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!"
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.
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.
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!"
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.
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.
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'.
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.
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.
