I had to laugh every time that bitch did her Rain Dance."




I really think that's enough now, don't you?

-The StripperHerder*







*It doesn't match up perfect, but its damn fun to say.



*Synonyms for StripperHerder include:

  VomitMopper, DrunkWhisperer, ImpeccablyDressedJanitor and StubbornFuckwit

A Big List of Eff Youse,or, Its Your Birthday, Happy Go Fuck Yourself.

  1) The Albino Guy: Fuck You. I hope you get cornered and beaten by your nemesis, soft fluorescent lighting.

                               "Goddamn you to Hell Peter Cooper Hewitt! Damn. You. To. HELL!"*







2) The Girl(s) Who Shit All Over The Toilet Seats: Fuck You! Someday I would like to super glue you to the floor and use your face for a toilet for a week. Then you could clean up someone else's feces, or, just let it crust there. (which isn't an option for me)

                                               By anyone's definition, a classy move.






3) The Waitress or Drunk Customer Who Took A Dump In Our Storage Room: I have a DNA sample. I will find you and do horrible things to your floor and walls. Horrible things. Your home will smell worse than a ten foot heap of rotting animal dicks.
     
   You'll have to call a crime scene cleaning company because Handy Maids will simply say "Fuck You."

                                           Step 1: Hide dead moose behind couch.







  4) Sports FANATICS: Fuck You. Regular, normal sports fans, you're OK. But you Asshole fanatics, seriously, and I mean this, fuck you.

    Think about this. You experience the whole range of human emotion, from manic highs to soul-crushing lows, by watching muscular men run around and sometimes end up in piles all while wearing tight uniforms.

    You argue and get into fights with other douchebags who worship a different group of millionaires who don't give a fuck about them.

    So I reiterate, fuck you.

    Are you telling me that a fish could beat a man with a musket? I will punch you now, stranger who likes different athletes.






  5) Bachelorette Parties: Fuck you, you misbegotten train wrecks. Trust me when I say you're not cute. You're not being all buzzed and adorable, you're hammered and annoying.

    You didn't come to the club to see strippers, you came for the attention. "Drunk non-strippers in a titty bar? YEE-HA! Let me at em!" Every wasted moron in the place is watching you as well as the dancers. Its your night and you've chosen to be a vomit scented sideshow hurtling headlong into ruin and drama.

   Half of you don't even want to be there, particularly the orca-goblinlike perimeter guards, but one skank or another talked the Bride To Be into it or she wanted to go anyway and here you are.

                          I had a caption for this photo so appalling that even I decided it was going too far. 








6) The Shitfaced Girl Who Asked Me "Am I in a strip club?"

  "No hon, you're at Denny's. If you'll look to your right you'll see that tonight's special seems to be 'Moons Over My Clammy' or 'Butter-Cheese Chowder Stuffed Deluded Girl' ".

   Fuck you. Stupid bitch.

                                                           So cute.






7) The Sikh Who Wouldn't Take His Hat Off Because It Is Against His Religion: Really?

    Admittedly I know less than nothing about the Sikh faith. I care very little about extremely religious people of any creed with all the ridiculous symbology and rituals they adhere to. Whatever floats your boat.

    But all I know is that if by your religion its OK to to have your face buried in various strange girls poontangs, but its not OK to go bareheaded in public, then something got fucked up somewhere and you should reexamine the ancient texts.

    You've gotten it all messed up. Fuck you.

                             My head is properly shielded against naughtiness. Now spread it, bitch.

 



8) All The People Who Wanted A Table In A Full Club: You're willing to pay $9 for a drink but can't see your way fit to tossing me a 10 spot for squeezing your group in anyplace I could ask, cajole, plead or threaten you into? Is that seriously too much to ask?

    From now on lead with a twenty or fuck you, find your own.

                                                "Can you find me a table for thirty? For free."











  9) The Fake Churchbells Down The Street That Weren't There 3 Months Ago: A boom box and a P.A. system? Fuck you.

    It they were even real bells played by clockwork I would have no problem. That's Old Church and I could get behind it because a lot of work goes into something like that. But pushing 'Play'? 'Aggravatingly Loud Random Peal #4'?

   And why all of a sudden? Have you been praying for years for Jesus to enable you to buy an eight track player hooked up to a monstrous karoke machine and he finally came through?

   Hallefuckyouya.

                                                     "Hallowed be His name..."







  10) Random Birthday Cunts: I don't know you and therefore I couldn't care any less what day of the year you were spawned on. After dealing with some of you bastards I really wish your mothers' wombs would have reabsorbed all of you.*

                                                                Sweet.

 

 








*What? I didn't know either. Look it up.


*Picture too graphic for publication
    

Black Friday. Maybe It's Because You're Old. Stupid? Insolent? Take Your Pick, I'm Both or, Rumpled Hausfraus In The Forecast: Details at 11.

  It was Black Friday tonight.





  I'll say no more about that.




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


 

  Its fucking astounding to me hearing some of the shit I have to listen to walking some "girls" out to their car at night. There's a common thread amongst this bitching. Shockingly, its mostly dancers that probably should've retired years ago.

  They bitch and moan about how bad the club is now. There's no money. It's not like the 1970's at all. They used to make 3K a night and now they can't make $300. The list goes on and on.

  They never bring up the fact that they have grandchildren. Or that their face is like a blueprint for lost opportunities and sadness. They don't make the connection that they were younger when they made good money.  And younger, hotter girls now make that kind of money. Just like they used to.

                        "I'll do the dance for $10 and if my right pussy lip falls off again, you can keep it."





  Guys used to be classy. Now they're all assholes.

  People used to spend money, now they don't spend money.

  Kids today, always grinding.

  In my day gentlemen always pulled a chair out for a lady and offered her a fucking buttered scone before we negotiated how disappointed I could make him.





  Sometimes I hope the dismembered and fuel laden wing of a 767 would land on the club while I'm arguing with a drunk customer over the $40 he probably doesn't owe a bitch. 


  Cleansing fire and all, minus Great White of course.





  What? Too soon?





   My bad.





  Anyways...



 


  If you still HAVE to strip to support yourself after 20-30 years in the business, then you've done shit wildly wrong. Anyone with a brain and an ounce of self control, foresight or planning could've taken the hundreds of thousands if not millions of hypothetically tax free dollars you've made in the past few decades and turned it into something called A Comfortable Fucking Retirement.


   Maybe not admitting the possibility of advanced age is a defense mechanism against horrible, horrible reality. Getting old sucks. I'm on the ugly side of forty myself so shut up and accept the dark side. Face the fucking facts, brutal as they may be.

  Did you think the gravy train was gonna roll on forever? That the Chuckwagon O' Plenty was gonna chase the dogies across the vast plains of Grope Cash into eternity?

                              "YEE-HAW! Cmon boys! We got a lot of self-deluded strippers to feed!"







 

 

 




Time wages ugly war on strippers. 


And it always wins.  




  

 






  You have to realize this going in, never lose sight of it, and for fuck's sake, have a plan. Not my fault your powers are weak, old woman. If you'd bought Apple stock when you started stripping in 1982, you'd be a multimillionaire.






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




                        True shit a Stripper asked me tonight.




  STRIPPER: "Does that little machine* by the girls room sell cigarettes?"

  ME: "You mean that chest high, 500 lb thing with all the knobs and 'Marlboro' blazoned across the front in foot high letters?




  ME: Yeah, I think so."






                                    Dumb shit I witnessed tonight:




  A random muppet sized drunk idiot came in tonight and couldn't find the mens room with 3 tries and directions. It was like Beeker on ketamine attempting to escape Dr. Munson Honeydew. It was fucking pathetic.




                                 

                                   Cellphones and wallets I found tonight:




  Three and one.




                             Insolent, inebriated twatery I beheld tonight:


  At this club we don't allow you to put you shit and mud encrusted feet up on tables and chairs like you can at your Aunt Wendy's fucking trailer. I spent a fair amount of time tonight telling people to take their dirty ass feet off of chairs, tables, the fucking stage.

  What the fuck kinda place have you been hanging out where its OK to put your feet where people eat food?
Do you do that at Applebee's? What does their staff think about that? Just because there's titties and handjobs doesn't mean you can put your clods all over everything.

 


  Fuck. Try, just for once, having some class.


  We have a dress code which we're pretty fucking liberal about. One rule is no hats. NO GODDAMN FUCKING HATS.

  But please, feel free to condescend to me when I ask you politely to take it off while in the club. You're totally unaware of the policy and therefore completely justified in being an asshole over a minor detail.

  Seriously, question me! Maybe I'm not sure of the rules and you may be exempt from them because of your kick ass belligerent attitude and your totally awesome social skills!

  I respect you and your choice of overpriced professional sports team apparel. I can only have a deep and abiding respect for anyone who paid $60 for a fucking baseball hat with a sweet logo on it.

                                                                Total cunt.



 


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






   Warning: Drunk, Unattractive Wives Behaving Sexily!





   I call them Rumpled Hausfraus. 

  Stout, lumpy housewives out having a CRAZY night with their equally annihilated husbands. They suck stripper titty, grab dancer ass like its the Last Box of Twinkies and do lewd and unbelievably repulsive dances for their man or anyone who will sit still long enough to receive their wallowly caresses.

                                Add 10 shots of vodka, a strip club, mix thoroughly and look away.







  Look how wild and loose they are. You must notice them them because they are wild and free (for a night) and severely hammered. Witness their large pastel briefs and fearsome thongs.

  They may have been hot 3 kids ago, but they ain't no more. And shit got fucked up nasty. Like a cruelly mutated bivalve. Or malformed albino children clinging to brown rubber sheets and peering at you from an unkempt hedge.


  Shameless and vile.



Das is all,
-Der StrippHerder






 


*To me a 'little machine' is like a blender, a radio controlled car or a DVD player. I can pick up and throw 'little machines'

Professional Local Sports Stars Are So Awesome Its Scary, or, Today's Special: One Stripper Fight, Add Extra Pain, Hold the Mercy, or, Let's Bring Back That 70's Bouncin!

 


    Ask anyone in the service industry and they'll tell you the same thing: Local sports figures, for the most part, suck. They want everything for free as if their presence will attract customers like a fresh, steamy shit will draw flies or they're going to spend money like wasted rap stars.

  No one even knows who these guys are unless its some mega-star whose face you see on everything from dildos to Audis.

  The visiting sports guys are usually pretty good. They may not be good tippers but they spend a lot of money which tends to have a trickle down effect within the titty ecosphere.

  But 90% of local guys suck.

  I had 5 members of the local NFL team in recently and they spent around $50. One drink for each of them. They spent all the time in the club on their 9G phones, checking Facebook and their fantasy football scores. They neither tipped the dancers, paid any attention to the dancers, or indeed, displayed the slightest interest in the dancers. They didn't buy a dance or even tip a single dollar to any of the girls on stage.

  By contrast I had about 11 large gentlemen from a visiting team in in during day shift a few weeks back and they spent around $3000. Buying dances and drinks like there was no tomorrow because they had a room call at 8PM.

  Hell, I've got a group of minor league players of a sport that isn't even popular in this town and they spend more dough, all the fucking time than the entirety of the pro level guys who make ten times what they do.

  I've always said I'd rather try to get $100 out of a guy that make $35K a year than $50 out of a guy who makes $3.5 million a year. Its a lot easier.







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




  We had a catfight not too long ago where a stripper tried to rip a guy off for a hundo and when he and his girlfriend protested, she went off like an enraged badger a drunken stripper.

   The girlfriend punched the stripper in the face twice, but like a fuckin girl. She caused no visible damage whatsoever. The angry stripper however punched the triflin bitch in the face like Evander Fucking Holyfield and then bounced her head off the table a few times before rescue strippers* arrived.

  The angry, scamming stripper beat this interfering yet truthful bitch's ass. Didn't think she had it in her. Final score was:


DRUNKEN BITCH WHO WAS IN THE RIGHT YET HANDLED IT POORLY: 0

DRUNKEN STRIPPER WHO'S TOUGHER THAN I THOUGHT: 1






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

  I was too young for the 70's, but even then my above average size woulda served me well. I've worked with grizzled veterans who been bouncing for most of their adult lives and they sometimes, in their cups, mutter tales of a Golden Age of Bouncing*. A time when a paid security employee of any particular establishment could deal with assholes by exercising astonishing violence and a complete disregard for Civil Liberties.

  And this was accepted practice.


  In the glorious 70's you could pummel a problem patron until he looked like a 160 lbs of tooth-speckled salsa. Then the cops would come by and ask what happened and everyone would say "Dude killed a baby. Bouncer fucked him up in self defense." Cops say "OK", scrape up whatever's left and take it to jail.

  End of saga.



  Nowadays putting a hand on another person's chest and saying "Hey Miscreant! Put down that infant" is considered assault. Its sad really. People were better behaved when they were subject to justifiable beatings.

  Things were just better then.

  And the police reports would say something like:


  "SUSPECT CHARGED WITH ASSAULT AND BATTERY. EXTENSIVE INJURIES SUSTAINED WHILE ATTACKING SECURITY STAFF. CHAINSAW NOT FOUND, ASSUMED LOST."

Or

  "GUY FUCKED WITH LARGE BOUNCER. PAID STUPID TAX. SUBJECT TO ARRAIGNMENT PENDING SURVIVAL."

Or possible even

  "DUDE FUCKED UP. HURT BAD. PROBABLY SHOULDN'T OF DID WHAT HE DID. KICKBACK TOTALLY NOT OFFERED OR ACCEPTED."


  It was a simpler time.

  And now I'm drunk.



 

.


  Pray For Me Like Catholics Do (i.e. send money),
  -The StripperHerder

 







*Like the wrestlers who suddenly rush from the dressing room when a brawl happens in pro wrestling


*Before Lawyers had completely and utterly taken over America and destroyed most of what was good about it.

A Typical Friday Night Told In 8 Really Short Stories. Or, Fuck, I Wish I Hadn't Been Drunk Through My Entire Early Adulthood.

1) Its a Small World After All:

Me- "Hey didn't I work with you 9 abortions and fifty pounds ago? Bet that uterus looks like a Freddy Krueger mask by now. Slash and burn birth control works like a charm!"

Her- "Hey Random Stranger, I'd love to have your bebby since I've known you for 30 seconds, but I'm plumb out of viable uterine tissue. I've been reamed more times than a cylinder wall on a 1976 Yamaha."

Me- "Well you still look great, kid. Keep up the vicious drug habit!"

                                                  "I will, thank you. Nice to meet you!"






2) The Ballad of Nubbs McGee:

  There's this guy who comes in all the time, friendliest guy in the world. He really likes to shake hands. The problem is that he only has nubs left of all 8 fingers and has warm, damp hands. It therefore feels like shaking hands with a dead, partially dismembered squid that been nuked for 20 seconds. Picture little midget sausage fingers that have been lopped off at the last knuckle. All squirmy and enthusiastic.

  Creepy, man.

                                         They're actually even more discomfiting than these.





3) My Children Need Drugs. You Want A Dance?:

  Sure. I enjoy trying to read hidden messages written in stretch marks. You're like Sumerian glyphs scrawled on bad decisions and a poor diet. Getting a dance from you would be like reading a road map that features only places called Hell and Revulsion. And, in case I'm so drunk I can't find my shoes, your ravaged udders will kindly point the way. Even if you're doing a back bend.

  Fuck. Make it two baby.

                             "I think it translates to 'Conserve Water and something about beef jerky"








4) You Like My Hair?"

  Absolutely. I think the Dog the Bounty Hunter look is an excellent choice for for a dancer of your advanced years. Good call! Tomorrow you should do Beyond the Thunderdome or Night of the Comet or Nipple-Mullet Thing From the Black Lagoon."

  Surprise me!"

                                                "That'll be $20. Go with God and thanks, baby"




5) My Chubby, Insecure Bitch Hates Strip Clubs. So We's In One!"

  A group of 13 comes in and adds some much needed ghetto to the place. It was refreshing really . They buy a bottle of hennessy, first choice of classy people everywhere, for $400. Then they ask me for the other floor guy 68 times with such requests as, "I don't like the dancer on stage. Can you take her off?" and "I wants to bang every stripper here on stage while eating pizza and stabbing a homeless child to death but I won't pay more than $9 to do it."

  The one guy's girlfriend got all shitty with any dancer that approached within ten feet of her bebbydaddy, resulting with much friction between her and some of our more wholesome entertainers.

  For the waitress's trouble in setting up bottle service for 13 people they generously tip $8 on a $500 tab, and then proceed to tip the floor guy another $7. If we'd only had another 67 more tables like them, gosh our night would've been great.

                Having been legally declared part of the fruits and vegetables family, Hennessy is now WIC eligible.





6) Sharp As a Wet Sack Of Dog Miscarriages:

  There are some absurdly stupid girls in this industry. Thankfully a lot of the customers aren't all that bright to begin with and they've drunk themselves back to infancy. Therefore most transactions go through without a hitch because everyone's on the same level. If it weren't for the managers and other floor hosts, I could make a scarecrow that vaguely resembles me with a motion activated sensor that plays "THE MANAGER IS IN THE OFFICE."

  And most of them wouldn't notice. Some of the nice ones would stick a couple of dollars in its pocket and ask it where the money's at.

                  "Oh My God you scared me! Why do you always stand in the same place? Yer like a statue!"





7) The Berlin Strategem, or I'll Just Ask Every Single Living Creature If It Wants A Dance:

  Its called Carpet Bombing. And its the last resort of a Dancer in her final stage of Stripper-Life. I had a girl ask a customer if his seeing eye dog wanted a dance*. It said no and stuck its nose up its own ass because it smelled better than her bat-infested hoo-ha.

  I used to work with this girl (who has thankfully since retired) who was famous for this. She actually, on average, made more money than a large portion of the girls she worked with despite having an ass like 2 wombats fighting in a pair of latex hot pants and tits like vertical watermelons that had cracked in the sun.

  Add in a gut scar like a horizontal Shazam symbol and she was a real winner. But she just didn't give up and had no understanding of the thing you call 'shame'.

                                   Picture this gray and puckered on a field of striated despair
                                         




8) I Refuse To Leave A Sphincterprint! I Want To Speak To A Manager!


  First of all I fucking LOVE it when someone demands to see a manager. It reduces my interaction with a cuntastic dogfucking asshole and permits said manager to manage what used to be my problem. 

  At this particular establishment we demand a sphincterprint with each credit card transaction. This means if the customer ever tries to deny the charges (which happens more often than you'd think), we make him go to court and pop his O-ring on a copier. This way we have an undeniable pucker-print which makes it difficult to dodge successfully.

  A lot of guys object to the waitress's dabbing ink on their balloon-knots and get all uppity. It makes me laugh. We're ironclad.

                         Mike K. from Albany got a Champagne Room, 2 Surf-N-Turfs and a bottle of Moet










  I was going to make it ten stories, but this has taken me 3 hours and I still have to play poker, so this is all ya get ya fookers.

-The StripperHerder.





*This is absolutely true. This fucking happened.**


**I shit you not.

Decent Ass, Shame About That Face, or, Keep Poking That Unexploded Bomb. That Seems Like a Good Idea, or even, Fuck You And Your Sports Team You Retching, Ball-Less Faggot

  This newest place I work at is the Fourth Plane of Hell.

                              The break room is just behind the smoking volcano in the background

  Apparently I committed some fucking legendary atrocities in a former life and karma is going all Count of Monte Cristo on my ass. Never in my life have I worked at a place dominated by such epic cuntery and puckered, emasculated mismanagement.





  


Its like working in a blade factory run by a hemophiliac schizophrenic.


  


  Let me throw some tidbits your way and you can form your own opinions.

 
  -These 2 ghetto ho's teamed up today and basically bushwhacked unsuspecting drunks*.  They promised every sexual act possible that doesn't require a midget, Bugatti or a panda, then refused to deliver or came screaming to a floor host when a dude would whip out his pecker. Every single room they had was a pain in the ass or a brawl for us worthless Floor Abortions who had to wade through their river of broken hope*.

  These quasi literate twats made over 3K each, saw the carnage they'd wrought for us Walking Meat Pies and still only tipped a total of $23. So if my math serves me correctly means they tipped us less than 0.3% of what they earned from our physical and mental exertions. (1 Fight, 2 Escorted Toss Outs and 3 Justifiably Pissed Off Would-Be Johns.)*


  -Another seriously Mounumental Bitch heard this guy had some dough on him so she landed him and made $400 off him. Then, thinking she had bled him dry, disappeared to make another $500 elsewhere for the next hour or so.

  Later she realizes this guy is STILL in the club spending money freely and its not with her. So she freaks out very publicly on the other dancer and motherfuck's both them loudly and inappropriately in front of everyone in the club. She strides up to me and says the other girl was letting the guy finger here right on the floor and that I should throw the guy out then goes back to yell at both of them more.

  I was right there anyway, and trust me, there was no finger banging going on whatsoever. Total bullshit spawned by an indignant Mecha-Whore*.

  I told the Mismanager this when he asked what was going on. Then the Mecha-Whore comes over and spews her poison on him. End result was that he took her side and chastised the other (reasonably innocent) dancer. There was no reprimand/discipline for this rampant bitch.

  He has no balls. Not a speck of testicular matter whatsoever. And because of this he's a classic Bully. He takes out his impotent rage on his underlings. Which is everyone.

  But his favorite prey is always Floor Grouse.

  His radio skills are amazingly bad which leads me to believe he does it on purpose since he has an extensive military background. I'd like to say (like the vast majority of my previous bosses) that I want to punch his smirking face, but the sad truth is that I'm not sure I could whoop his ass, He is not a man to be taken lightly.

  Given all that, here's what his radio communication sounds like. Everyone else with a radio is clear as a bell except for the door girl, who has a voice like Hooks from Police Academy, yet he comes through as:

  "Wustel figgle noo noo. Hoth terra fuck doing, jawa?"


  
  When you politely say "Huh?" He replies

  "ARGLE SEMPER DOOGLE WHY HOLE AM I? FUSHIN MEFFLE-WEFFLE DIRGE!"








   Its fuckin maddening. 




  This Particular club has been through 71 Managers in the past 5 years*. The average Life Expectancy of a Manager in this organization is less than that of an F-16 pilot who is blind and limbless.

  This should tell you something about this company.


  -I found 3 wallets this weekend. Two with money and one without. I took them up to the lobby after debating with myself whether to take the cash or not. I decided not to on both occasions because I wouldn't want anyone to do that to me.

  That being said, considering the environment, wouldn't YOU choose to reward a person honest enough to not only return your wallet WITH the money in it, but to have you paged to front lobby to pick it up?

  Call me crazy, cuz I've done it before, but if you find my wallet with all the cash still in it much less the ID, credit cards, bank cards, insurance cards, pictures, and various other valuables, you're getting a reward my friend. Honesty like that deserves a motherfucking gratuity. Not many people would do that in a club full of drunks, drug addicts, opportunists, whores, lowlife scumbags, professional athletes, rich guys and desperate, grandmotherly strippers.

  For finding and returning these wallets intact I received 2 Thanks and 0 Dollars.

  What, beyond my own honor, is my incentive for being honest?



  From now on there's going to be a 20% Finder's Fee subtracted before subject is paged.






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


  One Holy, Shining Moment we had recently was the Shit-Canning of of prodigious Whoo-er who's been  haunting the scene for WAY too long. This bloated bitch was like a great grandma with an intestinal parasite who did more drugs than a nursing home. She was wretched in a way that I can't fully describe without using smells.

  This date shall be known forevermore as Goodbye Cunt Day and will be celebrated by Floor Knaves everywhere with startling regularity and solemn introspection.


  I'll do pictures later. Have run out of beer. Off to fix that problem but done with typing for now.



  Blargle nuegle dish-dash,
 -The StripperHerder












  


  


  











*These guys aren't exactly blameless. They were insanely drunk idiots and I feel very little pity for them.**

**For an idea of how these fucking bitches went through customers, watch the following video. You'll only need 20 seconds to get the idea. Not for the faint of heart.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8874Lrull0


*Where we suffer the Pirahna of Unhappiness


*These numbers have been switched around a bit to cover my paranoid ass. There was a fair amount of blood involved which is OK because it wasn't mine or my co-worker's.

*The same Mecha-Whore who, incidentally, ass-raped the Whooping Crane several installments ago.

  See a pattern?


* This is not an exaggerated number




  


  

Weave Will, Weave Will Rock You, or, Weave: Elaborate Hair Piece or Alien Menace?

  Wow. Just wow.

  There's a girl at the new club I work at whose platinum blond weave looks like it leads an independent life of its own when she's sleeping. Like a mink stole that's alive, but concedes to playing dead for hours at a time in exchange for eating a small amount of the host's soul every day.

                             Koko trots out her favorite mount Rhianna for some fun at the beach.





It looks so ridiculous that I find myself making up TV shows that feature it.

  Some of my favorites are:

  Weaves Gone Wild: An uncensored look at the disturbing genitals of drunken Weaves on vacation.

  Weave The People: A period piece about the pivotal role of early American Weaves in the fledgling United States judicial system.

  George And Weavy: A spin off of the popular The Jeffersons series that centers around George (Sherman Hemsley) after his divorce from Weezy (Isabel Sanford) and his new marriage to a Weave from Long Island named Princess.

  America's Next Top Weave: A grueling contest to find the next hot style, featuring Weaves from all the major star systems.

  Have Weave, Will Travel: The compelling tale of a lone Gunweave making her way across the Old West, dispensing justice with six barrels and a steed named Taqueesha.

  Weave Vs. Wild: Former Special Forces Weave, Mercedes Rydaho, goes into the most extreme environments on the planet armed with only some hairpins, a razor blade and hell of a glossy sheen.

  Weave's Company: A hilarious look at the lives of three working class Weaves after the clubs close.

  W*E*A*V*E: A sometimes funny and always touching show about the often overlooked contributions of Weaves in the Korean War.

  I got a million of em...


  Its like the subject of a Stephen King short story. An race of extraterrestrial parasites that look like a pile of thick, glorious hair use beautiful black women to ultimately enslave the human race. The Weaves offer 10 amazing years of constant party in exchange for the host's life.









And SO MANY accept....

                     "And when he said VIP fo life, I assepted memediatley and ordered me some Cristal, bitches!"









  The Weaves sometimes go out when the host is sleeping. They crave fried foods whose oily residues they roll in to keep their unearthly luster. Occasionally a host makes a stand against their Weave having a night out. I envision the conversation going something like this:

  Weave- "I'm goin out bitch! There better be some hot wings waitin for me when I gets home!"

  Host- "You aint't goin out agians tonight! You was out last night! Its you turn to watch da Babee!"

  Weave- "Ho, I cain't believe you gots da temurrity to talk at me like dat! I will smack dat sass right on outta you!"

  Host- "Mothefakka! You gets back on yo plastic head and shut da fuck up! I's goin out wit m'girls!"

  Weave- " Bitch you is tryin my patience! Quit triflin or I put you in yo place!"

  Host- "Bring it Mothefak....[muffled slaps and the sound of a body falling]...[sounds of pain]...you fuck....."

  Weave- "I didn't want to do dat bitch, but I don't take no lip from no ho! You just lay there and bleed and think on what you done! Remember da mothafakkin hot wings!"


  Maybe that's an unrealistic view of the host/symbiote relationship, but I always picture the Weave being the parasite and the poor, unfortunate dancer being the host organism.






  And that's all I have to say about that.*

  -Das StrieberHebber





*But don't take my word for it. Take a look at these shocking and unadulterated photos of Weaves living among us: