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