People Like Lists At The End Of The Year So I Did Some Lists Of Stuff. Or, A Plague Of Brittneys.

  Well it's that time of year again folks where we all act like special needs cavemen because we end another segment of time as measured by our primitive chronological system, or as we humans call it, 'a socially acceptable reason to get drunk'.

  To me it's not the beginning of a new year, its the beginning of a new day. Just another fucking day like any other except that a higher number of people are going to die tonight from alcohol related stupidity than on an average Tuesday night. A day filled with whatever promise, hope and potential that you choose to give it; special only because we've collectively chosen to view it that way.

  Whatever, man.


  So in my infinite laziness and ambivalence, I decided to just make some lists of shit that doesn't matter to anyone at all, but made writing this installment easier.

  In a nod to that small part of me that still yearns to be one with the herd, I wish you and yours a happy, prosperous and asshole-free New Year.

  Make the most of it.




  
             

5 Reasons Why Last Saturday Sucked.





1) We didn't make much money. Walking out with roughly $100 on a Saturday kinda sucks ass although I was happy to have it even so. I have a lot of bills coming up soon and any money is better than no money. I particularly despise this time of year because as far as tipping goes, "Christmas spirit" means virtually nothing. People suck just as much at Christmas as any other time of year.


2) I don't understand lesbians. While I get the attraction, I just don't understand the dynamics involved. I have very little interaction with the labians in the club and not much more outside of work. But from what little exposure I've had, I've been able to come up with the following theories:

    A) Lesbians apparently only go out so they can have complete breakdowns in a public setting. Alcohol is usually involved but lesbians don't seem to react well to liquor. This leads me to believe that maybe they'd be happier if they just stayed home and double-donged.


    B) Lesbians cry a lot. This could be because they're female*1, I'm not sure.


   C) Lesbians thrive on drama, but claim to hate it. Yet at the slightest provocation they wade into the drama puddle and start splashing about, happy as angry clams. This is not the action of someone who 'hates drama'.*2



3) Idiots. There are so many ways idiots make my and everyone else's life more difficult. Adding in a dash of moron to any recipe makes the dish just slightly more frustrating, yet adds a certain piquancy of 'at least I'm not that stupid'.

  I had two guys approach me while I was working the door and ask me if the ATM in the back of the club has a lower fee than the one in the front. I've also had customers ask me if drinks were cheaper at the patio bar than at the main bar.

  I'll just let those two queries marinate for a while....



4) The Holiday schedule this year killed the weekends. Christmas Eve on a Tuesday? New Year's Eve on a Tuesday? It shatters the 'party week' paradigm and sends the service industry into a state of acute staffing crisis as baffled management teams struggle to guess which of the many possible nights in this stretch will get really busy and which ones they'll be overstaffed.*3




5) I just realized 2 weeks after posting this that I didn't have anything written for #5. So use your imagination for this one.


The StripperHerder's Top Ten Favorite Movies In No Real Order Because That Would Take Too Much Thought And Deliberation. So, (based on the formula of Times Viewed divided by Times Enjoyed):


1) Last of The Mohicans

2) Braveheart

3) Aliens

4) Kung Pow

5) The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

6) The Fifth Element

7) Tombstone

8) Boondock Saints

9) Romeo Is Bleeding

10) Monty Python's The Holy Grail*4







The StripperHerder's Top 5 Movies I've Never Seen That People Can't Fucking Believe I Haven't Fucking Seen:





1) A Christmas Story-I've seen small bits and pieces of this movie over the years, but never once sat down and watched it. It makes people shriek with incredulity when they hear it.



2) Top Gun-Have never seen it, Maverick. Over.



3) Back to the Future-Nope. None of them. Michael J Fox is annoying.



4) The Goonies-To people of a certain age, never having seen The Goonies is apparently some kind of childhood crime of sorts. Something on par with being caught inappropriately touching goats or pushing other children of cliffs.

  I just never saw it, I profusely apologize.



5) Ghost-It's a love story, not really my thing. Wrapping a soap opera in a cloak of the supernatural doesn't hide what it is. For further example I give you 'Twilight'.







The StripperHerder's Top 5 Least Favorite Dancers To Work With






5) AbCynthia: Pale, famished and bottle blond. Expression glazed like Chinese takeout. A High Functioning Pillovore who somehow still has custody of her offspring even in the face of her impending junkiehood. Doesn't tip, dumb as wet socks.



4) Crusada: A Titty-Knight. To her credit tries to save self destructive strippers from themselves. She's like a beacon of hope to deranged strippers but her well meaning efforts generally add more unpleasant ripples to my timeline. It would take a whole post to explain it and maybe that's foreshadowing.

  She should open a shelter or something.



3) Rat Bites: She's a Diva. How else can you explain her continued success in the face of her open leg sores? You can't. It's impossible. They're right there in front of you, dollar bills sticking to the gooey puckerations. She doesn't even try to cover them up, what's a few leg sores among friends?

   Am I the only one who sees this? Why doesn't the next dancer on stage demand full decontamination and a priest before she'll take the stage after 'Bites' gets off?

  I can't be the only person who see's this. Please God don't let me be the only one, I'm not strong enough...




2) Princess Adderallia: Has severe ADD. In fact her memory resets itself every 60 seconds or so and when you tell her to quit doing things that may get the club shut down, she is excellent at remembering it until you walk away. I have had the same conversation with this speeding, consistently drunk dancer a dozen times in the past 3 weeks and each and every time it's like she never heard or comprehended a single word I said.

  Completely oblivious.

  I've chosen to believe that she's a time traveller whose technology is hiccupping, making her relive the same day over and over like 'Groundhog Day'. She can't fix the device and being a stripper who can get wasted, do tons of drugs and fuck random strangers with no lasting consequences, she decides things could be worse and just goes with it.

  I wouldn't care about any of this, I've tangled with time travelling strippers before and they were still strippers; albeit a bit more advanced than the ones I'm accustomed to dealing with. But she gets hammered and tries to rip guys off, charging them for 5 dances when she did 2 or 3. She does shit on stage that will get us closed if a Vice guy was in the club. And she's an annoying twat about it.

  In short, management needs to fucking manage this crazy bitch and make her go away.




1) Vodzilla: My Nemesis. My Ancient Foe. My Archenemy. I salute your cybernetic liver and unbreachable orange skin. You are truly a worthy opponent. Throughout Time we have battled, you and I. In one guise or another across galaxies. Inspiring legends and myths with our struggle.

  Beowulf and Grendel. Ahab and The White Whale. Merlin and Nineve. We were them all and more, and if I even remember correctly through all the eons, our quarrel began over a bottle of clear liquor.

  I paid for it, bitch. All you had to do was leave the tip. The motherfucking tip. You cheap cunt.


  Our conflict continues....








                     A Swarm of Brittneys


  

  This dialogue was recorded from the clandestine moon based strip club, Moonie's. It is the last communication received from this ultra top secret facility which was created by factions within our gubbamint to test the feasibility of offworld gentlemen's clubs featuring cloned strippers.


    The club was overrun with scores of a particular clone codenamed 'Brittney'. It seems this one particular strain of dancer became not only self aware, but hemaphroditic as well, breeding with itself and hiding the resulting pregnancies in fake corsets then going berserk when the tequila ran out.


   (start eerie background music....here.)


  Moonbase Titty Alpha: "Houston we have problem. Over."

  Ground Control: "Acknowledged Titty One what is the problem. Over"

  Moonbase Titty Alpha: [Screams, laughter in background] "We have a Brittney, problem. I repeat, we have a Brittney problem. [Muffled thumping] "They're everywhere!"

  Ground Control: "Calm Down Moonbase! Have you deployed your Anti-Stripper Countermeasures? Over"

  Moonbase Titty Alpha: "TWO PLUS TWO IS FOUR, YOU BITCH!' [Gunshots, screams]

  Ground Control: "Moonbase! Moonbase? Have you dropped the shiny jewelry? Over."

  Moonbase Titty Alpha: "SSSC's*5 Deployed! Result negligible. I repeat result negligible! [bottles breaking, Rihanna]

  Ground Control: "Scramble security forces! Code Red! Acknowledge?"

  Moonbase Titty Alpha: "I DON'T HAVE TO TIP YOU, BRITTNEY!" [gunshots, explosions] "You [expletive]!"

  Ground Control: "Titty Base we request proof of control. Do we control the clubstation? Over."

  Moonbase Titty Alpha: [childlike shrieking, gunshots, dubstep] "They can't be stopped, Houston! [gunshots, gurgling moans]"Moonbase Titty is lost.." [meaty thwacks, gunshots] "I repeat Moonbase Titty is lost! Proceed with Operation Cropdust!" [insane laughter, bottles clinking together, rap] "OPERATION CROPDUST, IT'S THE ONLY WAY TO BE SURE!" [close proximity screams, gunfire, bluegrass music]

  ***Signal Terminated***

  
  Ground Control: [voice cracking] "Acknowledged Moonbase Titty..." [sob] Initiating Operation Cropdust. "Oh the Humanity..."[incoherent sobs] "Damn you Brittneys! Damn you all to Hell!"



  And then Moonbase Titty Alpha became a smoking crater on the face of the moon courtesy of two satellite mounted thermonukes lobbed by Earth in self defense of a presumed invasion by hyper evolved Brittneys. It was our only hope.

 

  I know sharing that was a questionable decision for an end of the year post, but I wanted to make an impact. Share something profound and maybe change a life or two.

  Just remember there are Brittneys out there, waiting to converge and trample anything that stands in the way of the latest handbag. Be prepared, carry vitamins that look like prescription drugs, a pocketful of costume jewelry and a comfortable handgun.

  Brittneys come in packs and should be treated with caution, even by seasoned operatives.





 Happy Calender Change Day That Is Somehow More Special Than All Other Calender Change Days,

-The StripperHerder









  














*1 Biological fact, nothing to be ashamed of.



*2 In defense of lesbianism, I know WAY MORE non-gay people that are wholly committed to the Tao of "My crisis shall be the focal point of everyone around me. Thus will I be attended to."**



          **I've even walked that path a few times. It goes nowhere.***



             


                      ***"Oooooh! Look children, Philosophy!
                             Shhhh! Don't scare it off!"








*3 The realistic approach to this, when in doubt, is to always staff for maximum possible crowds. Cut staff when and if it becomes apparent they aren't needed. This system isn't perfect and will eventually lead to personnel loss, especially when the overlords play favorites with who stays or goes. That being said, it's a lot better than placing a skeleton crew in the face of a potential iceberg.








*4 I feel like I should add the following movies as being on my Top Ten list; I believe truly and deeply that math shouldn't stand in the way of a good movie and therefore these poor, innocent features should not be punished for my willful mathematical limitations.


   The Princess Bride, Snatch, Star Wars, The Terminator, Airplane, Clash of the Titans (1981), Saving Private Ryan, The Professional, The Usual Suspects, Fight Club and representing the Martial Arts Category, Ong-Bak.




*5 SSSC: In military-speak this stands for Stupid Stripper Shiny Countermeasures, or flechette charges loaded with semi precious stones in nice gleaming settings for use in possible Stripper Rebellion Scenarios. In the Stripper dialect it translates to "pretty Argh!".

Super Annoying Shit And The People Who Perpetrate It. Or, More Unabashed Christmas Cheer From The World's 4th Best Blogger.

  It's the end of another crappy year. (insert applause track here)

  I'd like to say or even think that next year will be better, but I know this is a falsehood; the best years of my life are behind me and I'm OK with that. I've readjusted my life goals to reflect this and now my 'Bucket List'*1 looks something like this:





1) Maybe lose some weight or something


2) Maybe work on my movie script or something


3) Read some books and stuff


4) Conquer a really tiny village with the understanding I may have to pause midway through the carnage to catch my breath


5) Own a classic Mopar


6) Be left to my own devices as much as possible so that my slow descent into madness is only recorded by my own hand.


7) Become a recluse, preferably in a mountain fortress.


8) Shoot someone in the face


9) Die and stuff. Hopefully in a non embarrassing manner.




  "If you believe it, the mind can achieve it."


-Ronnie Lott, guru


 

  "Or just set the bar really, really low."


-StripperHerder, guru 










  So think of this installment as sort of a year end roundup, of sorts. I have no idea if I'll put another post up before 2014 is upon us but I'm leaning toward 'probably not'. Therefore I'll see what I can cover about things that have made me angry this year, butcher a couple more Xmas carols and pass out in a puddle of my own gut-chutney.



  So let's kick this mule in the ass shall we?






                 Facebook Fucktards


  I hate Facebook. Taken as a communication tool, like a glorified instant messenger, it's pretty handy. But God almighty the things people post....My life has improved since I disabled nearly every one of my FB friends' feeds, as has my opinion of them. Don't get me wrong, I've most certainly posted stupid, whiny drunk shit on FB before and felt like an ass the next day, but at least I didn't post an idiotic meme 30 minutes later saying 'Don't judge me', or 'If you don't like my opinions, don't comment on them' or some such nonsense.

  You've posted them in what amounts to a public forum. Sure, you were able to pick who comprised this 'Public', but still if you're going to post self questioning shit online, expect some people to comment and stop posting memes requesting the contrary of what you actually crave.


  -Likers: "I like everything. I must click the like button on every product/band/movie/artist/book/TV show/celebrity I like so people will know what I like and like, they might friend me because we both like the same fluffy bullshit."

  Why would you 'like' Ford or Cheetos? Seriously, why? I'm not saying either one of them is a bad product, but why would you invite a company to spam your social media feed, your friends' feeds and open yourself up to more 'suggestions' about other crap you might enjoy as well? Do you really need to be notified when Frito Lay unleashes another flavored horror on the market? Do you need Facebook to tell you that maybe it's time for a new car and maybe the Ford Fusion is it? Can't make those determinations for yourself?

  We as a society are advertised to constantly, everywhere; all the time and there's no escaping it except maybe on the side of a mountain somewhere fighting off grizzly bears, but even then there may be a strategically place ad for bowie knives or Smith and Wesson 500's. You'd think that when given the choice to reduce the ads you're exposed to, the average person would take it. But it seems the average person will frequently opt for more.

  It's maddening.



  -Parents: Yay, you reproduced! Without any license, training or shame! Another mouth on the planet to consume dwindling resources, hoo-rah! Now, flood the internet with thousands of pictures of your offspring because people want, nay, need to see it in all kinds of different outfits and with different expressions on its face. You can be safe in the knowledge that there's no one on the planet who could possibly get tired of the cuteness that is your baby, which is so completely different and inexplicably more special than all the other amazingly similar babies on Earth.

  I for one was so happy when FB raised the number of pics you could post at a time from 3 to 12 so I can enjoy more pics of your infant sleeping, smiling, smearing food on its face or tottering around poking stuff. So refreshing.

  Thank you for your fertility.






 Debate Hobbyists: Arguments on FB are meaningless. They're like two people shouting thing at each other simultaneously, everything is being said and nothing heard. No one's stance on any major issue has ever been changed through the dynamic crucible of Facebook or any other social media outlet. It's bored people stating their opinion on something and they'll never be talked out of it. The debate just serves as entertainment but ultimately serves no other purpose.

  And if that's what you're into that's fine. I envy you your enjoyment. Who says propaganda and static positions can't be fun?



 Inspirationalists: Nothing changes people's lives for 30 seconds or less like a nice inspirational quote. Uplifting, encouraging tidbits of wisdom someone else said that touched your soul like an attractive pervert. There's always that person posting 20 of these a day, buckshotting the interwebs with cyber-wisdom in easily digestible bits for everyone's embetterment.


Things like this:

                                            "Really? Everyone? Maybe be more choosy or something."





  Or how about this gem, which if actually attributable to Anthony Hopkins means he must be a giant asshole.

             

 
  It absolutely IS your business.  So how you treat people and how you talk and interact with them doesn't matter? Because those things are critical as to how other humans' opinions of you are formed and thus what they will think and say of you.

  Therefore this is either a statement of towering indifference and arrogance, or something uttered by an idiot who hadn't thought the quote through. Think about it.


  I would imagine that many of the people reading this would claim that they also don't care what other people think of them, and I ask them to really think about that sentiment. If you really didn't care whatsoever what people thought of you, you wouldn't modulate your speech, opinions, observations or prejudices one single bit. Yet we all do. Every last one of us filters to some degree our output to other skin bags.

  Some us more than others...


  Humans intrinsically want to be liked. We're social animals. I'd be lying if I said, despite all my bluster, that I don't care what people think about me. I do care. I would prefer to be liked. As such I strive to strain my communication with the outer world through the sieve of reason before I spew it out. I'm certainly not overtly successful at it, but it says volumes of me that I am at least partially able to pull it off.*2

  If I'm not liked I'm not unduly bothered by that, yet most times it was not what I was aiming at.*3


  That's what I hate about the inspirational quotes, a lot of them can be pulled apart if you just apply some plausible meaning to them outside the quote's intent.


 AANNNNDDD you know I'm getting pretty buzzed if I just wrote the above sentence.



AANNNNDDD I just realized I called a whole bunch of people I like, in spite of Facebook, 'fucktards'.


  Nothing personal. It turns out blocking your feed made me like you again, who knew?



 I'm getting alarmed because I got all carried away with the social media hatred thing and didn't even start on the StripperHerder Christmas Carols yet.

  I had such big plans...




  Here's what ended up being a non sequitur due to my unstructured style. Some fucking memes I made for reasons I forget outside of satire.

                                            The Bermuda Triangle is a BITCH in fall.

                                         

                                           "There's some candy on the floor behind you."









  All right, enough about that. It's time for some Christ-Mass cheer, you motherless pack of frothing hyenas. Let me attempt to fulfill the second part of this blog-ligation.


  I'll be right back....






  See, that didn't take any time at all.





              


                Rhanndi the Coke Nosed Stripper






You know Precious, and Divine, and
Platinum and Vixen,
Ashley, and Lexi, and
Candy, Affliction
But do you recall
The Most Famous stripper of all?



Rhanndi the coke nosed stripper
Had a very runny nose
And if you ever saw her
You'd call her a drugged out Ho


All of the other strippers
Used to laugh and steal her stash
Until she learned to hide it
In her runny, scabby snatch



Then one foggy weekday night
A dude showed up with cash
"Rhanndi with your nose so red
won't you give me some cheap head"



And then all the hookers beat her
Pierced her skull with their spike heels
They left her corpse on a highway
To be squashed by semi wheels

  Fuck it. It's getting too hard to do. "Frosty the Snowman" defeated me. Enjoy what you get.


  Merry Risen Dead Jewish Guy's Berfday Celebrated In Conjunction With Ancient Pagan Traditions For Some Reason,
-The StripperHerder







*1 I hate the term Bucket List, but it's easy to type.






*2 Considering the horrible, unspeakable and downright crapitudal things I think about people every waking  moment of my life.







*3 Sometimes I aim to be hated. I certainly don't try to be likable with 100% of the people I meet because some of them are pieces of shit.

The StripperHerder Christmas Special. Or, I'd Be Obliged If You'd Shove That Christmas Tree Up Your Own Ass, Save Me Some Trouble....

  I had started this installment out completely different. I was self basting in hatred and contempt for my fellow human and really letting my feelings bleed all over the page. Then I realized that it's Christmas, a holiday I don't give a shit about but decided to go with something completely different, in the spirit of.

  So the original beginning to this post will now be this footnote.*1


  As a result the hatred, scorn and vitriol you would've normally experienced here has been replaced with something more appropriate to this traditionally jolly time and my occupation.


  I give you:



 

         The StripperHerder Christmas Carols





  

  1) The 12 Days of Christmas.



 On the first day of Christmas
  My true love sent to me
  A Cum Sock in a Onesie


  On the second day of Christmas
  My true love sent to me
  Two Soiled Thongs
  And a Cum Sock in a Onesie.

  
 On the third day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the fourth day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the fifth day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie



 On the sixth day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Six Johns' a Jizzing
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the seventh day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Seven Lawsuits Pending
 Six Johns' a Jizzing
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the eighth day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Eight Doctors Spending
 Seven Lawsuits Pending
 Six Johns' a Jizzing
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the ninth day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Nine Ho's Complaining
 Eight Doctors Spending
 Seven Lawsuits Pending
 Six Johns' a Jizzing
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the tenth day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Ten Teat's a Leaking
 Nine Ho's Complaining
 Eight Doctors Spending
 Seven Lawsuits Pending
 Six Johns' a Jizzing
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the eleventh day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Eleven Vice Cops Searching
 Ten Teat's a Leaking
 Nine Ho's Complaining
 Eight Doctors Spending
 Seven Lawsuits Pending
 Six Johns' a Jizzing
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the twelfth day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Twelve Tough Guys Swinging
 Eleven Vice Cops Searching
 Ten Teat's a Leaking
 Nine Ho's Complaining
 Eight Doctors Spending
 Seven Lawsuits Pending
 Six Johns' a Jizzing
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs


And a Cum Sock in a Onesie 




 
  Just like Grandma used to sing.






 And then there's this Classic*2




 


                 Do You Hear What I Hear?*3






Said the Floor Host to the Stripper
Do you see what I see?
(do you see what I see?)
A wad of cash in that fucker's hand
Do you see what I see?
(do you see what I see?)
Some dough, some cheese
In that Douchebag's mitt
Go earn you some of it
Then tip me some of it


Said the Manager to the Stripper
Do you hear what I hear?
(do you hear what I hear?)
Ringing through the air, you deaf cunt
Do you hear what I hear?
(do you hear what I hear?)
Your name, your name
called by the DJ
Get your ass on the fucking stage
Get your fat ass on the stage


Said the Manager to the Floor Host
Do you know what I know?
(do you know what I know?)
I can destroy you with a fucking word
do you know what I know?
(do you know what I know?)
Your soul, your soul
blackens by the day
You'll be just like me some day
You'll be worse than me some day


Said the Owner to his underlings
Listen to what I say
(listen to what I say)
Pray for death people underfoot
Listen to what I say
(listen to what I say)
Your jobs, you jobs
Fucking mine to take!
Thirst for cash cannot be slaked
My thirst for cash can't be slaked


MY GODDAMN FUCKING ROTTEN ASSHOLISH THIRST FOR MONEY CAN'T BE SLAKED!


MOWWA-FAKKA.






This was 3 hours work I'm ashamed to admit. Sure I took a 15 minute break to gaze upon a bleak fantasy football landscape and scowled at what I saw, clawing desperately at the $500 prize, but still it's been a rough road, creatively speaking.

  And the only reason that is is because I'm middlin level drunk, and concentration is difficult when you're recreationally buzzed.

  Therefore I tend to cheese out with endings like this.




Advent-Guard,
-The StripperHerder

























*1 I gave myself an award today. I felt I deserved it. They say that every now and then you should do something nice for yourself and seeing as how the last time I 'splurged' on anything, it was a 5 pack of boxer briefs and 3 new pairs of socks, I felt that giving myself a fictitious medal with no prize whatsoever wasn't out of line.

  You see, today I achieved two things, I failed to push a bitch out of my moving car and I completely failed to crush an asshole's windpipe.

  "Fuck" you say, "you fail to do those things virtually every weekend, what made tonight so special?" 

  The difference is that tonight I really wanted to do both of those things. I wanted to reward myself with hurting a couple of deserving fuckwads. I wanted to laugh at their pain and dismay and then, possibly, run amok throughout the club beating random people. I wanted to bathe in innards while howling my fury at the uncaring sky, shaking fistfuls of purple wobbly bits at the indifferent moon.

  But no. Once again I forced myself to just be a giant prick instead.

  SO much less satisfying....



  Why this visceral hate Mr Herder? Well kids, pull up a chair and let Uncle Herdy tell you.**



      ** So typical. It embarrasses me but I throw it into the clearing anyway.




*2 I was originally going to do 'Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer' as 'Grandma Got Run Over By A Stripper', but then decided it would be far too much effort.






*3 For a version of this song that sucks, see this video. It's not like she has a bad voice, it's just not as good as a lot of other singers and her style is kinda twatty.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1GdDW-3Gwc

Saturday Means 'Deluge Of Assholes' In Latinized Middle Saxon. Or, The Dumbest Drunk I've Ever Met Was From New York.

  I fucking hate Saturdays.

  I really do.

  And since our friendly neighborhood Vice Squad has shut down 4 other clubs that catered to the 'don't-have-a-job' crowd, we're the last club left standing. For me it's like being the fat kid that is picked last in school for any sport, except not only am I picked last, I'm beaten and dragged behind an Oldsmobile until I resemble lasanga.


  Here's my thoughts on the matter. If you want to party for 6 or more hours straight and you live in a town where the bars have to stop selling by 3 AM, don't go out at 1 AM. Head to the bars at 9 or 10 PM, that way you get your required hours of drinking/assholing in before they have to stop selling booze.

  Furthermore, why the fuck would anyone pay $25 to get into a club where you can't buy alcohol any more? Purchasing alcohol for idiotically inflated rates is the only reason to go to a bar anyway, so why pay to enter one where this is impossible?*1

  Does your house suck that much? Do you have no friends with the ability to host some after hours partying?What the fuck is wrong with you?

                                   
                                GO FUCKING HOME, ASSHOLE.


  Anyone who had any real dough to spend only came to this club after hours for bottle privileges, everyone else who arrives after bar close is a negligibly successful drug dealer, a broke scene regular or a wasted guy with $30 in his pocket.


  I fucking hate Saturdays...





 

        Making George W. Bush Look Like A Genius






  I'm an atheist, but if I did believe in a higher power I would undoubtedly believe in the old school, Smite-Wrath, Fuck You-Vengeful-Angry-God.  

  Or at least one with a twisted sense of humor.

  As was evidenced by the outcome of me deciding to pick up this mongoloid the other day. Had we not been hurting for customers, I would've never picked him up after witnessing him wade into traffic on a snowy street with his arms up, as if a 2013 Toyota Tundra could just defy all laws of inertia and friction, or the lack thereof, and stop on a dime to avoid hitting him.

  Luckily for Crash Helmet*2, the driver of the Tundra not only was able to evade him with admirable skill, he totally failed to stop his giant truck, exit the cab and beat CH*3 until nothing remained but for a purple, moaning piteous thing with shoes sticking out of it.



  Here's some facts about my encounter with CH:


  The bus I drive for the club, believe it or not, is not by any stretch of the imagination, subtle. It has lifesize wraps of scantily clad bitches all over it. It is emblazoned, in retina searing colors, with the name or logo of the club in 8 places on the outside and 4 places on the inside of the bus. Therefore all that is needed to identify which strip club this bus will take you to is any one of the following:



 A) The ability to read English written all over the side of the bus you're frantically waving your arms at.



 B) The ability to read English on the floor, walls, uniform of the driver or dashboard in front of you when you're in the bus.



 C) The power to pick up on overt clues the driver gives you like:


    1) "No, this bus only goes to Lavish Labia's*4, because that's who owns this bus and they pay me to advertise and bring people to the establishment."


    2) "No, we're not going to Strange Rashes*5 because I would get fired of I took you there. The reason being, I work for Lavish Labia's. Which is what those letters you're ignoring spell out."


   3) Repeat #1



   4) Repeat #2



   5) Dropping you off at a club with 6 foot glowing letters which spell, to the discerning viewer, "LAVISH LABIA'S" in seizure-inducing strobe lights.




   Continue this for 5 minutes at which point conversation turns to another 4 1/2 minutes of the typical litany of  "Sorry I'm drunk, man. Don't mean to cause you trouble, man. I'm Sorry, man. You're cool, man."

  So I bring this winkle*6 to the club. He stays for 2 hours and buys drinks for several of the dancers who least needed it. He had a few more himself. At the end of the night this NY fuckdrivel is so hammered-yet-quasi-functional that he has run up a $119 bar tab.


  He claims the bartender is ripping him off, that she's padded his tab. He has purchased over 12 shots and 4 beers at an average price of $7.50. He pays tab angrily when Floor Host Fisty*7 calmly itemized the tab for him and then proceeded to stiff the bartender. Because it was her fault he was an inebriated twat mussel.


  This was honestly one of the most clueless/stupid/oblivious humans I have ever encountered and I work with strippers so that's saying something.


  



    She's Got a Ticket To Ride Because The Judge Cared.




  It's not surprising how many strippers aren't allowed to drive. A relief as well since the streets are much safer without them careening around texting, cooking smack and watching cute animal baby videos while occasionally glancing up to see what's happening with traffic.


  By my estimate a full third of the girls I work with have suspended licenses. There are many reasons this is so, chief among them DUI's. Vodzilla (The Grim Drinker, Bacardi-Bane, Vodpacalypse etc etc) herself has had 4 that I know about, and if the State is smart, she will never be allowed back on the road to continue her reign of terror.

  A lot of these dancers rely on taxi-strippers to haul them to and from work, riding with their co-worker friends. A few have even formed a carpool and trust me on this: there are few more fearsome sights than a carload of wasted strippers heading straight for you at 4AM, their faces lit by cellphone glow as they dial their drug dealers and make a mockery of basic road safety.


 Others merely burden their family and boyfriends with task of ferrying them to and from work. Such as Agatha, an ancient dancer who haunts my club. I have a theory that she's the Eternal Stripper, a peripheral character in the ongoing struggle of Good vs. Evil. You know, the concept that out there somewhere is an Eternal Hero, champion of the Forces of Light and his nemesis, The Dark One, who are continually reborn and wage a never ending battle with one another through space and time.

  Well she's like a bit player in their never ending war. She shows up from time to time, sometimes sleeping with the Hero, sometimes blowing the Dark One. She is a true neutral and adds some comic relief to the very serious matter of deciding mankind's fate.

  Id' be willing to bet that if I were to cut her head off, the very next day another middle aged dancer would come in to apply for a job and then walk straight up to me and say, "That hurt. Don't do it again."



  Some of the girls have never even bother to obtain a driver's license. I don't understand how this is possible but I guess if you have dick-minions who are willing to drive your worthless, lazy ass wherever you need to go whenever you need to go there, then what's the point of learning how to drive?

  That being said, the legal ability to drive oneself is a rite of passage and in most areas, a necessity. For gods' sake grow up and pull your fucking weight, you neurotic cunt. It's not everyone's pleasure to transport you from place to place like some kind of mewling cargo.







   



  I Choose, At This Time And Of My Own Free Will, Not To Crush Your Drunk, Euro-Trash Windpipe And Watch You Die Gasping At My Feet.
  




  I've touched upon the restraint necessary in this industry in regards to the security sector. You absolutely cannot in today's ligation obsessed society, just pummel any ole quim-sniffer that is literally crying out for a serious reality check. You just can't.


  I've worked with a couple of different bouncers who've done time because even though they were attacked first, they responded with disproportionate levels of violence that ended badly for the other guy who it turns out had a very expensive lawyer.

  You might get away with it once or twice or even 20 times, but eventually you're going to beat or kill the wrong person and shit is going to engulf you and you will die or lose your freedom. And as far as I'm concerned the loss of freedom might as well be death.



   I will gladly die before I submit to a cage.



  So it says volumes about the insanely high levels of restraint the security and management staff I work with show when dealing with irrational, intoxicated lipdraggers.

  Had some of the situations I've dealt with  in the past week happened a dozen years ago in a very different time and environment, there would've been casualties. Terrible, traumatic, lasting casualties.


  Like 1890's style violence; prolonged, personal and very, very messy.



  I just can't express through words the level of self control it sometimes takes in dealing with an abusive, insulting dickbag. It's*8 running it's mouth constantly, either thinking that it makes them seem tough and threatening, or in the hopes it makes you snap and swing first so they can sue the club when you throat-punch them and compound fracture their femurs.





  Their fucking femurs.






  It's getting early, I'm done.




Go, go, FloorZilla,*9
-The StripperHerder


















*1 I realize that there are, in fact, many reasons why people would go to a bar, but as a sociaphobe/journeyman misanthrope, I don't like or agree with any of them.




  *2 I never cared enough to ask his name and he never gave it. I just picture his Mother's cute nickname for him being 'Crash Helmet'.




*3 I feel we became good enough friends for me to call him 'CH'.




*4 This is an example club name, not the one I actually work at.



*5 So is this.



*6 Ha! Look it up non-UK people.



*7 Floor Host Fisty** may not be very big but he exudes an aura of Cut-You-Ed-Ness that most folks want no part of. He appears to be like low grade cartel muscle; Ready Willing and Able to perpetrate whatever ruthless horror is necessary to catch his superior's eye and make some cash.


      ** http://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2013/06/meet-team-part-one-or-fine-folks-at.html




*8 I say 'It' because it can easily be male or female.**



        **In fact females are the worst because you really can't hit them, they'll die. For a fictitious portrayal of this please see the opening scene of the movie 'The Way of The Gun'. It illustrates how a lot of fights happen solely because of dumb bitches.

Sometimes You Just Gotta Cast A Bitch Off. Set Her Adrift In A Sea Of Floor Host Hostility. See How Long She Lasts...Or, Recent Developments In Avarice Bode Poorly For StripperHerder Tribes, Film At Eleven.

    Here's the deal. We had an unusually busy Wednesday night tonight. A group of businessmen came in that had just closed some big deal and were in the mood to celebrate. They chose 4 of our dancers, 3 of which were straight up white trash and spent roughly 8K on these worthless jizz sponges. Then another drunk idiot let 2 dancers split a $2300 tip.

  The bottom line is I had 4 strippers walk out with over a grand each and another 5 or 6 walk out with well over $500. There were only 2 of us Floor Orcs and we managed to make over $600 on credit card tips alone. Yet at the end of the night when we divvied up all of our tips, we walked with around $370 each.

  So basically 25 dancers, some of who made good money, only accounted for about $140 in tips. A couple of the 'over a grand' girls gave me $5 when I walked them out and another of the 'over $500' didn't tip at all.



  Now I'm not a greedy man. I believe I've covered this pretty well in my last couple of posts, I live on the margins. $50 is a lot of money to me and that's sad. But for a bitch to make $1300 and tip a fiver is fucking insulting.



  I hope they get raped or robbed in the parking lot. $5 is not enough for me to foil a crime.




  So in the spirit of soon to be drunken anger, here's a rundown of the niggurdly strippers I had to deal with tonight.





  Eyebrows: Dumb slut thinks shaving her eyebrows and painting on new ones doesn't make her look disturbing, like some kind of titty-clown with shitty tattoos. She is 100% wrong about this of course, she is a creepy, alcoholic drab who's only noteworthy feature is her ass, which is pretty nice. Shame that it's been ruined by her recently freed from prison ghetto boyfriend, who since his release only wants anal sex apparently.*1

  The silver lining for me is that she'll probably contract AIDS soon, or some disfiguring social disease.


  I feel no remorse about this statement.


  

                                                  Oops. No, you fucked up. 





  Flabby: Conniving hood slattern. Used to have a decent body but then had some gangster's spawn so now she's all baby-wasted and droopy. Still talks a good game however because she gets guys to spend money on her, money she doesn't use to tip well. Probably spends it on ice cream, shaving lotion and being a piece of shit with brat-ravaged udders.




  Princess Toadface: Looks like a toad, moves like a toad, all warty and small. She actually didn't make good money tonight, but rarely does because no one wants an amphibian to grind on them, all morbidly cold and doughy.

  Thought I'd throw her in here because I hate her too.




 Chewbitcha: This is a giant, hairy bitch. I'm not kidding you. I have no idea why she works here except that maybe the managers are terrified of firing her. If forced to fight her, which I'm unabashedly frightened of doing, I would never enter into it without a substantial weapon, such as a table leg, a small stripper, or preferably an ED2000.

                    "DROP THE ROCKS GLASS, BITCH. YOU HAVE 10 SECONDS TO COMPLY."



  That being said, management thought sending her out customer-hunting with me on the bus would be a grand idea. I disagreed of course but kept my opinions to myself. Whereas other strippers I had done this with would call out to dudes walking along the sidewalks things like "(all sexy and shit) Hey guys, what are ya doin to night?" Or, "Come to the club and watch me dance!"

  Chewbitcha went with a different approach. As we crept up on unsuspecting guys walking down the street, she would open the window and start roaring "I GOT FREE PASSES, MOTHERFUCKERS!"*2 And I was treated with views of similarly dressed dudes running away or diving for cover. 

  

                                     "I said, Get. On. The. Bus. Motherfucker. Did I stutter?"



  
   It was fun but unproductive.




  Imnottawhora:*3 Seriously, she only gives over-the-pants handjobs. That's totally not at all a sexual act as defined by Bill Clinton, who was like famous or something. Nice enough girl, just very delusional. She was working this dude's wang like a sock puppet, but was somehow totally not a whore while she was doing it.

  Still like her. She's a Silver Level tipper.



Fever-Bottom: This latina midget is a filthy, lying little cutthroat warbling snatch-lesion. She opened an unholy portal of Floor Giant wrath tonight and I will fuck her money so hard her village will starve or at the very least lose it's Dish Network.

  You done fucked up, sweetheart.




 Matilda Grimhole: Are you goth or are you emo? Fucking pick one. The cut marks are hot, by the way, nothing is more appealing to the average guy than a girl who utterly hates herself and every she's become. Ram some more bits of metal through your various bits and hurl yourself into a 747 engine. Do us all a favor.

  Fuck already.....




TinySnobBarbie: Haughty Cock-Garage. That's all you are. The kind of girl who fucks poolboys because your family could afford to have them. You are cute at best but your rotten, twatty attitude drops you 3 points instantly. I hope you are haunted by the restless spirit of the identical twin you probably strangled in the womb.




  Fuck. I think I've done enough here, but I'm going to check just in case.



  

  No. No I haven't.




  Here's more bitches.





Valkyie-something: "You vill surrender you your funny money now!" Try keeping your money from this monolithic blond bombshell carved from Nordic myth. Guys line up to give this Goddess their money and pride. She arrives at work on an ornate 2 ton palanquin carried by 60 willing and enthusiastic volunteers. They say even her periods are like a gentle rain of Cherikee Red.*4


  Nothing can stop her. She'll make shoes or a stylish clutch out of your naughty bits.


  Doesn't tip shit. Hopes she gets Kerriganned by a jealous rival.





Mastadon Mary: Her toenails were carbon dated at 350 years, but we have reason to suspect she may be far older. Her turkey wattles are cleverly concealed by a turtleneck onesie, and a crack team of special effects men have perfected her production time at less than 3 hours per 6 hour shift. Pretty impressive considering all the prosthetics involved.


  The concept of modern money is beyond her when it comes to tipping and over the years I've received from her, as gratuities:


  
  1) A handful of tiny seashells.

  
  
  2) A Wampum belt she wove from sequins hacked off a black stripper's outfit.

  
  
  3) Two freshly slain and gutted hares.

  
  
  4) A hubcap from an AMC Pacer engraved with the history of her people.

  
  
  5) Two sticks and a small pouch of fire moss.

  
  
  6) A petrified molar on a catgut string.





  

          "I have, at last count, four sets of labia or pseudo-labia. But I should check again soon, you never know..."







  OK, on that note, I'm done. Gotta work soon, probability of calling off tomorrow at around 63%. Expect number to climb, substantially so if successful at poker.


  Please enjoy reading this post as much as I enjoyed writing it. Maybe mention it in passing to some person you know with poor taste in humor. I can't escape this persistent feeling that I should have more than 216 Facebook followers. It's like knowing a Bigfoot is watching you when you're out in the woods. You can't see it but motherfucker you can feel it's inhuman eyes all over you and your neck hair gets all standy and shit.

  It's disconcerting.



-The StripperHerder











*1  These are the conversations I'm subjected to.




*2 She didn't actually say 'motherfuckers', but she may as well have. Folks were scared.




*3 Though it sounds vaguely Egyptian, her family actually hailed from Lower Sluttia, a dirt poor little province in what would become eastern Germany, widely considered to be the Early European version of a trailer park where marrying out of your bloodline was considered posh.




*4 It's a cherry soda, for those of you on the coasts who know and suspect nothing of our many clandestine pop brands.

                                                    "The most racist soda since Sambo-Juice."

It Lives. Or, The First Rule Of Strip Club is: You Don't Talk About Strip Club. The Second Rule Of Strip Club Is: YOU DON'T TALK ABOUT STRIP CLUB. Or Possibly, Just Another Day At The Orifice.

  So this installment is going to be a bit like an 80's Dodge, it's going to be cobbled together from various bits laying around that don't really go together, but can be made to do so with a lot of sweat and questionable engineering.

  A writer better organized, talented and most importantly, more patient than me could've taken the unfinished drafts that comprise this post, and turned them all into their very own completed selves. I cannot do this because I am unorganized, of mediocre talent and am working on becoming very drunk after kicking ass at online poker.

  Therefore if structure and continuity are of even vague importance to you, I beg you to ignore this post and read some David Thorne instead.

  I'm basically just going to be throwing blog salad onto the internet and hope something in it turns out to be amusing for someone.



  It goes something like this. I'll put up the unfinished post with it's original title in big blue letters and then try to add some new content to it which will show up as red.

  Yeah, that sounds about right.




  Here we go.









  Chingachgook Say "Do Not Try To Understand Strippers, And Do Not Try To Make Them Understand You. That Is Because They Are A Breed Apart And Make No Sense." Or, The Service Industry Will Scrape You Raw Like A Vegan Cereal Made From Bark And Twigs."

                                   "Seriously, paleface. Bitches be heap big fucked up,."








  I'm not a very nice Floor Janitor at all anymore. This industry has worn me down to the bloated, soggy stick. I barely even try to be cordial at my job anymore, pathetically hoping for a tip. I've found being being a unamused and uncompromising asshole makes me the same amount of money as trying to appeal to my fellow humans' kindness.*1

  When you choose to make your living in the service industry, an occupation that features watching every other person in the world having a good time and then cleaning up all their vomit, drama and social abortionry, you tend to get increasingly volatile*2. Patterns of dick-holery emerge. You end up being able to predict with 90-some percent accuracy how a given situation is going to evolve.*3

  Therefore you, for right or wrong, tend to preempt certain situations by exercising what may appear to be to the untrained eye, the unspoken promise excessive force.

                       "Guess which one of us is going to beat your ass. You get two guesses."








  I suppose that if I'd wanted to stare at the same wall for hours on end I would've gotten a desk job. Those sound like a lot of fun. I'm not very satisfied with my occupation at this time, but things could be worse, I could be a clown, or a patent lawyer.


  So I just bottle it all up inside where it can only kill me, then drink it all away. Perfectly safe and environmentally friendly*4. I have been assured there's no such thing a suppressed-rage induced aneurism and that I'm far more likely to die from SWAT team gunfire a heart attack or llamas.*5

  The point being is that babysitting drunk people can be very irritating. Toss in some random junkies, con artists, ghetto thugs, out and out thieves, huge doses of stupidity and lots of money and things become less savory very quickly.




 Awww, poor me. My job is SO demanding. Suck it up you bus driving minge-prodder!

  

  Christ, sometimes I get so immersed in my own self pity that I realize I don't ever mention anything that may be a positive in my life. I mostly do this because writing about happy shit just isn't very interesting. It's hard to make funny because the rainbows and unicorns get in the way.


  So, to poorly construct a rickety segue, here's the next bit which deals in the weighty issue of values left to me by my long departed Father.




   


  My Dad Could Do All Kinds Of Shit That I Would Fuck Up Like A Retarded Chimp If I Tried Doing Them Because I Was A Fuckhatted, Disinterested Worthless Gobshite Of A Kid When I Should've Been Learning Incredibly Useful Lifeskills From This Multi-Disciplined Craftsman. Or, At Least I Picked Up Frugality...





  You know, I make very few demands of life, I keep my needs simple and generally have much lower standards of living that most people I know. I think this comes from my Dad, who spent the last 5 years of his life living either in my Grandparent's spare bedroom, an 8X10 mini-camper parked in a junkyard and in a giant former school bus that he was converting into a mobile home.



  My Pop didn't really care too much about his lair as long as it met the basic needs. Those being:



A) Can I fit in it?


B) Does it keep the rain and snow off me?


C) Can I heat it sufficiently so that I don't die in winter?


D) Is there some place in it or near it where I can shit?


E) Does it allow me to divert as much of my income as possible from 'living expenses' to 'hobby and fun shit expenses'?







  I pretty much have the same set of parameters concerning my living space as my Dad did except for my 'E' reads Does it have air conditioning?

  
  I actually hate where I live. It's loud. It's next to a high school. It's above a food bank. It has shitty insulation. All the windows are on the same side of my apartment, thus making a cross-breeze impossible. I have emergency temporary housing on the apartments on either side of me.*6 Its all the way across the county to where most of my friends live.

  But I pay less than $400 a month rent. It has artic-level central air conditioning. I have a 9 minute commute to my night job and a 2 minute commute to my day job headquarters. I am well positioned for the apocalypse in that my apartment is second floor, is very defensible, features a skylight for an emergency exit, is positioned over a food bank and I have a pick-ax and a giant, frighteningly accurate hand-cannon with which to harvest food.*7




  So, all in all, it's fortunate for me to have the job I have. StripperHerding. I can work 3 days a week, sometimes 4 and usually provide for my basic expenses. Just like my Dad did except that he made a lot better money than I do, but seeing as how I have no hobby's outside of drinking, fantasy football and online poker, only one of which I actually spend money on-it all equals out in the end.


  It's also possible that someday I may make some money off of my day job, which I am part owner of. You never know, stranger things have happened.*8




  My Father was what some people referred to as 'an Engineer without a degree'. The man's skill set was so far beyond me that I can only feel like I fucked up by not learning from him.

  My Pop was a certified Electrician. He could frame a house and wire it for electricity. He could fix any type of engine and it would fucking well stay fixed or he'd goddamn well fix it again, permanently. He didn't take any shit from mechanical crap.

  He could weld with the best of them and indeed welded from scratch the whole frame for a trike he built in 1975-1977. This wasn't like every other trike in those days which was powered by a a 4 cyl Ford or Volkswagen, nope. Not my Dad. He put a 425 CI Oldsmobile engine in it rated at 380 HP.

  His speedometer went up to 120 MPH ans I very distinctly recall being on the back of it and forcing my head against the slipstream screaming off his shoulder to look at the speedometer and seeing it buried past 120. It may have done lasting damage to my neck.

  I remember the brimstone smell of him welding the metal in the basement. To think that he built something like that from scratch and it fucking worked really well, astounds me.

  I can't build a birdhouse that would be anything but a disgrace. A section 8 nightmare for some poor, unfortunate birds that will likely collapse on them some day, killing them.




   

  There. That's two drafts united as one. Like broth and flour make gravy.


  Tune in next whenever when I explore the departure and subsequent return of Vodzilla, my Arch-Nemesis. I disclose several little known tidbits of strip club lore and tell you how to construct an emergency shelter in the wild using only two worthless strippers.




  Peace my malashites,
-The StripperHerder












*1 The level of which has been seriously exaggerated



*2 And by volatile I mean frighteningly hateful of the trivial stupidity that thrives in drunken people. Stuff that might be amusing if your friend did it at a party. Things that might be excusable in a more isolated setting or where you're amongst people you know.

  Or things that have grated your nerves so often over the years that you daydream about going all kinds of murder jerk.

  Going utterly supervova. Getting all postally. Pulling a Norway.




*3 Because I recycle the beer cans and only flush the toilet every 3rd piss.




*4 Like I can look at a guy guy just coming into a club and think to myself, "I'll be throwing that dude out of the club in 13.2 to 17.8 minutes.




*5 79,483 people have been killed by llamas in recorded history.**



  **This may not be completely accurate because I just made it up.




*6Sometimes the emergency is that the person is fucking crazy and completely unemployable. Welcome to my building.




*7 Courtesy of my friend Erik at Pittsburgh Tactical Firearms. He'll hook you up, mowwa-fakka.

http://www.pittsburghtactical.com/




*8 Like the 1956 Freak Rain of Small Appliances which occurred in Plato, Illinois on an otherwise unremarkable June day. In a matter of moments over 5,000 small household appliances such as toasters, blenders and hand mixers rained down on the tiny Midwest town in a fierce but highly profitable storm.

Stinkier Than Rancid Chutney On A Raccoon Carcass. Or, If I Was More Charming I Might Be Considered A Curmudgeon, But Unfortunately I'm Just An Asshole.

  There's this girl I work with who's olfactory sense doesn't work. This is the only explanation I can come up as to why she comes into work reeking like reanimated hippie corpse slathered in yeast infection. There's just no other plausible reason for her stink.

 
  She smells homeless. She smells like someone who hasn't bathed. Ever. The advent of deodorant obviously went unnoticed by her, she didn't get the memo. Her pits exude a pungent mammalian funk that is both tangily repulsive and cloyingly determined to hang around long after she's moved on.


  Finally some motivated dancer pulled her aside and let her know as gently as possible that she had an odor reminiscent of a Wendy's dumpster inhabited by Grateful Dead fans and actually handed her some pit-stick.

                                "Shit! Someone's throwing away a perfectly good stripper torso!"




  I hope that this works. I have to deal with any number of unpleasant smells in my line of work; clogged and peaking toilets, lots of barf, occasional feces, toilet fetuses, stinky customers, etc etc. So having to put up with one less nasty stank would be a welcome thing.



  I wrote a haiku about it:



                          



                    Sweaty manky-skank
               Holy Zeus you fucking reek
                  Old fish, spent condoms





  I find it serviceable, if lacking in elegance.







  Beards, Glasses and The Lemming-Like Appeal of Fashion.




  I shaved my beard off recently because I got sick of other men complimenting my facial hair. It was fucking weird. People get all fucking queer and shit when it comes to trendy cuntery. I would never think to compliment another dude on his facial hair if I didn't even know the guy. I have friends who've grown beards you could breed marsupials in, and I said "Hey, that's a great ecosystem you have growing from your chin" or something like that. But that's because they were my friend, not some random male I encountered in a titty bar.

 
  It's a shame too, because I had a sweet beard.



  Geek chic has reached such a fervor that all these human sheep wear non prescription eyeglasses around all the time. Whatever floats you're boat, man. If you're such an insecure person that you have to mimic what all the other insecure people do to get through the day and fit in, then more power to you. I'm very glad I don't feel those pressures, but I suppose I can see why that giving in to them makes a person feel better. The herd provides warmth and security...

 


  People who wear fake eyeglasses also enjoy shitty music. This is a fact.

                                                        "Pierce the Veil rules!"




  Maybe I'm just an asshole*1, but I just don't understand doing something because some famous person did it first. I realize that the average American is a fucking idiot, but even idiots can sometimes make a choice of their own. If your identity is tied to trends and fashions, do you have any real substance or are you just an unimaginative part of the herd?


  Like I said, I'm probably just an asshole. Maybe Nickelback and Rihanna are great artists and I'm just too closed minded to see it. I can only hope.




 So, while I'm on the subject, let's touch upon inevitable road rage. It's relevant.


  My day job requires me to be constantly on the road. I drive all day and have managed to not kill a single person, either involuntarily, or extremely on purpose.


  Yet.


  Ironically my night job sometimes has me driving a giant limo bus around douchebag infested streets, and I STILL haven't killed one.


  Yet.


  So one of the things about our society that pisses me off are some of the new car safety features emerging these days, or as I call them SAIC, Self Absorbed Idiot Countermeasures. Cars today can stop for you whether you're going forward or in reverse in case you're too busy to do it yourself. They can also auto-correct (see what I did there?) if you happen to meander out of your lane because you were watching a funny kitten video on your phone while hurtling along at 65 MPH and couldn't be bothered to pay attention.

  It drives me apeshit that manufacturers' are just pandering to this demographic of irresponsible fuckwits. Driving a car is a fucking privilege, not a right. An automobile is a large, heavy slab of complex machinery capable of great speed which requires a fair measure of concentration and common sense to operate safely.

  One of my favorite of these features is the auto parallel parking system. Because parking is fookin hard, man.

                                "You drive like a hammered Japanese businesswoman, Michael."






  If you cannot successfully parallel park your own vehicle, you simply should not be driving at all. There I said it. Ladies, I hate to say it, but for whatever mysterious gender based reason, a lot of you are really bad at this. You know who you are and you've accepted the fact and you've moved on, I get it.*2

 
  Stay the fuck out of my way.

 
  If I were a TV executive I'd make a show called 'Girls Attempting To Parallel Park.' I used to work at a restaurant and one of the few joys of working there was watching women attempt street parking while I had a smoke break. It was mesmerizing.

                              "I was just texting my friend about how I was sure it would fit..."






  One time I witnessed a perfectly executed 74 Point parking maneuver. It took 11 minutes. The spot itself was substantially smaller than a football field, I don't think I could've fit anything much bigger than a Navy Destroyer in there myself, but she was driving a Kia which is much smaller and better handling than a warship.

 
  She was so proud of herself I couldn't bring myself to call her a dumb twat.

                         "Eh, no big deal. I managed to squeeze it it between the caddy and the hyundai."








  Ah, the hate keeps me warm at night, allowing me to keep the thermostat at 50 all through winter. I thought frakking was supposed to lower my gas bills.

 
  What happened with all that?



  


  Fuck it, I'm drunk enough for now. Thus the cheesy and abrupt ending, something of a trademark by now I would assume. 



  Tune in next week when I tackle some tough philosophical questions such as:



A) What if God is a stripper?

B) If I were trapped at work during the Zompacalypse, how many stripper carcasses would it take to sustain me until the zombie population thinned out enough for me to seek out other humans to devour?*3

C) If I were an All Powerful Being, how would things be different?


D) And so forth





Buy Armenian,
-The StripperHerder







*1 There's no 'maybe' about it.**



 


    **I've come to terms with it.

*2 There are 17 Identified and Confirmed Excellent Female Automobile Pilots (ICEFLAPS) in the tri-state area and one or more of them may be reading this right now.

*3 Hipster burger with a piquant goat cheese and a solar-hydroponically grown slice of tomato is a particular favorite.