Vodzilla Vs MechaFloorGuy. Or, Absorb My Happiness Like A Feminine Hygiene Product.

   I got into it with Vodzilla the other night. She'd been her usual liquor-vampire self and was draining the life out of a bottle these 3 guys had shelled out $300 for. They didn't want her at their table, they were not amused by her booze siphoning and they were thinking clearly enough to realize she's a fucking skag.

  Finally one guy gets up and uses the pretense of going to the men's room to earnestly plead with me to make her evil go away. He hands me a $20 bill and I told him he ain't got no problem, I'm on the motherfucker.

                           "Chill them niggahs out and wait for the Wolf who should be coming directly"




  So I go to the DJ booth and have him call Vodzilla to the booth. When she staggers up there I tell her that the gentlemen don't really want her at the table and could she take her worthless, festering carcass somewhere else.



  Pretty fucking please, with sugar on top.



  She starts motherfucking me or course, saying that I'm lying and that they liked her and wanted her to be at their table. I showed her the twenty and said no, they don't want her at the table and they were desperate enough to tip me to make her leave them alone. I said the only things that wanted her to be at that table were the bottle because vodka just wants to be drank, and her liver which just wants to die already and get it over with.

  She starts heading over to the table to give them a piece of her mind, however small that may have been and I was like "where you goin bitch?" She tried to stalk past me but I was having none of her wasted bullshit tonight. I grabbed her upper arm and pressed my thumb into the place between her bone and where her bicep should've been.


  Try this at home. It fucking hurts.


  She shrieked at me and tried to claw at my eyes which didn't work out for her either. So I had to spin her around and bodily lift her, kicking and screaming and carry her off the floor. I honestly wanted to crush her in a bear hug until her alcohol weakened skeleton splintered and her poop mouth was silenced by lack of air, but I didn't and this is important.

  


"With great power comes great responsibility. Don't kill a bitch."



  I remembered my Uncle Ben's words and merely squeezed until she had to struggle to breathe, thus making her Absolut-chute quiet and removing her from the situation.

        "Just squeeze until she starts struggling for breath, but stop before she turns purple. Shut that bitch right up."







  Had this been a Japanese monster movie I'm sure she would've found a way of defeating me. Possibly by blowing a cloud of booze fumes onto me that get ignited by a strobe light, or knocking me down with an atomic pulse of Negative Bitch Energy.*1




  But unfortunately for her this was what passes for reality and she fucking lost. MechaFloorGuy prevailed, mowwa-faka.

                                              "Back to the ocean depths with you, bitch."





  Most of the unfavorable comments, emails and opinions I receive are based on the theme of me being intrinsically unlikable, which I don't disagree with. I am a pretty angry guy, always have been. I'm not always (usually) in the right and I realize this even as I accept it and run with it.

  I'm generally polite in public because that's how I was raised to be, yet I have a tremendous temper and have to constantly struggle to keep it in check lest I perpetrate some small atrocity on someone undeserving.

  So this blog is way for me to release the pent up rage without anyone getting hurt and, judging by my loyal fan base, to amuse others as I do so.

  Therefore while I'm not defending my attitude, nor would I call it justified, I will say it possibly has become necessary for me at this point to write this blog and that I'm going to continue writing it even if no one is reading. So fucking cathartic...

  I would like, however to give you a sample of what the blog would look like if I tried to write about the good parts of the job, of which there are many.



  Here goes...





  Golly, tonight sure was swell! The gals were in top form and our customer base was A-one and snappy dressers! Sometimes I thought that maybe a gas explosion had killed us all instantly and we were in Heaven it was so good!

  


  LOL! Just kidding! Death would totally suck!

  

  Ermagerd the girls were so on their game tonight! Not a single one threw up, smacked another entertainer, ripped off a customer or was on drugs! Not like at that other place of Which We Shall Not Speak.


  Us Floor Wonders made a million dollars apiece and were treated with respect and reverence! It was like being a hybrid of an elephant and a lion, LEWLZ!


  Gee-Willikers it sure was awesome! I have the best job in the world! If only my parents could see me now they'd say we're proud of our slutprodding son!

                                        Be Prepared.....For Bitchnanigans.


  Yay,
-The StripperHerder






  So that would suck, wouldn't it? Be happy I'm an angry prick and if it's not your cup of negativi-tea, don't read it. It's OK.



Nachos Bellgrande,
-The StripperHerder


  







*1 Negative Bitch Energy: (also see; Cunt Chi, VagSerker, Minge-a Training) The spiritual force a certified Twat can release like a fucking Yu-Gi-Oh attack.

A Timeline Of My Night. Or, A Timeline Of Most Of My Nights Quite Frankly.

  7:00 PM: Arrive at work feeling refreshed and ready to make some money.


  7:05 PM Sweep up last night's and today's cigarette butts and miscellaneous garbage laying around the front entrance because the day guy couldn't be bothered for the 412th day in a row.


  7:15 PM Finish sweeping


  7:16 PM Become bored, have cigarette.


  7:22 PM Finish smoke, the butt of which I properly dispose of. Resume boredom.


  7:25 PM Wonder what it's like to jump off a 60 story building into a wire net and cube myself onto the sidewalk below.


  7:30 PM Picture punching this dancer I hate in the jaw and watching her drop like a sack of dirty laundry.


  7:31 PM Smile to myself.


  7:32 PM Resume boredom, go for another smoke.


  7:39 PM Properly dispose of cigarette butt, drink energy drink.


  7:48 PM Urinate in a urinal rather than all over the floor which is apparently the choice of drunk dicks everywhere.


  7:56 PM Daydream of returning to the wild, regrowing my coarse pelt of reddish hair and scaring hikers for fun.


  8:03 PM Resume boredom, wander outside and scan the sky for the possibility of a 747 crashing into the building.


  8:04 PM Return inside deeply disappointed by the lack of an air disaster.


  8:05-8:13 PM Wander aimlessly around the club making fun of our 8 customers in my head.


  8:14 PM Smile vaguely, wander back outside for another smoke.


  8:21 PM Finish smoke and throw cigarette butt on the ground figuring I'm the one who'll have to sweep it up 2 days from now when I work again.


  8:30 PM Jot down thoughts on my last will and testament on a bar napkin.


  8:35 PM Greet a pair of twat-snufflers as they come through the doors.


  8:36 PM Check ATM for stray twenties.


  8:49-8:53 PM Go into bathroom stall and cry quietly.


  8:55 PM Have another smoke, throw butt on ground.


  9:01 PM Recoil in horror from the embarrassingly dilapidated tits of the girl on stage.


  9:02-9:08 PM Curl up in corner and rock back and forth repeating "Bad titties no hurt me!"


  9:12 PM Crack joke about mid-belly nipples to a co-worker who is highly amused at my cleverness.


  9:13 PM Resume boredom, decide to try crack.


  9:14 PM High as fuck.


  9:19 PM Not high anymore, must get more crack.


  9:22 PM Have after-crack smoke, throw butt on ground disdainfully.


  9:27 PM Hit up dancer for more crack, smack her when she says she doesn't have any.


  9:28 PM Become agitated. So itchy.


  9:31 PM Wander onto the patio and offer to blow someone for some crack with negligible success.


  9:40 PM Suffer crack withdrawals.


  9:41 PM Totally over crack, decide it was a bad idea and only shitty people do crack.


  9:53 PM Wander around club with my fly open just to see if anyone notices.


  9:54 PM Zip up fly, disappointed. Again.


  9:59 PM Go outside, have cigarette. Throw butt at asshole cabby.


  10:03 PM See really hot dancer, wonder what her vulva looks like.


  10:04-10:17 PM Still picturing the manifold possibilities of hot girl labial schematics.


  10:18 PM Resume boredom. Contemplate suicide.


  10:23 PM Have another smoke, bullshit with Manager.


  10:38 PM Feel strange sensation in chest which turns out is called 'hope' as many customers start arriving.


  10:39-11:26 PM Observe customers populating our floor.


  11:27 PM Feel hope die within me as I realize everyone's a worthless piece of shit.


  11:33 PM Get stuck at Counter, counting dances with a mounting fury.


  11:34-11:38 PM Shitty computer crashes, resets itself.


  11:39 PM Anger level visibly rises.


  11:40-11:44 PM Shitty computer crashes, resets itself.


  11:48 PM Lash out at latino stripper who can't count to three, has never been able to count to three and will never be able to count to three.


  11:49 PM Scratch off one of the SAME latino stripper's dances because it's literally either that or slay her gruesomely where she stands. I am tired of having to see her brown butthole.


  11:53 PM Still signing in girls whose idea of a work day is 2 1/2 hours.


  11:55-11:59 PM Shitty computer crashes, resets itself. Scream at Manager over microphone to fix the motherfucking computer.


  12:01 AM Call for someone to take my place while I have smoke.


  12:03 AM Go outside, have smoke. Get annoyed by a trio of 21 year olds, one of whom's birthday it is. Throw cigarette away half smoked and go back to the fucking Counter because it is preferable to strangling two 21 year olds to death while I terminally headbutt the third. Possibly screaming "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!", all the while.


  12:12 AM Argue with a fucking cunt because she starts dancing in the middle of a song and through to the middle of the next one and expects me to realize she'd only done one song when I had marked her for two. I patiently explained to her that she's not supposed to start dancing in the middle of a goddamn, motherfucking song for this very reason and could she please refrain from doing so in the future.


  12:13-12:17 AM Shitty computer crashes, resets itself. Eye starts twitching uncontrollably.


  12:18 AM Find an empty dance stall, cry a little bit more. Just a few quick tears of rage.


  12:23 AM An already mediocre crowd starts thinning.


  12:28-12:32 AM Shitty computer crashes, resets itself.


  12:33 AM I feel my fingers lengthening, my fur growing and my snout extending. "Dear God" I think to myself, "NOT NOW!"


  12:34 AM Just kidding, though I did picture becoming a werewolf and raping or maiming anything I could catch.


  12:37 AM Realize it's been 34 minutes since I had a cigarette, radio for backup.


  12:40 AM Sweet lady nicotine blows me on the patio, it feels great. Experience somewhat tarnished by fuckbag patio dwellers.


  12:42 AM Clean up vomit in the dance room because some amateur cunt couldn't make it to the bathroom.


  12:43-12:47 AM Attempt to sign out dancer; computer crashes, resets itself. A vein in my temple starts throbbing.


  12:48 AM Choke a small customer to death in the darkness of the dance room. Stuff his corpse under a couch and hope he doesn't smell bad enough to cause concern within the three days it will take our security recordings to reset.


  12:54 AM Discover that despite 11 credit card transactions the Floor Knaves have run, not a single tip has been recorded.


  12:55 AM Abandon my post and got out and have a smoke. Soothing nicotine washes away immediate need to kill again.


  12:55:13-12:55:28 AM Feel remorse for slaying small stupid customer.


  1:03-1:07 AM Shitty computer crashes, resets itself.


  1:10 AM Attempt to sign out a dancer. Idiot dancer doesn't mention she has free house fees before I punch them into the computer. Take deep breaths, call Manager to fix problem.


  1:11-1:15 AM Shitty computer fucking crashes again. Motherfucking cunty fucking computer is going to get fucking smashed next time it crashes, so help me God. Motherfucking shitty computer resets itself.


  1:16 AM Bite off own tongue in a blur of frenzied violence, it is uncomfortable yet I can no longer hurl epithets coherently, so kind of a mixed outcome really.


  1:20 AM Thankfully, tongue regenerates. Spit blood-froth on especially hated dancer and display my genitals defiantly like a dominant baboon.


  1:26 AM Eat several babies.


  1:30 AM Have cigarette. Enjoy cigarette. One hour closer to death.


  1:47 AM Drag 2 customers out by their faces, felt like I should grab their brains via the anus and pull sharply backwards, am prevented from doing so by 4 other Floor Knobs, 1 Manager, 1 Bar Back, 1 Off Duty Cop and 2 Drunk Whores.


  1:48 AM Murmur apology and wander around to the side of the building where I, you guessed it, have a smoke.


  1:49-1:53 AM Shitty computer crashes, resets itself.


  1:54 AM Done. I am done trying to sign strippers out. Fuck you, you do it. Don't make me kill again.


  2:12 AM Last call for alcohol. Like any of you faggots need it.


  2:25 AM Pull alcohol out of terrified, unresisting fingers. DO NOT break bottles and start laying about you with handfuls of broken glass. That is bad. Baaaaadddddd. You're a bad StripperHerder.


  2:30 AM "Get. Out" Fucking now.


  2:40- 3:15 AM Do fucking janitor stuff. Do a portion of everyone else's job, collect your sixty measly fucking dollars in tips and go home.


  3:31 AM Pour alcohol down throat and write this stupid bullshit.*1





Tell your babies.....

-The StripperHerder






  *1 8:03 AM: Lose at poker, make pancakes, eat pancakes, write this footnote, go to bed.

Bachelor Parties, Canadians and Dumb Fucks-Oh My! Or, More Hammered Fat Chicks Than You Can Shake A Forklift At.

  Bachelor parties are an inevitable evil in the titty club business. It's not like you have to have them, but you're going to get them no matter what. The bachelor parties (from hereafter I'll simply call them 'shitglobs') that go to strip cubs are like the little league of bachelor parties. In other words they never have any real money and they don't know how to do it.

  The pros are they guys you never see in the clubs. These guys know that you're going to get way more bang for your buck if they have the strippers come to them. When strippers do private shows like these, they do crazy shit. I've done security for girls that do this and let me tell you, it may cost a few extra bucks, but goddamn it's worth it.


  Here's a brief list of some of the insane crap I've witnessed strippers do at private shows:



1) Attack each other's vaginas with dildos in an exuberant fashion.


2) Drive remote control cars with dildos attached to them into each other's baby-chutes.*1


3) Invite dudes to pour hot wax on their various naughty bits


4) Suck off a roomful of guys, one at a time


5) Insert an entire produce section's worth of assorted vegetables into every available orifice, gleefully.


6) Some heinous butt stuff followed by a rectal prolapse.



  For the most part us Floor KaNiggets don't generally make much money from shitglobs, but we can't seem to stop them from coming in and it's still illegal to machine gun them, so we try to make the best of it. Honestly if all the shitglobs in the world were to start NOT coming to strip clubs anymore, I could care fucking less. It would just mean that my Saturday nights got less douchey and, quite possibly, more lucrative.

  If I had to estimate I would say that maybe 1 in 8 or so shitglobs tip a Floor Troll something to make their bachelor's night special. Fuck em. Most of the income generated by these unholy shitglobs goes straight into the owner's pocket, the guy who needs it least and never has to deal with these walking jizz-mebas.




    

                        CANADIANS


  You know them, you love them. It's almost impossible not to like Canadian people. They're fun loving, hard drinking little rascals who just want to go out and get drunk and say 'eh' a lot while generally being polite as fuck about it. They're what I picture Americans being like if the US had slightly better beer, no guns and rap had never been invented.

  They're fuzzy, kinda like busy, alcoholic squirrels always scampering about and whatnot. You gotta love em.


  So anyway I picked up a group of 15 or so of the mischievous little devils the other night and dear lord let me tell you, I have never seen a more disorganized rabble of a shitglob in my life. These poor bastards had no effective leadership, which is (believe it or not) essential for the running of a proper shitglob. Their leader was weak and had no respect, and without respect you have no power.

  I actually felt bad for the guy. He got heckled like a bad comedian and second guessed at every turn. At one point a mutiny seemed so imminent that I checked that the sawed off under my seat was loaded because I feared that having deposed their ruler, they would make an attempt on the helm.*2

                                       "No guys, we're seriously going to another bar, eh. Hey, put me down!"




  But they ended up just arguing a lot and having me shuttle them to a bar that was closed and then back to the club and then back to another club which turned out was NOT the club their driver was supposed to meet them at and ultimately, to the actual club they were supposed to go to. They tipped me a 20 initially, but fagged out after all the confused bullshit and only followed up with a 5.

  I expected and deserved better, Canada. I am very disappointed.





  As a total aside, here's my 100% favorite thing a customer can ask me when I'm wandering around the floor.

  Customer: "Hey man, can you help me find my friend?"

  Me: (laughing) "Sure man. What's his name and what does he look like?"

  Customer: "Um. His name's....um....Tom(?) and he's kinda like average height, is wearing a plaid shirt and has hair."

  Me: (looking around at 300 or so guys about 75% of which match that description) "Oh, there he is over there."

  And when they turn around to look where I'm pointing I sneak away and have a smoke.



  Fuck I love that. Only someone exceptionally drunk or exceedingly stupid would even ask a question like that. And that, dear readers, is my job in a nutshell.







                       

                        3 Days Grace

                                                 "Check out our hair. Want a blowjob?"






  I had the misfortune to work a show featuring the awesome rock band 3 Days Grace a few days ago. I didn't really know who they were because I enjoy good music and not cliched, felchy hard rock. I never realized how many songs these drivelly pricks were responsible for until then. I have been subjected to many of they're heartfelt commercio-rock in the clubs over the years, but never knew who did them until I worked the show.

  Holy fuck they're shit. They're like Nickelback with a bit less creativity and slighty heavier guitar. They have emo-twat hair except for the guitar player but he wore eyeliner so it all equaled out.

  They were even people moshing to this tripe. No seriously, moshing. What a bunch of dewy-eyed fuckwits.


  What I will say about this band and you can construe this any way you like, they had the highest ratio of wasted fat chicks I have ever seen at a rock concert. It's as if all of their CD's came with 180 wings and a crate if Ho-ho's.

  The crowd was literally riddled with annihilated hefty gals. I don't understand, or forgive.

                                                       "I love 'Let's Start a Riot!"
                                                                     "I love Fried anything!"





  Fuck you, 3 Days Grace.


  My manager, Sir Arnolf Battledome O'Metal IX, although very professional, made his opinion evident whenever he came to yell at me for being lazy. He fucking hates the shit out of them too.


  Cheers,
-The StripperHerder




*1 Totally awesome, by the way.





*2 I don't really have a sawed off under my seat.**



 

     **I have two.

Dealing With The Intellectually Challenged Can Be A Rewarding Experience, Just Not In A Club. Or, Another Encounter With My Favorite Booze-Sponge.

  OK, in case you're a new reader to this blog or you've just missed the subtle hints I've dropped in the past 3 years of writing this, I hate human beings. I really, really hate them. Most people are animated pieces of shit shambling through life oblivious to their own shitittude. When you add in alcohol and hot, naked chicks, the equation becomes nearly unbearable.

  I seriously wish I could kill certain people with no repercussions. Why won't they let me?



  Let me give you an example or two.



  Fucking Detroit. It's no wonder this city is bankrupt, it's denizens are fucking idiots. Anyone who still lives there or feels any pride about it is obviously mentally deficient and thus it comes as no surprise that Detroit has fallen down the shit-chute.

  We had a group come in tonight that featured a guy from the Motor City. This guy was a fucking moron. Most of our strippers were smarter than him. He kept losing the rest of his party every time he went to the bar because they were sitting on the main floor at a table and he couldn't recall where they were.

  It's not like our club is the Minotaur's Labyrinth. It's a fucking square. The dimensions and layout of the club do not change like fucking Hogwart's Castle. It is absolutely the goddamn same from one minute to another and yet Mr. Detroit was constantly lost and baffled as if the rooms rearranged themselves while he wasn't looking.

                               "I'm from Detroit, therefore even a bathroom looks like this to me."



  Here's some friendly advice, if you're going to take a mongoloid out for a night on the town, keep a fucking leash on him or expect there's a fair chance he may be euthanized. It's probably for the best.





  ATM's: I know they are fiendishly difficult to understand, much less use. They are certainly Satan's constructs and only genius level intellects or the insanely lucky can use them successfully. That being said, it's an ATM and even a blind squirrel finds a nut every now and then. If you can't figure out how to use an ATM, go home asshole.

                                              "I are am not an afrophycisist, dude."

  



  It's not astrophysics. Even if you're drunk you still should be able to withdraw money by the third try. If you can't there's a pretty good chance you're as dumb as a condomful of goldfish and should've called it a night by now.


  I hate people.


  Then there was this charming couple. He was 5'6 and had a luxuriant lower back length pelt of hippie hair. She was 5'10 and frankly, could've done better. But her self esteem was nearly nonexistent, so she settled for dating a midget protein-rancher.

  This unlikely couple meandered in and sat themselves at one of our Bottle Service Tables. These tables are reserved for groups that order bottle service, we let people know that by placing large placards on them that say "RESERVED FOR BOTTLE SERVICE AND VIP".

                  "I didn't think this applied to me because of my awesome hair and colossal indifferent girlfriend."





  I saw a new (read:clueless) waitress take their drink orders and when she stepped away from the table I asked her if they had ordered a bottle and she said no. I told her that these table were reserved for that and that I was sure no one had told her that during her training.

  She affirmed this; I smiled.

  I went to the couple and said, extremely politely*1, "I'm sorry, this table is reserved for bottle service, I regret it deeply that you either didn't see the giant sign on it and/or just chose to ignore it and hope for the best. I'd be happy to find you a new table and direct the waitress to your new location."

  They were non committal for the most part, probably because they were cooler than me, and then walked out of the club.




  Fucking wah. Did'm big scawy booncer make'm moov fwom twable?




  Take you, your luxuriant womanly hair, your miniscule stature and your bored, plain-looking giantess and go fuck yourselves silly, you pathetic little man. Like we need your $50.




  Go suck a cock in Hell.




 

  And did someone mention Bottle Service? Vodka-Tampon certainly heard it. I told you before that this bitch has magic powers of alcohol detection. She could be in the fucking dressing room and if someone orders a bottle, her Stoli-Sense goes off and within 60 seconds what passes for her ass is sitting at that table, crushing their bottle like it's a sailboat taking on a German battleship.

  She fucking absorbs alcohol. It's amazing to watch. There were 8 guys in the group that ordered a bottle of Belvedere and I'd be shocked if any of them got more than two drinks before Vodzilla destroyed it like a liquid Tokyo. The bitch can knock back some stiff drinks, y'all.


  Then, just to make my night super-riffic....

  I'm cashing girls out at the end of the night, i.e. collecting the money for their dance and having them sign their receipt. I can hear her slurring some retarded nonsense over my shoulder as she waited her turn and was really looking forward to having to deal with her.

  First off she had already talked to the Manager, Sir Lactose Unforsakable Heimlich VIII, and he knocked $25 off her house fee. So then she reels up to me and slurs something imcomprehensible and through years of having to deal with her I'm able to interpret her as inquiring about how much she owes.

  I said that the Manager had already knocked $25 from your house fees and you did 3 dances, so you owe $40. She stuttered at me that she'd only done 2 dances, which was a difference of 5 goddamn measly dollars, but I had already entered it in the computer and so I needed a Manager to void it out and correct the amount.

                             "I shink I'm better sasquatchified than you to count to nebshhul...orr."





  All my primal senses were screaming to end her right there. "She's a danger to the village!", they insisted. I agreed, but as a civilized man I could not bring myself to throttle her purple and lifeless although it would be for the greater good.


  The Greater Good.


  So I let her live and I made a hair over a hundred bucks tonight. Whoopee!



  Go, go, Vodzilla!
-The StripperHerder









*1 I was in a good mood tonight.

She's Not Pregnant-That's Her Swollen, Dying Liver But From The Outside They Look The Same. Or, I Will Agree Not To Maim You If You Agree To Stop Being A Fucking Twat.

**Edit** 5/11/22


  I had a Vodzilla sighting today at a local grocery/liquor store. I'm not sure if she saw me although I suspect she did and chose not to attack for unfathomable reasons. We never made eye contact, I made sure of that and it perhaps saved me.

  So in honor of this unexpected and non confrontational sighting, I thought I would republish what may be the definitive Vodzilla post in Herder herstory.
 




  I think that I've mentioned before that I am a HFA*1, and as thus am eminently qualified to spot other HFA's sharing my ecosystem. The signs are easy to spot in a clandestine drunk, much less a fucking stripper who could drink me under the table 3 times over in a single night.

 
  I'm a classic stay-at-home-and-write-angry-manifestos-while-hammered kind of drunk. As a matter of fact you're reading to what amounts to those angry manifestos right now, I hope you enjoy them.

 
  And, more importantly, learn some obscure yet valuable lesson about life from them.*2


  
 
  So I am constantly amazed that this one dancer is a fellow HFA and not a decomposing statistic buried in a potter's field.



  What I don't comprehend is how this particular stripper is even still alive. This bitch is like a genie that has been trapped in a booze bottle, a booze bottle that you've just rubbed. And by 'rubbed' I mean you ordered bottle service and bamf, she appears, like a poorly coned Nightcrawler. She will gladly grant you three wishes, provided those three wishes are for your bottle to become empty, her to start lurching around slurring deprecations and crying, and for you to be utterly dissatisfied with your strip club experience.





               If that's the case she is 100% reliable.

                                           "You swarthy people should order another bottle."

 



  
  We actually had a group of high income professional douchebags come in recently and order a bottle of overrated vodka. It hadn't been on their table for 2 minutes when Vodzilla shows like a blowfly on a rodent carcass. These guys weren't broke, they were just cheap. And they all watched in amazement as VT ravaged their bottle like a pack of hyenas on a stray child.

  It got so bad that at one point when two thirds of the bottle was gone the silk tied cheapskates actually tried to hide the bottle from VT by putting it on the floor by their feet and telling her it was gone. It was an admirable move.

  It didn't work.

                                                 "Thash buttles nah emshy......."

 


 


  Here's what they should've done, and let this be a guide for the non strip club pros among you.


 

  They should've tipped a Floor Guy $20 and asked him to get her the fuck away from their table and more urgently, their wounded bottle. This would've given them a much better chance at getting a buzz from their bottle AND removed a loathsome snizzhag from their company. That's called killing two birds with one stone, very efficient and infinitely wise.

 

  The lessons to be learned here are:


 

  1) No amount of alcohol can kill Vodzilla, she is absolutely impervious to death by booze.*4 Her liver is constructed of Kevlar and powered by the souls of dead children.

 
  2) Floor Cunts are there for you, if you put money in their hands they can achieve fucking miracles and aren't likely to forget you. Like the Mafia, it's good to have us on your side.

 
  3) The human liver is an amazingly resilient organ in some people.

 
  4) Soccer is the most amazingly boring sport ever created and if you like it you're probably from a third world country and really didn't have much of a choice.*5




  






  



                                        

                          *****************************
   





  I picked up a shift at the concert club tonight, I hadn't worked there since the hippie-pocalypse show from back in February. It was a metal show and for that I'm thankful. Metal shows, despite the aggressive music are usually the most easy going of the music genres to work. A lot of this depends on what kind of metal it is of course, but I'd rather work a metal show than almost any other kind of music.

  The worst part about them is catching crowd surfers, you'd think it would be the Pit, the place where over enthusiastic Red Bull swilling fans crash into each other as they mosh, but it isn't. The Pit generally regulates itself as metal fans tend to be very fraternal and willing to help others up before they get stomped into a hummus-like paste on a beer-drenched floor.



  But even at a metal show there are cunts. Cunts get everywhere, like psoriasis. They can't be regulated or treated in an effective fashion.

  For example tonight I had this guy who kept lighting up cigarettes in the concert hall. I was SO nice. I was really, really nice compared to some of my more recent indiscretions. I warned him. The first time I said "Hey asshat! Put the fucking cigarette out now!"

  The second time I pulled his head close to mine and said "I will buttfuck everything you love if you light another smoke."

  And I was in so good of a mood that the third time he did it I merely grabbed the smoke from his hand and put it out between his eyes.*7






  And that's it for tonight, that's all you get. I have to marshal my genius for future expenditure. It's not easy being amusing on a consistent basis, especially when you drink a lot.


  Metal forever my bacon daisies,
-The StripperHerder

















*1 High Functioning Alcoholic. It means I can hold down a job, sorta pay my bills sometimes, and frequently fall asleep watching 80's hair porn.





*2 Such as any number of things NOT to do, or when a knifehand throat strike is appropriate. In fact, think of this blog like an After School Special for people who couldn't be bothered to do anything meaningful or productive with their lives.




*3 If she were 15th century Eastern European royalty her name would've been Vlodka The Impaler, or Countess Boozery.



*4 Although a traffic fatality is definitely on the menu.



*5 This has nothing to do with the subject matter but I felt it had to be said regardless.



*6 Mostly.



*7 I didn't really do that although my dick was hard thinking about it.**



    ** I know it's not healthy, but neither is drinking and I do that successfully.