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.
