Dear Santa,
What I want for Christmas is the death of humanity, myself included.
Thanking you in advance,
-Lil' StripperHerder
I wrote this cute little note to Santa as part of a 3rd grade mind-degradation program that my entire school system was subject to. I hated the whole fucking idea of it, writing a letter that would never be sent to an entity that didn't fucking exist.
It rubbed me the wrong way.
I was a hostile child, with much less anger control than I currently possess.
Christmas was always a mixed bag for me. I didn't give a shit about religion so I felt slightly guilty for receiving gifts in honor of God's Dead And Yet Reanimated Son. Some years I scored the exact toy I wanted, other years I got whatever some charity organization had for a boy my age.
The Firemen or shoddily dressed Santas who delivered the toys always emanated the subtle undertone of 'you better be happy kid, you're on fucking welfare, you little, broke asshole.'
"I got a Home Human Extinction Kit, yay!"
But enough about Christmas. I don't even know where that came from. I was raised in a Viko-Sasquatch household, with all the rituals and holy days you'd associate with these two disparate cultures.
Like Raid Fucking Ireland Month and Pink Monkey Rape Day.
**************************
Believe it or not, Floor Walkers every where are related on a genetic level. There's something about the industry that harkens back to the days of small family businesses being passed down from Father to Son. If you're Pop was a farrier, chances were that you were going to be a farrier too.
If you were unfortunate enough to have a cooperage as the family business, you had the dubious pleasure of looking forward to a lifetime of making barrels. Thousands of 'em. All pretty much the same. Day after day. Barrels.
Heaps of them.
have made enough barrells that month to find the time to make my buddy Steve."
And then you procreate, teach your misbegotten offspring to make fucking barrels too, and then you die. That was the Tradition, and you fucking well stuck to it because it worked. It required that no one be happy about it, just that it went on. It existed.
That's how it is in Stripperherding. My Father was a Stripperherder. My Father's Father was a Stripperherder and so on and so forth. In fact, 86.3% of the Stripperherders I know have Stripperherder blood. Most of them come from pedigreed Stripperherding stock, some of them even able to trace their bloodlines back to the Sumerians.
I haven't had the time nor inclination to trace my roots back that far, and my Archival Clearance to study the ancient Floor Guy Scrolls*1 is still suspended because of the misunderstanding over the Vietnam War. Therefore I can only trace back my heritage about 1200 years or so. To the great Viking explorer, Leif Herderssonson, the first man to establish a strip club on North American Soil.
Puzzled?
I bet you are, you silly peasant.
In order to elucidate, I give you some of the various Traditions of Stripperherding.
Norse
Long, long ago, during the first year of the Sword Age, the 4th year preceding Ragnarok, Loki had a son. This was Herdor, the lesser known brother of Hel, Fenrir and Jormungand (the fucking World Serpent, mowwa-faka).
This Son he made the Head of Security at Nidhogg's, the most exclusive club in Asgard. This Son was a malevolent prick. He treated the patrons like shit, frequently beating them senseless while his celebrity Father made sure no one interfered. Herdor had brutal strength and wasn't shy about applying it to people's faces and ribcages. His hand was constantly out for tips and woe be the clubgoer that didn't give him something...
He was supposedly there to protect the dancing Valkyries from the hordes of screaming customers, and though the Valkyries could certainly take care of themselves when faced with a problem viking, gang rape was always on the mind of certain ship's crews when they had a stag party for one of their own.
Herdor didn't really care what happened to the Valkyries as long as they tipped him out. If they didn't tip, he had to beat a bitch and took great satisfaction from it.
Adherents to the Norse Tradition tend to be gruff, no nonsense Floor Guys and are usually enormous individuals. Although their forebears thought rape was just swell, they have moved with the times and tend to frown upon it.
Native American
Although his name varies from tribe to tribe, it is generally agreed that Hasawickanobi's tepee was a rocking place to hang out. He had firewater, he had the best pipe weed and he had lots and lots of naked chicks dancing around. As a result things could sometimes get out of hand and he eventually created Bear-Men (Elie-wanako) out of a grizzly's claw, some clay and the squeezings from his loincloth.
The Bear Men's job was to make sure no one got too rowdy in his tepee and if they did, eject them with maximum force and minimum remorse. Send a fucking message as it were. Soon all of the problem guests had learned their lessons and peace reigned in the Tepee of Hasawickanobi.
Followers of Hasawickanobi are stoic, rock solid Floor Beasts. The remain calm in the face of adversity and are fierce combatants when shit goes all pear shaped. They can also track a stripper through miles of wilderness without relying on the tried and true follow-the-trail-of-Patron-bottles method which most White trackers utilize.
To be continued...
In other news I officially hate Irish people now, which means I hate half of myself. Why you ask, why do you now hate Irish people?
Let me explain so you can share my hatred.
I got a call a 3:30 to pick up a bunch of fucking pro soccer players from a downtown bar. I haul my 'Herder ass up to the Douchebag District to get them and it turns out they're goddamn Irish with a lone French cunt to round out the stable. They seemed like cool drunks at first, amiable and ready to spend stupid amounts of cash to try to get laid.
Fucking perfect customers, in fact.
So they spent stupid amounts of money, and in case your were wondering, they didn't get laid. At least not by our girls.
So 5:30 AM rolled around and I was willing to run them back to their hotel since it was only 2 miles away. When I pulled up to their hotel, I was informed that this was not in fact their hotel and they were actually at a different hotel of the same chain that happened to be located by the airport, some 30 minutes away.
I called in to my Mismanager, Sir Warhelm Indifferent Cuddleston VIII and he said 'just take them there and be quick about it.' As if the bus had a warp drive I wasn't aware of.
So I roll their hammered asses there, hoping for a great tip and when we arrive I was graced with $6 and an apology.
This made me angry for obvious reasons. One of them even pissed in my bus to add that extra something special to the night. I could've beaten them senseless if I could've fought them one on one or two on one, but eight on one I might've lost and so I refrained from violence.
But I wanted to fight at that point. So I didn't. When I fight people get hurt. Sometimes irreparably. Sometimes me.
Fuck you Ireland, I expected better. And fuck you France, I wasn't surprised.
In fact fuck everyone who plays soccer, the world's most boring sport.
Eat a dick in Hell and die of syphilis.
I want my tip motherfuckers.
Now I play poker and smash things.
-The StripperHerder.
*1 An Appendix of collected Floor Guy wisdom, the oldest scrolls are thought to be 5 kabillion** years old.
** Kabillion: A whoop-ass fuckton of billions.
