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!
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.
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.
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.
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
