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.
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:
Here is a closer view:
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.
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.
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.
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.
