A StripperHerder's Prayer, Psalm 23 1/2. Or, More Wrinkles Than My Fucking Scrotum

  The Club Owner is my shepherd, I shall not have.
  He makes me clean up obscene manures
  He leads me beside shrill daughters
  He assrapes my soul.
  He Leads me away from righteousness
  For His cash to make

  Yea though I walk through the valley in the shadow of breasts
  I will fear no recompense
  For you will rob me
  Your mob, and your staff
  They enrage me

  You make me prepare a table
  For a sextet of douchebags
  You anoint my shoes with bile
  And the toilet runneth over
  Surely anger and abuse shall follow me
  Every day I work for your miser ass
  And I shall dwell in the house of discord
  Forever

                                     "Bitch best haveth my money. That's all I have to sayeth."

 

  That took two beers to write and they were good. I sincerely hope the next 12 taste even better.



 

  I'm insanely fucking pissed off right now, so for me this is going to take some time. But through the magic of the interwebs, this will seem to take no time at all for anyone reading this. I find it cathartic to drink myself senseless while I unleash the rage monkey which dwells on my back to roam this ethereal jungle gym and forcibly mate with weaker blogs.

                           I never really expected anything to come up when I searched 'monkey rape'.




  My time at this particular establishment is drawing to a close. I realize this. The money that's robbed from me and the despicable bullshit I wade through to do my job are building up like innocent snow on an overhang, just waiting to thunder down the mountain and wipe out a picturesque ski chalet full of wholesome Swiss people.


  I'm not superstitious by any means, but I did however find something yesterday that I'm choosing to take as an omen. I dropped one of my work vests onto a small table that contains, among other things, the foot powder that prevents me from sickening people with my yeti-level pod-stench. It came away dirty as fuck because I am a horrifying slob. One of the marks on it caused by spilled foot powder looks suspiciously like a skull, or possibly a demon's head complete with ram horns or crazy bat ears.




  Here's the vest in its entirety:

                                            "This is important. This means something."
                               



  Here is a closer view:

                                              "I'm listening, Belial. And I totally agree."




  Silly peasant fears aside, I'm having a serious problem with getting into the proper mindset to deal with the job. To put in pseudo-eastern terms, you must enter the stripperherding realm like water. Ready to flow around obstacles and round off the sharp edges in a soothing manner, yet able to sweep forward unstoppable, washing all before you away.




  Fire is too angry, air is too stupid and earth is too slow. Water it must be.


  Lately I've been more like ice, which is really just angry water that stopped caring a while ago and moved out of it's parents' house when they started asking for rent.






  I've become a thief. 


  I've given up all hope and opportunity of a social life. 


  I have a hate baby growing in my guts that requires booze to make it shut up. 

                                                 "Double shot of Goose, neat."



 
  Sigh. This jobs kills most of that which was good about my life.





  Fuck it. Let's go into detail about my night.



  Started off decent enough. I was in a rare good mood and the club was busy without being idiotically packed. There were lots of bachelor parties that actually spent money and I sold 2 bachelor shows and was up to $90 without even breaking a sweat. It didn't seem like a vagtastrophe*1 was gonna happen, but then it did.


  Of course.


  First off this geriatric South American dancer collapses on the floor. I just figured the grim specter of old age had finally claimed her, but it turns out she was merely drunk. This golden-ager has lived in this country for 6,000 years and you still can't understand a goddamn word she is saying. She's like a wizened, troublesome Charo, prunelike and incomprehensible and a constant source of shame and bewilderment.

                                            "Uis Poppy, I newis sholpa go bump-bump."*2




  She does this turn of the century fainting thing, like actresses in silent movies who throw their arms over their eyes and swoon gently onto a convenient sofa.

 
  I tried to convince her that she could walk and she insisted on being carried. This wasn't much of a chore since she weighs roughly about the same as a dessicated mummy and I manged to bump her head into two walls and a doorway on the way to the dressing room, the nooks of which old strippers crawl away to die when they know their time is near.

   
  I want to stuff a clay pinata with live scorpions, maggots and various Cthulean horrors and make her bat away at it until it spills all over her.

 
  Then I would laugh. 


  
  
             

             Oh how I would laugh.




  



  After that I walked 12 dancers out that couldn't be bothered to tip me. I muled their bags for them and carved a non gropy path through a sea of asshole, but $3 was too much to sacrifice. There was meth to be purchased and bongs to be filled.

 

  And then I had the misfortune to be seen on the floor. You know, actually doing my job. Being around and so forth. A customer approaches me and explains that he's been ripped off by a dancer. I was shocked but managed to hide my surprise as I asked him what had transpired.

 
  He said that he had given a dancer X amount of dollars and received X amount of dances. Or, he had been charged two and a half times the going rate for a private dance. He identified the dancer for me and it was then that I knew God hates me.

 
  Now a few words regarding the Customer. He was, by my estimations, completely sober. He was respectful, well spoken and extremely reasonable. Almost aggravatingly calm, even. I'm so used to people starting out at 'shitty' and going downhill from there that I almost couldn't deal with his politeness. He was in town for business, was a doctor and had never been to The Club before.

 
  Welcome, buddy. Welcome to the Whore Pits.

 
  And a few words about the dancer. Her definition of drunk is wallowing in chunk free vomit while a total stranger bangs her from behind for reasons she can't recall and doesn't care about.


  To abbreviate the story I talk to the Mana-Jur, Sir Neverhere Unreachable Befuckled-Ambivalston III. He says to tell hammered dancer to either do the required dances for the man or refund the difference.

 
  Dancer refuses to do what I tell her and goes to talk to Sir Befuckled-Ambilvaston herself. To his credit he tells her the same thing and she responds by going outside and having a cigarette. At this point in the night there were only two songs left and she owes him three. I track her down and lead her to the customer who has reluctantly agreed to accept dances from what is obviously a stinking drunk, hostile stripper.

                                      "Fuck you! They're totally hot! Enhhhh-ehhnehhh..."




  She staggers up to the customer, smacks in the head and inquires "are you the fucking asshole I have to dance for?" She follows it up by slapping him again halfway through the first dance and walks away when he says that's enough. Dude didn't get his money back, just a handful of passes for free entry to the club and a couple of complimentary assaults.

 
  I'll bet he's in a huge hurry to come back.


  I didn't even bat an eyelash. I knew this trainwreck was gonna cuntsplode*4 on this guy and I certainly wasn't disappointed.

 
  I heard her complaining later to the DJ after the club was closed. It was hard to hear her over the furious scratching of the pen which was busy rewriting history in her head.

 
  I just barely managed to avoid bludgeoning her to death with any available object. Mostly because it would've been the DJ, and I like him. He's good people, not an instrument of stripper punishment.




 And then there's this other bitch, incidentally one of the ones who couldn't be bothered to tip. She was on stage "dancing" when I noticed her thong was pulled so far into her vulva that I could count the growth wrinkles on her labia. Her entire va-jay-jay was staring out at the crowd.

 
  I was going to tell the Mana-Jur but then I remembered he doesn't give one fucking iota of shit about these kinda things. So I take matters into my own hands, mostly because I hate this little whorey air-waster.

 
  I pull her aside and tell her her who-ha is all kinds of exposed. She responds, and I absolutely shit you not, by adjusting her bra and asking me if this is better.

 
  I went to my Happy Place. My training kicked in and I completely failed to beat the last breath out of her while madly humming Flight of the Valkyries. This girl made roughly a grand tonight, by being a miserable whore, and didn't tip a squalid dime.






  So that is all. In fact I'm actually editing this right now, from the future, because I hadn't even written a closing on the original post. Therefore this entire paragraph is, in fact, bonus material and should be thought of as a tablespoon of literary gravy that's been applied retroactively to a good meal you've had in the past that could've benefited from another dollop of gravy.


  Huh. Yeah. That works.



  Live Long and Profit, from distant late 2014,

-The StripperHerder
















*1 Vagtastrophe: [noun] A situation gone horribly wrong because of a fucked up chick.






*2 I'm gettin pretty drunk. Let go your standards. Captions are hard.





*3 Here's the reality, you fucking cunt. You're a degenerate, unattractive alcoholic stripper in your early thirties with ridiculous, striated fake titties and all the self control of a starving shark during a feeding frenzy. You have no ass, no muscle tone and your swollen liver makes you look like you're late in your second trimester with some undoubtedly misshapen baby. You're dreary and depressing to be around because of the desperation to get drunk that you exude like a musk that smells of defeat**


     **Historical note written from the future as I pass through my blog and try to edit and update: The dancer I'm referring to in Footnote #3 will in time become known as Vodzilla and establish itself as my arch enemy for a brutal two year span. It was one of my first run ins with it.





*4 Cuntsplode [verb] To unleash estrogen powered crazy on a random person/object/self in an extremely public fashion in an attempt to cause as much drama and collateral damage as possible.

A Serious Argument Against Becoming A Plumber. Or, Goody For Me, Another Hobgoblin With Major Issues And A Complete Disregard For Tipping.

  I wander into work the other day and the club smelled like a medieval city. It reeked like a refugee camp located in a swamp next door to a tannery. How could an entire shift of employees just ignore this?

  I realize the Organization from the top down doesn't give a meth addict's shit about us unless we have a booty to shake on stage, but that doesn't forgive letting a stench take over half the room. It was fucking biblical.

  So as I've mentioned before, my parents instilled a pretty good work ethic in me and I have never forgiven them for it. It was clear to me the foulness was emanating from the women's bathroom, challenging my resolve with its potency and pugilistic pungentness.


  
              I made up my mind to confront the Nemesis.

                                      "Face me StripperHerder! Face ME!"



  The first couple of stalls were pretty typical. And by that I mean they were in various states of horror. Its amazing what hammered chicks will go to the bathroom in/on. You see at our club, the auto flush systems in our club work great everywhere except the girl's restroom. The place it's most important for them to function, they don't.

  This doesn't take into account that if the toilet doesn't manage to flush properly, there is a small black button that one could press to give it another try, which is just common damn courtesy as far as I'm concerned.

  But not in our Girl's Room, the place civilization goes to die.

  So I met the enemy. It was just as I expected, one half assed attempt by the cleaning crew to unclog a toilet, and another one completely filled with assorted female runoff. They obviously took one look at that steaming disaster in front of them and said "Fuck that."

  I could've said nothing about it. I was off the next day and then it wouldn't have been my problem anymore. But I had customers complaining, I had staff complaining and everyone else is fuck all useless.

  So I made sure the Manager was aware of it so he could vent some wrath on a lazy cleaning crew and then I dealt with the problem.

  Here was the dilemma: The toilet was absolutely full to the top with matter. It had been that way for at least 15 hours and had developed quite a lot of character. Obviously plunging was out of the question, not only was the toilet not going to eat that amount of shit, but the thought of churning up that monstrous layer cake of human waste made my skin crawl.

                                           This looks like a job for a an idiot in a tux.



  Therefore, being as I'd made my decision to fix the problem, I was left with 2 options*1



  A) Scoop the bowl clean with some kind of instrument.

 
  Pros: 1) Don't feel the texture of the contents through gloves, 2) the satisfaction of being a tool-using mammal, 3) not actually touching fecal gloop

  Cons: 1) Not a single usable tool in the place that would've done the job, 2) would've taken two or three times the amount of time as manually doing it, 3) instrument would've unleashed the full fury of the primal stew, 4) would inevitably have splashed doo doo butter on me.


   Or,


  B) Strap on my big boy gloves and do some hand excavating

 
  Pros: 1) Faster than scooping-possibly over before I hurl,  2) Manager hopefully impressed at my can-do attitude*2, 3) a short lived feeling of having done the right thing*3.

   Cons: 1) Feeling the texture of the contents through my gloves, 2) the inability not to look at what I was doing, 3) witnessing the strata of mammalian byproduct up close and personal, 4) months of counselling.


  I went with B. I honestly didn't have much choice in the matter other than ignoring the problem and hoping the Manager, Sir Rolf Buttergrin Smedleycheek III didn't tell me to do something about it.

  For obvious reasons I don't recommend hand scooping an over capacity toilet at the start of a shift. It can color your mental outlook for the rest of the day with a stinky brown crayon.


  Did I mention I'm not paid enough to do my job?



                                             






                        Thievery. 




  Its an ugly word for an ugly deed. I get robbed every single time I set foot in this place. If I wanted to get robbed I would pin money to my shirt and wander the ghetto, but I don't so I don't.

  Us Floor Guys are supposed to split all tips evenly, instead we all steal from each other and the stupid part is that we all know we steal from each other. It makes no fucking sense. It pisses me off to no end and there isn't a goddamn thing I can do about it.


  I'm at the point that I can no longer afford to work here. The bullshit I have to put up with at this job is no longer balanced out by the money I take home.

  I'm happy to eat a giant shit sandwich provided I'm paid enough to do so, but asking me to feast on feces for a paltry $75 a night average is asking too much.

  Am I the greatest Floor Schlump to ever grace a club? Certainly not. I don't really care about making the club's owner money because he already makes too much as it is. But I do care about making myself and the other Floor Mules some dough. And my reward?

  They fucking steal from me.


  That's all I'm going to say about this subject now because I'm getting ready to break something thinking about it.





  So let's turn to our Dancer Corps.

  In three words or less I'm going to describe some of our strippers that worked tonight.


  Ready?


  1)Fucking repugnant
  2)Fat
  3)Total goddamn bitch
  4)Future overdose statistic
  5)Inventor of meth
  6)Cheap, worthless barnacle
  7)Thug-in-thong
  8)Waste of oxygen
  9)Filthy whore
  10)Shaved dog asshole
  11)Attractive as bigfoot
  12)Smells like corpse
  13)Face like hatchet
  14)Senior citizen
  15)Government aid abuser
  16)Uglier than bigfoot
  17)Simply frightening
  18)Slightly less fat
  19)Blisteringly stupid
  20)Pox scarred
  21)Sexually uninviting
  22)Hundred percent retarded
  23)Selfish, disinterested twat
  24)Giant and crazy
  25)Confused, bewildered, hopeless

                                                 Dancer #24 preparing her dinner.




  This is what I work with everyday. Pity me.


  One particular gem we hired recently is arguably the ugliest dancer I've ever had the misfortune to work with. In addition to her facial charms, awesome back hair and mantis-like posture, she's also a walking bundle of neuroses. She is afraid of a moth. Seriously, a moth. You know, a tiny fucking butterfly with fluffy goddamn wings?

                                                "It flutters about unpredictably!"



  This girl interrupted me while I was sitting peacefully trying to eat my meager dinner to ask me if I could remove a moth from the locker room because she fears them.

  I'm sure a strange look passed over my face as my subconscious kicked in the manual override and made me put my fork down calmly and in a non stabby manner. I quietly asked her where "this beast doth lie" and she had no clue what I was talking about.

  I sighed, dialed back the sarcasm and intelligence and asked "Where is'm big scawy moff?"

  A half hour later she's in a champagne room with a regular who obviously follows her trail of misery from club to club. She sits astride him as they enthusiastically fondle each others loathsome genitals. I alert the Mismanager on Duty, Sir Giddyup Blindly Fuckificare IV and he replies, "Oh that whore? That's just what she does. She's a piece of shit."


  
 Then why the fuck did you hire her?




  As I'm sure you guessed by the title, the ungrateful bitch didn't tip a squalid dime.


  In the immortal words of Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon 1-12, "I'm too old for this shit."


Donations accepted,
-The StripperHerder




















  *1 I'd briefly considered using the shop vac to clean the toilet with, but the thought of emptying it out horrified the shit out of me.




*2 I'm joking. He didn't give a fuck.




*3 About 4 hours later the hopelessly plugged toilet that the cleaning crew abandoned after getting it to overflow, backed up again releasing a stench so foul the girls restroom door had to be closed and the room exorcised.



P.S. This will be one of my final few blog posts as an actual Stripperherder, so enjoy it. Soon I will have to bitch about some other subject matter. I'm going to guess poverty will feature prominently.


  

And Then You Bring It Down In A Stabbing Motion... Or, Let Them Eat Cock.

  Q. "How much smack could a stripper bang, if a stripper could bang smack?"



  A. "A fuck of a lot."




  We had a Pulp Fiction moment tonight. I thought for a minute I was going to have to drive a needle full of adrenalin through a stripper's chest plate and into her heart. Luckily for me we didn't have a needle full of adrenalin*1, and luckily for her we didn't have a needle full of adrenalin.
  
  I didn't even have a marker on me...

                                  "I just had too much to drink........ What's this thing in my tit?"

  
  




  I have come to the conclusion that I am not paid enough to do my job. On the other side of the coin, I'm not worth minimum wage at much of anything else. 


  Seriously, I suck at most stuff. I excel at trivia, eating, sleeping and very little else. And so far I've been unable to get anyone to pay me anything for doing any one of those things.

  I can't even sell my super awesome sperm, which would bring height, brains and chisled good looks to any egg it managed to successfully storm*2. All because I don't have a college degree.

  The sperm banks are depriving the world of my moderate above averageness all because I couldn't be bothered to go to college, much less graduate.


  Seems a waste of all this genetic potential....*3












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




  One of the ways Floor Guys can make a few bucks in this industry is by selling a Bachelor Show. The structure of the show varies slightly from place to place, but basically amounts to getting the Bachelor on stage and humiliating/emasculating him in front of the whole club. 

                                                   Where the magic happens.



  This is outrageously funny for his drunken friends, and a potential source of income for us. We have to sell the show at a higher price than what the club requires or we don't make any money, but at the same time we're not allowed to quote more than the minimum price.

  So we have to be salesmen.

  In other words a Bachelor Show at out club costs $125. Of that the "club" (owner) gets $95, and each girl receives a ten spot. DJ gets nada as do us Floor Shames. Therefore the last thing we want to do is sell a Bachelor Show for the minimum price.




  What's the fucking incentive? 



  At every other goddamn club I've worked at there was a set money breakdown for each person in the transaction; the DJ got X amount, the dancers got X amount, the Floor Guys got X amount and the club got X amount.

  Here its just the club that eats everything, with some crumbs tossed to the girls. If we're caught quoting over the listed price, we're fired. Just like that. The rumor is that the owner sends in Secret Shoppers occasionally to make sure that everyone is quoting the right prices. (Personally I doubt this since the owner can't be bothered to fix a fucking toilet seat, much less pay people to spy on his employees.)

                                     Rare pic of club's owner reaching for His cut of the tips.
       



  All that being said we had a dancer recently who found out that a Floor Igor had made a $50 tip on a Bachelor Show. She couldn't take her prying whore nose out of our business long enough for us to make a fucking living. Keep in mind that said Floor Igor would've had to split this tip between 6 or 7 other bouncers, therefore she couldn't handle him making a paltry $7-8.

  She is a fucking mobile cock-garage.

  She insisted that the tip was hers and complained to a Mana-Jur that he had stolen her tip. (To keep this in perspective, just in the year I've been here us Floor Cunts have sold hundreds of Bachelor Shows, three quarters of which have included her. She is a Bachelor Show Specialist )

  This girl has made an extra couple of grand this year alone because of the DJ and the Floor Wretches. And she has the nun-raping temerity to say that the tip is hers?



  The Manager sided with the dancer and we lost the tip.

  What's a StripperHerder to do?*4




               *********************




  We have this chick, total hot commodity. Looks like an underage lolita which is kinda sick, yet widely popular. She is hot as fuck, hands down. I would like to bang nine kinds of crap out of her and would even  consider scatterific stuff if it meant I could destroy all three of her holes*5 and we could both cry at the end of it.

                                 "That ASSHOLE wouldn't give me $1000!" weep weep pout pout




  Anyway this girl is a complete sweetheart, until the slightest little thing doesn't go her way. Then she becomes a petulant Grimsnatch*6 bent on destroying others peoples' happiness.

  She never tips even though I've made her money several times. She's hot enough that if she could just conceal, for a fucking minute, what a superfluous little cunt she is, she would make money like a lemonade seller in Hell.

  But her vapid personality, coupled with her obvious disgust of and scorn for the Working Classes, make her earning power a fraction of what it could be.



  But even still, this stripper used to drive a crappy Focus around. Recently she bought a 40K Mercedes which she bragged that she bought for 27K cash.




  Obviously cash she saved from not tipping Floor Hosts.

                            A sure way to endear yourself to Floor Beasts everywhere.




  I can't see any reason she doesn't understand the connection between Floor Guys and Dancers other than the possibility she's dumb as she looks. She'll still come up to me sometimes and ask me where she should go to make some money. At these times I look at her calmly, my serene poker face betraying nothing.

  But inside my skull my brain is slamming itself against its bony prison in a spirited attempt to force my body to slap everything good from this selfish bitch's world.

  I'm unwilling to try to explain trickle down economics to her because it would require her to grasp the concept of thankfulness and mutual benefit.

  I know nothing about her outside of the club but would be willing to bet that she's the spoiled rotten spawn of some wealthy and powerful shithead who paid very little attention to her as a child.

  Or maybe too much attention. Who knows?



  That is all for now, children. I'd like to take this time to thank the 5 people who donated some of their hard earned money to an underprivileged StripperHerder. Always remember: its not your fault that you're better than other people, do't let it get you down!


  Tune in next week when I explain how to clear a toilet filled to the brim with toilet paper, feces, paper towels and discarded feminine hygiene products, share how I saved the world's ugliest dancer from the terrors of a moth and why drunk idiots need to drop more money on the floor for me to find.






Thank you for your patronage,
-The StripperHerder











  




  

*1 Yet we did have a convenient body of water....




*2 Along with a propensity towards obesity, a mediocre penis and an ingrained laziness like an ancestral back-riding monkey.




*3 Messy, messy potential.




*4 I'll tell you what we did, we nuked her Bachelor Show earnings.**


  ** Haha, fuck you bitch.



*5 Especially the yappy one.





*6 Grimsnatch: (grim snach)-A theoretically mythological creature related to both Syrens and Kracken but possessing neither melodious voice nor obvious tentacles.


Size/Type: Small to Medium/ Succubi
Hit Dice: 3D6+8
Initiative: +4
Armor Class:  18 (-1 size, +9 natural), touch 9, flat-footed 18
Base Attack/Grapple: +3/+12
Attack:                     Drink Toss/Bitch Slap          
Full Attack: Boxcutter/Heel Stab/Bottle
Special Attacks: Unholy Scream/Summon Bouncer/Vomit
Special Qualities: Street Wise/Pickpocket/Blowjob
Saves:                +6 vs. Affliction Shirts/ +4 vs. Drugs/ -5 vs. Father Figures
Abilities: Str 9, Dex 17, Con 124, Int 4, Wis -4, Cha 21
Skills: Grind +8,  Spot Bouncer+6, Squeeze Cock +3
Feats: Resistance to Alcohol, Rhino Skin
Environment:  Strip Club
Organization: Solitary or cluster (2-4)
Treasure: Vulnerable Bills in her Garter, especially when drunk.
Alignment: Chaotic Fuckall

  

Just Because You Take Your Clothes Off For A Living Doesn't Mean You Have To Be A Drunken Slut. Or, Since You're A Drunken Slut Anyway, You Might As Well Take Your Clothes Off For A Living.

  Show of hands, how many people here would like to have a job where you can drink yourself senseless every night and its considered an occupational hazard?

  My hand is up, probably higher than yours.

  Maybe you should consider a fast paced and thrilling career in the titty business. If you currently possess a vagina and/or some fierce cans, you automatically qualify! Drinking problem a plus!

                                        Glamour and empowerment are yours for the taking!




  OK, let me ask you another question. If you have one of those breathalyzer thingies installed on your car by the state in which you live, do you really think you should drink on the job knowing you're going to have to drive home?

  Yeah, I didn't think so. Obviously you don't think like a stripper.

  It gets so goddamn frustrating sometimes...


  I realize alcohol affects your thought processes, trust me on this. As a seasoned, yet high functioning alcoholic, I have been there, done that, bought the shirt and used it to clean the vomit from my face when I woke up.

  I have been debilitating drunk many fucking times is what I'm trying to say. I know that booze and my brain don't get along very well.

  If you're trying to explain something complicated to me when I'm hammered, forget it. I'll have very little comprehension of what you're saying.

 Howfuckingever if you're trying to explain to me A and B, there's a fair chance that by the second or third time I'll have grasped the concept.

  I say this because there was this guy tonight who was trying to get money out of the ATM with a credit card. He hadn't set up his card for cash advances yet, but this didn't stop him from repeatedly attempting it anyway. He didn't even have a PIN for the card.

  I get called over by a dancer and they both simultaneously try to explain what's going on. All I can hear is the  over excited ramblings of the guy overlaid with the sick desperation of hard up stripper.

                                      "He needs...he needs...grasp hack whimper..."



  The guy tells me he wants to spend money at the club but can't get any dough from the magic money-rape machine. I ask him if he's got a PIN number for the credit card and he says no but that its never stopped him when he went to his bank. I heroically stopped myself from punching him in the kidney and patiently explained that of course his bank will give him money. They can ask him for ID and prove his identity. A machine, lacking a PIN, cannot do this.

                                                          Insanely complex.



  He reiterated to me about 6 times that he was trying to spend money in the club and could I please help him do so.

  I said to him that you have 3 options:

  A) Call your bank and establish a PIN for your credit card, or

  B) Use your credit card to buy club money which you can use to buy dances and tip.

  C) Use a different card, perhaps a debit card at the magic money-rape machine. You know, a card that you've used at an ATM before.


  These were his only two options that didn't involve leaving the club. He asked me repeatedly to give him a cash advance on his card and I just as repeatedly told him that not only does our club not do that, and that is in fact illegal in our state.

  He begged me to give him a break on the upcharges. I tried to make him understand that just because I was dressed in a monkey suit and repeating myself to an intoxicated customer, didn't mean that I owned the place.

  I'm pretty sure he was mistaking me for the owner of the club.

  At this point I'd like to do a comic exaggeration of how many times I had the same conversation with this moronic jizz sock, but I think I'll go with reality this time because it really illustrates the patience this job requires.

  I had to explain everything above to the same guy 8 times. From start to finish. The exact same goddamn conversation. It was like the movie Groundhog Day except that instead of helping the hobo, I had to get a concept across to a fuckwit who'd been drinking in order for my tomorrow to happen.


  And that's all the time I'll devote to the memory of that.



  You know what else makes sense? Shutting the fuck up.

  We had a big Donnybrook forming up in the lot tonight. About a dozen or so people getting ready to throw down amid the cars. Whites, blacks, girls and boys, it was gonna get bloody.

  We got in among them before things went all kinds of bat fuck crazy. Separate and Contain. Yet every time we finally got everyone moving toward their vehicles one of these asshole white dudes had to throw out the N word and shit erupted all over again.

                                           Reality checks may be bigger than they appear.




  My money would've been on the black guy. He was my size but a lot more triangular shaped. You know, like someone who actually worked out or something. White guy was pretty woofy but not big at all, giving up a minimum of a hundred pounds.

  He was pretty tough for a guy with 5 bouncers between him and the monster about to pummel 9 kinds of shit outta him.

  It woulda been like Tyson Vs. Kate Moss.




  I have to play poker now. Fuck off.

-The StripperHerder


 



  

Why Nickelback Sucks And What You Can Do About It. Or, In Your Past Lives You Were Probably A Douchebag Too.

  If you like Nickelback, then you don't really like music.

  If you think Nickelback makes seriously kick ass rock n roll music, then you obviously believe Mcdonalds makes a tasty, gourmet burger.

                                             Snow Mexicans. Don't let them fool you.



 It means you've been programmed by soulless cockhats who decided for you what kind music you like. Nickelback produces heartless, douch-inspired frat-felch-rock. And if this kind of talentless drivel amuses you, then God bless you for being as easily entertained as a dairy cow which will stare at a plastic bag caught in a tree for weeks.

                                "Holy shit. Hey guys! You gotta see this!"




  It also probably means that you liked "Friends" or "Napoleon Dynamite".

  It means, in fact, that you like shitty music. And while that doesn't make you a bad person, it may be an indication that you can't think for yourself and would prefer if other people did all that hard, time consuming thinky-stuff for you.

  You see, I'm biased. By my calculations, since late 2006, I've listened to Nickelback songs roughly 10,000 times*. And that's a fuck of a lot. Even if it was my favorite song ever, anything past a couple of hundred times and I'm done. When I start hearing a song as a soundtrack to my infrequent meth induced psychotic episodes, its time to retire that song.

  But I can't dispel* Nickelback. I had the opportunity back in 1999 to cancel their evil by garotting Chad to death with his microphone cord in front of 25 people, but I lacked the foresight. I lacked the knowledge of how prevalent their brand of  Canadian choad-rock would become.

                                                          "I gargle dog jizz."



  I could've saved the world. Instead I watched as it got way more lame.



        




          "I hate Nickelback too, what can I do to help?"






  I'm glad you asked fellow music lover. Here are some ways you can combat the evil that is Nickelback:




1) Kill Chad.*


2) Totally by accident force their tour bus off a cliff of 75 feet or more.


3) Pay attention to which stations play them and religiously boycott their advertisers. Never buy anything from a business which runs commercials on a Nickelback-infected station.

4) Destroy the Earth with you Illudium P-36 Space Modulator. Its for the greater good.*




5) Pray for a new Ice Age that envelops Canada overnight while Nickelback is playing there.




6) Send me money. I'll take care of it.












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




  I've come to the conclusion that people who are assholes in the present have probably been assholes throughout the entirety of mankind. This subscribes to a sorta buddhist way of thinking, and I'll do that for narrative necessity. I'm all like that.

                                           2 Wall of Fame customers and a bar back.

  


  
  So this presumes that all of us have led past lives. We can't remember them except in very special cases of people who are probably crazy, but supposedly we've had them.

  In order to illustrate my point I'll go with this.




  The current theory I'm working with is that someone who was a shit eating goat fucker in his previous lives will, in fact, return as a shit eating goat fucker in this life and there isn't a goddamn thing karma can do about it. History loves repetition so it figures if there's a fucklog shaped hole in causality, the by God a new fucklog will fill that void.

  Humanity can go stick its collective genitals in a meat grinder, history will always win.






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






Installment Addition 1.0:








"How About I Just Keep Hitting You Until It Looks Like Someone Spilled some Italian catering?"






  I had originally meant to stop after that bit about reincarnated spunk bongers, but I am aggravated and therefore I will drink vodka and write more.


  A brief history of tonight.


  6PM: All quiet on all Fronts.

  7PM: Still quiet as a tomb. Subtle feeling of impending asshattery begins to creep up on me.

  8PM Still dead. I wonder if its going to be a quiet night...

  9PM Drains at bar back up with something that smelled like a pot of week old shit that had been poured all over a decomposing corpse that was stuffed with Indian food. Customers and staff are quite literally staggering away from the bar gagging. It was fucking Appalling.

  So being the helpful little Floor Slave that I am, I grab a bottle of bleach, dump a half a cup or so into a mop bucket with plenty of hot water and set to mopping. In minutes the smell of rotting feces is nearly gone. Drains goes back down and while what we were left with wasn't particularly pleasant, it was unbelievably better.

  I then proceed to immediately get chewed out for using bleach because it made some poor widdle peoples eyes burn. That was the thanks I got for preventing a mass exodus on a trail of regurgitation.

  Can't wait for the next time. I'll just go with plain ole hot water. We'll see how that contends when the  Gates of the Unholy open again and spew forth some more nature.


  10PM: Oh. Here's all the assholes. Hi assholes.


  11PM: Kitchen staff implodes. Over 2 hour wait for the simplest of things. "An extra ranch dressing? Add an hour motherfucker."


  12PM "We have a dancer down. I repeat. We have a dancer down." And naked in a stall semi coherent in a puddle of her own vomit. Not only fun, but classy too.


          
   (I searched for an appropriate picture for this one but couldn't find one I was happy with then I got tired of looking at passed out chicks. SO supply your own image. I shouldn't have to do all the work all the time.)


  


I told her I was going to pick her up and haul her drunk carcass back to the dressing room, but she insisted she had to puke more so I just told her to get on with it while I thought about ways I could handle this bile-slick sideshow while attempting to get as little barf on me as possible.

  Her hair would've been my first choice but that might be misinterpreted by some customers. In the end she was able to move with me and another Floor Slave supporting her from either side. I hope she shit herself too.


  1AM: Has been edited by author."Everything is fine. Nothing to see here."


  2AM: The light at the end of the tunnel turns out to be the Douchetrain hurtling towards me. No one escapes the wrath of the Douchetrain.

  2:30AM Go The Fuck Home. Go away. 


  Pile hammered strippers into ton and a half killing machines, pray God's forgiveness, count the fucking cash.




  3:30 Arrive home and start drinking irresponsibly. 






If you really loved me you'd share with someone else who will really love me. This readership isn't gonna grow itself people.
-The StripperHerder




  

*7 times a night x 5 nights a week x 52 weeks x 5 years + 900 other times.

*I put this in for my D&D geek friends. Love you little scamps.

*For legal reasons I can't advocate this. (But it would end their reign of evil. So if you were feeling like going out all supernova and shit, and they happened to be playing your town, you know...)

*The Greater Good.

This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things. Or, The Ballad Of Scuzzy McCraterTits.

In order to be a successful Floor Lout you must have several things:




1) A nearly infinite reserve of patience*.


2) An ability to interpret stripper-slur* that borders on the superhuman.


3) An insanely powerful S.O.S. or Strangulation Override Switch in your skull that kicks on like an emergency generator when needed to prevent you from making the world a better place one dumb slut at a time.


4) An extraordinary capacity for relating to and communicating with people who are so fucking drunk that special needs children could make better decisions than them.


5) A cranium that you can break 2X4's over and only cause negligible cosmetic damage.


6) A voice that can go from cajoling solidarity to imminent berserker with a minimum of fuss.


7) The ability to back up your imminent berserker voice with swift and efficient
containment or, failing that, sudden and remorseless violence should the situation demand it.*


8) The empathy to realize that sometimes one's massive income must be spent on blow, rent be damned.


9) The talent to make instant friends or at least make people feel guilty for causing any ruckus.


10) The ability to identify potential allies and draw upon them if the situation calls for it. Intraparty intercession is your best friend and your first line of defense in times of impending brawliness.


11) The courage to take all of your pride, dignity, self respect and job satisfaction and cram them into a tiny space inside you, not unlike the process of turning a baby cow into veal, except that you forget to feed them or put airholes in the box so they die inside you, eventually rotting and causing a foul odor which you one day mistake for your soul.*


12) The God given gift to pull back the curtain of fantasy for a split second and reveal the horrifying face of reality that all mortals should fear.




  Or something like that.




  In the immortal words of W.C. Fields:

  "If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit."

  And greater words were never spoken. Except for maybe "Yes. I would love a blowjob."




  Anyway, as I ruthlessly bludgeon my internal organs with various poisons, I believe i will pull out my metaphoric gee-tar and play you The Ballad of Scuzzy McCraterTits. (original lyrics by 2 Pac-Marked Shakir)



  Ha. You thought I was going to write a little song there didn't you?

  Well I was. Then I thought better of it. I did however come up with the first lines. The melody for it is pretty catchy, but since I can't write or read music and wouldn't know a chord if it jumped out of a tree and bit me, you'll just have to make up your own.

  "There once was a lass with slack, shanty ass
   And her name was Scuzzy McCraterTits...."



  Yeah. That's good folk right there.


  But I digress. Remember the delightful little gal who wished death on a serviceman over $20 this past Memorial Day? Well that little charmer was back at it this weekend. What a little rascal she is.

  Let me assure you if, God forbid, I ever control America, this girl will be euthanized.

  She will be liquidated. She will be put to sleep. She will go to her reward. She will meet the Gorgon.

  She will, in fact, be sent to a farm where she can run around free all day and play with other metaphors for being killed.

  She is surplus to requirement and her baby hatch smells of neglected guinea pigs.


 Yeah, I said that. Our family used to raise various rodents for deviant sexual purposes sale to pet stores so I know what I'm talking about.


  I'm not going to go into what she did this weekend. Its too aggravating. The sheer unfounded arrogance of this girl is astounding. 


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












  Now I'm going to end here and write the next installment,Stripper-Slur: The Game.






Herding my way through Shangri-Blah,


-The StripperHerder








  




  




  




  









*I don't really have this, but I'm way better at it than a lot of guys I've worked with.

*Keep an eye out in a future installment for the the Stripper Slur: The Game.

*It is not strictly necessary to be particularly big nor exceptionally tough to be a bouncer, but I recommend it. Sometimes no amount of words are going to prevent some bloodshed. Yee-Haw!


*That was one big sentence.
  

Please Bludgeon Each Other To Death With Your Hair Straighteners. Or, I Simply Can't Use Any Smaller Words, You'll Just Have To Trust Me On This.

  OK, here's another thing I'll never understand. Why is it that kids today believe that if you get into a verbal confrontation with someone, whoever stops running their mouth first loses?* They just physically can't shut up and ignore the other person, thus ending the whole situation.

                                        "Bitch took my lip gloss! Its called Strawberry Facial!"



  In my experience people who really want to fight just start swinging, they don't stand there screaming at the top of their lungs. I had the misfortune of being the guy who had to go into the dressing room again tonight because 2 strippers were squealing at each other like 2 sodomized piglets.

  One is tall, skinny and on enough coke to kill 5 fat comedians. She's scabrous, dumb as a pile of beaver scat and really gross. The other is even less savory and chunky as fuck. When they stand next to each other they look like the number 10 with a skin condition after it got raped while wearing clown makeup.

  Again, it was a perfect Thunderdome moment. I wish we could've strapped em in, attached some rotary sanders to the top of the 'Dome and let em go at it.

  Two skanks enter. One skank leaves. That is the rule.

  This is what pistol crossbows are made for.

                                                 "Bitch be all triflin up in my shit!"






  In other news I'm going to write this next segment specifically for those people out there who enjoy cramming themselves into an overcrowded club to listen to white guy reggae, wait for a beer longer than it takes to actually drink the beer and having to stand in line to use a filthy restroom.


  Ready?

  




  Moo, moo moo moo-moo mooh. Baahhh. Bahhh-bah-bah baah. Moo-bah. Grr, moo-moooo-moo. Moo!
Baahhh-moo-bahhh bah baahhhh. Moo!



  There. I just told you to go fuck yourself in your native language. Have a nice day you pathetic herd members.

                                          "Is this the line for the bathroom or the bar?"




    And while I'm thinking about it, if you traveling from another state and you happen to be a smoker and you walk into a bar that doesn't reek like cigarette smoke, its a reasonable assumption that you're not allowed to smoke in that bar. Its not a difficult leap of intuition to make. No smoke smell=no smoking in bar.

  But please, inform me of your astonishment that we don't allow smoking in our club. I will wave my magic Floor Guy wand (penis) and make smoking legal in our great state's liquor establishments again. Express to me your disbelief, I'll call my high ranking gubbamint friends and take care of your dilemma right away!

  Or better yet, why don't you go back to whatever fucking state it is you're from and smoke yourself dead. That would be best for everyone.

  This is why I work in the service industry for less than minimum wage, because I'm secretly all powerful, uber-connected and enjoy making silly assholes' trivial problems go away.






  I don't need the money, I'm just a people person.







*I blame MTV.


  

Yes, The ATM Is Retarded, Not You. Or, How About I Strangle You With A Loop Of Your Own Intestine, Roll You In Cocaine And Patron And Feed You To The Strippers? How Would That Be You Fucking Cunt.

                      


            Tonight didn't go very smoothly. 






  I bet you never would've guessed that by the title. I bet you thought, "Hmm, that's quite a title. This man obviously loves his job and he's gonna wax eloquent about how great it is to do what he does. I mean the ungrateful prick gets to stare at titties all damn day AND gets paid for it! Tell me that ain't a sweet deal? If I worked at a strip club I would get so much head and bang so many bitches..."


  Sure. Abso-sucking-lutely. Then you get fired when a dancer turns on you. And that will happen as sure as the the big ball of burning stuff rises in the east every morning. They will bite the dick that feeds/and or gets fed upon.

                               "It sounds like you're saying 'glumph horka HACK'. What is that in Klingon?"





   Now don't get me wrong, I've worked with guys who shagged so many strippers it was like there was a small brush fire in their pants due to all the smoke coming off their stinkhammers. But these guys are a minority and they seldom last long at any given club.

                                                         Smoking penis







  When I first got in tonight things took a turn for the stupid early on and I remember thinking to myself, "Golly. I hope this isn't an omen of things to come."



  Well, it was.



  It was as if there was an Asshole Trade Show on one side of town and a Drunken Fucktard Convention on the other and we sent out naked girls to hand out eight balls of blow wrapped in free passes for our club.



  Shit was stupid tonight is what I'm trying to convey.



  By my count at least 16 murders and/or severe beatings should have been perpetrated by our security staff tonight. Seriously, 19.




    


                    People need to fear the truncheon again.

                                   This man grabbed one cooch too many.






                                                  


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

 






  I have a pretty fair amount of  finely distilled ill will inside me and I work hard to protect the world from it. Earning a good living and keeping my job depends on me being able to either:

 A) Interact with customers in a way that makes them want to give me money.

 B) Disguise the fact that I constantly hope human extinction is just around the corner.

 C) Get strippers to like me while at the same time I am expected to police them for nefarious behavior.





  'Herdin ain't easy...








  And you know what else? I know I've covered this before but it certainly bears mentioning again after last night's The Running of the Housefraus.

  Why The Fuck is it that every drunk, grisly old woman that comes into the club instantly transforms (in their own minds) into a sexy, alluring nymphet bent on doing monstrous things with her weathered goods?

                                                            Spectacular 

                                                         

 

  There were at least 2 tables this past Friday that were thrown out because of the women, not the guys.

  It was brutal to behold.






  I think I've mentioned it before but I'll say it again, I'm not much of a herd mammal. I don't understand herd behavior. I understand pack behavior and, if pressed, would admit to being very much a pack animal. Without the support of friends and family I wouldn't be here now.

  That being said it seems fucking anathemic to me to actually want to go to a bar/restaurant/public gathering place that is insanely packed with people.


  A stupid, shuffling, intoxicated bipedal amoeba of horrifying proportions subject to herd panic? 



  Yeah, that sounds like a good fucking time.

  And while I'm at it can I wait 20 minutes to get a drink from inept, overwhelmed bartenders?

  Fucking sweet.


  Moo, you assholes. Moo.
  -The StripperHerder