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That'll Be $10 For Me And $10 For The Little One. Or, I'll Tell You What Sweety, Why Don't You Shut Up Now?*

 
                                                      

  I'm not coming into this installment with any sense of direction or plan of action. I think I'll just mash together some loose ends that I've been wanting to address and make it like a dinner comprised of leftovers. A bit of this and a bit o' that and somehow it'll all satisfy your lurid, ravenous hunger for more StripperHerder.


  But where to start?



  Oh I know. Pregnant strippers. Yeah, let's start there.


                                     "Alcohol and smoking keep the birth weight down, yo!"





  OK. Despite everything a man says when a girl is pregnant, outside of certain avid fetishists, pregnant chicks are not most men's idea of erotic. This is because males are genetically compelled to spread the ole Family Product around on a ambitious level. It is a basic biological fact that the organism that can produce the most offspring has the best chance at its DNA being replicated.

  Your balls say "Empty me everywhere" and it takes great strength of character not to bang whatever comes your way.

  Therefore, once a female has been impregnated, the Angry Primitive Reptile* part of men's brains shift from JIZZ IN TIL PREGNANT to PROTECT AND SUPPLY WITH NUTRIENTS WHILE SEARCHING FOR SOMETHING ELSE TO IMPREGNATE.

   We say nice things to try to make your ordeal more bearable because we're guys and we love you and we realize you're a hormonal stewpot and we can only handle so much crying before contemplating murder/suicide or chucking you down some stairs and so on and so forth.



                                 3 minutes later Savannah's water broke while she was upside down 
                                            on the pole, sort of recreating the famous scene from 'Flashdance' 
                                            but in a really gross way. 
                                                   



  That being said, there's several girls at the club who are in various phases of gestation right now ranging from 'not-showing-at-all' to 'hope-my-thong-holds-the-baby-in'.


                                         "I'm not pregnant, I just had some cheesesticks."


  There's one girl in the club so far along that the fetus is grabbing tips and stealing cell phones.*



  I'm not exaggerating at all except for a little bit.



  Its fucking embarrassing. We're supposed to be the number one gentlemen's club in town and we have pregnant girls writhing around on stage and hammering back shots at the bar. We're classy "Cuz we has a-indah plumbin."


  I say let's just skip the bulk of the downward spiral and start having donkey shows right now. Fuck it. Why go through years of atrophy, dwindling cash and humiliation? Let's embrace the future now and have Stripper vs. Quadraped Cage Sex Battles like they do in third world countries such as Mexico and Canada.

  We'll be like the salmon of high end strip clubs, leaping headlong and enthusiastically past our brethren.

  Eh.

  I'll grudgingly admit that, just possibly, I might have engaged in a bit of hyperbole* there. But its still really embarrassing to work here sometimes. I've worked at some real shitholes before, titty dive bars where strippers go to die.

  But I've never had to tolerate a girl who's fetus is working a different champagne room.





  I hear a lot of about this from customers. I also hear a lot about the overall hotness of our current stripper corps which is insanely low.

  We Floor Turds hear a lot of gripes about dancers that are overweight, sloppy, geriatric, or just plain ugly. Its not like the industry 10 years ago. The "talent pool" is more of a puddle really, and things keep crawling from the shallow end of it and onto our stage.

  Ownership says "Tax em through the door and let them fend for themselves. If they have the skills necessary to survive then good for fucking them."


  Unfortunately if that's the club model, then things will never get any better. We'll never again have the level of talent we had a decade ago or more ago.  Easily half our current staff would've never even made the cut when this town's party epicenter was in its heyday. The standards at the city's top echelon of clubs was very demanding at the time and they could afford to be.

  Now we have dancers on our stage that 10 years ago would've been performing in some unlicensed club operating out of an old chop shop and guarded by an inbred giant with a shotgun.

  Its fucking appalling.



                                           The password is "Unidentified Sores". 





  You know what I really like? I super-fun-happy like it when a dancer comes rushing up to me babbling about a customer who owes her money and then, when I go to try to resolve the matter, stands screaming at the guy in a constant stream of insults that doesn't allow me to communicate with the customer in question whatsoever.

  Better yet when they throw drinks on a guy or just outright attack him with any handy bottle.

  In any other establishment on Earth, these girls would get either punched or imprisoned. But in the surreal alter-world of Murna McTwattenRage's Junkie Extravaganza, all sins are forgiven. All killings absolved.*



  Fuck this.


-The StripperHerder




 













*To prove that I do edit myself somewhat, the original title of this installment was going to be "That's Not My Vulva You Feel, I Was Teaching My Fetus To Give Handjobs. Or The Latest Mopping Debate: Tequila-Beer Vomit or Donkey Spunk, What Difference Does It Make As Long As You Make Some Dough?"**


  **Told ya.



*The same part of the primal cortex that enjoys ham sandwiches, cold beer, pornography and a lack of nattering voices.






*How pregnant could they possibly be, you ask?

  -So pregnant that they and their babies eat at different restaurants.
  -So pregnant the their babies sneak out of their hoo-has' at night and meet each other to smoke weed and
  make out.
  -So pregnant the babies already have their own favorite shots.
  -So pregnant the babies are already dealing blow and the dancers don't even know it.
  -So pregnant their unborn children have more Facebook friends than them.**


  **You get the idea.








*It means exaggeration, you ignorant fuck.



*If you have a vagina.

Deep Inside The StripperHerder But Not In A Colonoscopy Way. Or, As Long As They Keep Making Bigger Pants I See No Reason To Stop



  April Fucking Fools Day. What a fantastic invention. Obviously we were so bored before TV and the internet that we needed days like April Fucking Fools Day to keep ourselves entertained. I don't care how, why, when or where it started, all I know is that for as long as I've been alive it has annoyed the living shit out of me.

  Its all in good fun, right? Fuck you, I still don't like it. Now get off my lawn you goddamn kids.


                                             "I'm keeping your baseball. Now fuck off."



  How about a 'Kick the Fuck Outta People Who Have Lied To You Day'? Why not? It would certainly be entertaining. We could all legally beat up politicians, lawyers, car salesmen, strip club bouncers and internet wind bags. Of which I've been three.


                                            "You said it had refridgerated cup holders!"



  (Author's note: at this point of writing I had to go release some improperly reheated soft tacos back into the wild after an all too brief tour of my alimentary tract, thus completing the circle of life. This was exceptionally unpleasant, kind of like burning soft serve ice cream with sprinkles of remorse and shame)


         




     *                               *                                  *

 


  Now, on the assumption that there might be a person reading this at some point that doesn't actually know me personally, I'd like to tell you some stuff about me. I'm going to do this in an itemized fashion because its easier which should tell you the first thing you need to understand about me.


1) I Am One Lazy Motherfucker. Seriously. I am incredibly lazy. I spend my free time doing things that require I sit. I play online poker while I drink. I watch Netflix and Hulu while I drink. I play Panzer General while I drink. And I occasionally, when I can be bothered, write installments of this blog while I drink.

2) I Drink A Lot. I'm what's known as a high functioning alcoholic*. That means I can hold down a job, pay my bills and interact with other humans in a coherent and mostly nonviolent way. I can dress myself sort of, and I occasionally shower whether I need it or not.

Here's the wiki:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/High-functioning_alcoholic




3) I Hate Hot Weather. I am not genetically engineered to withstand high temperatures and years of abusing my lungs and body have exacerbated the problem. My ancestral DNA was never designed to come within a 1000 miles of the Equator or live in a place not covered in snow for a minimum of 6 months.

  There are several regressive cells in my brain that are constantly baffled by the lack of polar bear attacks.


                                               Typical Ancestral Day at the Beach.



4) I Am A Hypocritical, Judgemental Prick. Honestly. Within the privacy of my skull I'm even worse but I manage to moderate the output to society in general. My innate sense of self righteous indignation at behavior I witness every day makes me think that a lot of folks should be killed outright while a large amount of others should have a knee broken and a finger waggled in their face. Tell them to be a better person or go to the Mines of Sorrow or something.

  I would've made a great Dark Lord.



5) I'm Done Writing This Installment. Really. I'm finished. I've revealed more than you deserve and now I must sop up the pain with a vodka mop and get on with being unproductive. Nothing isn't gonna do itself.





-The StripperHerder





*I knew the basics of HFA, but was amazed at how accurately most of the symptoms describe me. Its like I wrote them. Except for the 'using alcohol as a reward' thing. Its not a reward, its my God given right.





  

A Ringing Endorsement For 'Vat Grown Ho Technology'? Or, "I'm Sorry, Were Those Your Basic Human Dignities? They Felt Squishy Between My Toes."




  How can I convey through the mere written word how much I despise the place I work for? How can small assemblies of letters basted with punctuation really carry the full level of tooth gnashing hatred I have for my place of employment?

  They can't. But I'm going to try anyway.



  Ahem.

 

  I hate my job like Hitler hated Jews.

 
  I hate my job like Dwarves hate Trolls.

 
  I hate my job like something you want to shit on after you've beaten it senseless with a tire iron, yet before you set it on fire and drag it through the streets where the local children pelt its charred countenance with small rocks and rotten vegetables.






                          I hate it like Corky from 'Life Goes On' hates pit fighting against the Autistic.




 

  There should be a new, stronger word for what I feel. Hate isn't powerful enough.

  Fucking hatred. Fatred. I have nothing but fatred for my job.*






                                    "Unleash your Fatred! Shoot them from the sky!"*




  Let me post an edited edition of our company's Mission Statement and maybe my fatred will become more lucid for you, gentle reader.*


 

 "At IHOP, Interracial Hovel Of Prostitutes (DBA: Mandy MuffinCritter's Mystery Shame Emporium) we strive to provide the consumer with a mediocre and often revolting entertainment experience. We hire anything and will put it on stage no matter how much slime it leaves behind. Our service is the slowest in the business and sometimes you can't get a drink for love nor money, and we pride ourselves on that.

  At Mandy MuffinCritter's you can intuitively expect on being hassled and ripped off and be totally confident that our staff and management team will not rest until they've thoroughly failed to help you in any way and proactively see you to your vehicle or cab. 


  Our Management Concept focuses on a blend of core values tempered with a synergystic approach to ignoring key elements and hot button issues such as employee rights, customer satisfaction, and felonies. We have dynamically woven a complete lack of empathy with a vast sense of avarice and a certain down home shit-down-your-throatedness that we think really projects the MuffinCritter attitude and corporate stance."



  "Go fuck yourself."




  There. Copied verbatim although I did correct numerous spelling errors and edited out the the following words and phrases; 'jizz-bag emptiers, abortion-to-ho Vat Technology Schematics, and emu-raping polyornithivores'*.





                                'I'll fuck that bird again. Then I'll eat it. You see if I don't.'






  Assault with Deadly Weapon? In court you'd plea it down to Assault and Battery and do 3 days to 3 years depending on your record.

  At Mandy McCritterville? A 9 day suspension, previous crimes ruled not admissable. No fine. Light scolding by management which I have clandestinely obtained a transcript of:



   MANAGER-"You are a bad girl. You could of killed that Floor Guy."

   ENTERTAINER-"I'm sorr...wait. What Floor Guy? I distinctly recall I was attacking a latino customer, not no Floor Guy."

   MANAGER-"Next time jab repeatedly just below and behind his ear with a broken bottle. That'll see him done. Really grind it around. You'll hit some kind of important vein or something."

  ENTERTAINER-"That big white thing that got between me and my custamah? I thoughts that was a yeti."

  MANAGER-"Nope. But in the right light I could easily see how you'd make that mistake. When I first saw him I thought to myself 'Wendigo'!, but that's just a regional difference and its plain no matter what you call it that the world be be a better place if it were to bleed out and expire on the filthy carpet in front of us."

  "That being said, no more trying to maim or kill customers with broken bottles. That's bad. Its OK to kill Floor Guys because no one could love a Floor Guy and they have No Souls. So if one of them gets in your way while you're trying to drunkenly gut a customer with a fistful of glass razor, you owe it to mankind to attempt to slice your way through them."

  ENTERTAINER-"So you is sayin that I can't cut me no more custamahs, but I'm doin the world a favor by attempting to kill and disfigure Floor Assholes?"

  MANAGER-"I love you. If you could spell I would tell you to apply for a Management position. I think you could go far."

  ENTERTAINER-[looking straight at Manager] "What are you saying, mortal?"
  MANAGER-[glancing around fearfully, grovelling ] "Only this, Mistress! The new Floor Guy will burn in your fires this Midsummer to appease our end of the Bargain!"

  ENTERTAINER-"Very well, maggot. At Midsummer our Pact will be renewed. If it is not, the blood of countless will be on your hands."

  MANAGER-"I will not fail thee thine Mistress!"

  ENTERTAINER-"Best not mowa-fakka..."




                                      "You will suffer for your impudence, Mana-Jur."




  Its goddamn unnerving what the dancers can get away with compared to how the rest of us subhumans are treated. Whenever I feel anything that might one day grow into pride, integrity or dignity, I think back on the plight of my ancestor Lt. Daniel McSlutprodder who was imprisoned at Andersonville in the Civil War.

  Through the depredations and inhumanities he was forced to live through, my forefather was quoted as saying "When the going got tough we ate the Pennsylvania Artillerymen. After that we ate some Illinois Calvary. But nothing ever tasted so sweet as an Ohio regiment raised on corn, bacon and big hipped farm trollops. We ate the fuck out of them."




                                     Yankee Bill's BBQ shop, Andersonville Prison, Andersonville, Georgia.




  I was going to write more but then decided not to.


  It is time to feed. And do the pictures. I gotta do the pictures...



 Dire StrippenHeirden



























*It actually isn't my job I hate so much as the club I work at.**

**And this is badong.

*I did my research. I wasn't the first to use it.

*As usual I will change the company's name to protect the possible 5 molecules of innocence left in that seething whorepit.

*Which are apparently quite a problem in some Southern States.