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