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.
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.
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
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?
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.
