The Revenge Of Vodzilla. Or Justifiable Homicide-It's Not Just For Breakfast Anymore.

  The simple fact is that the longer I am forced to continue in this industry, the greater the chances are that I will have to kill Vodzilla. I'm not proud of this, but it is growing more inevitable with each passing year and I fear that there is nothing I can do about it except hope that she dies of alcohol poisoning before we reach that point.

  But as I've stated before, she is invincible to alcohol. If it was going to kill her it would've done so by now. So now her life has come down to two competing timelines, the complete breakdown of all her internal organs, or death by StripperHerder.

  Why the hate you ask, surely you're forced to work with other degenerate pieces of shit, what makes her so special?

  Well let me state the events of tonight for an example.

  We had this whale come in tonight who normally inhabits the abomination that I had formerly worked at. This is a really great guy who happens to be filthy fucking rich and somehow never became a loathsome cuntbag like most rich guys.

  I was surprised to see him as I know he's a regular at Manky's Whore Buffet. I greeted him by name, sat him at a good table and let him know that I could take care of him after hours if he chose to stay that long.

  And he did. It's 9AM and I just got home 15 minutes ago. He stayed 7 hours after closing and spent stupid amounts of money buying bottles for Vodzilla and Dumptruck. I comped him the first two hours of room fees which saved him around $900. He thanked me by tipping me a hundo and I was very happy to have it.

  And here's where Vodzilla stuck her giant barbed cock in me. That miserable booze sponge made around $1500 tonight and when Dumptruck reminded her to tip me she said "(whale) already gave him a hundred bucks."

   


  You fucking cunt.




  I am not a thief, therefore I evenly split that $100 with 4 other Floor Grubs for a grand total of $20 for little ole me. Now maybe, just maybe Vodzilla doesn't realize that the Floor Snouts split our tips at the end of the night and therefore that c-note wasn't mine to keep. I seriously doubt this, I sincerely believe she's a walking bag of rat cum wrapped in skin. She's been in the industry for years and surely knows how the system works.

  As you read this, a sneer of incredulity creeping across your features, bear in mind that at 5AM, the computers run the reports and the payroll stops regardless of whether you're still working or not. So in addition to getting stiffed by the Death of Bottles, I also stayed at work for 3 1/2 hours without even getting my measly hourly pay AND my manager, Sir Faroe Von SkittleFist II, didn't want to let the 3rd afterhours room go on, much less the 4th and 5th. But I convinced him that Whaley the Whale was a customer well worth cultivating and therefore he said "Fuck it. Do it."

  Thus enabling my favorite Leather-Necked-Bottleswallow the opportunity to make an additional $600. Of which I got jack and shit.

  I was actually hoping I would have to give this hammered plane crash* a ride home tonight so I could take her money and push her from my moving vehicle while I was doing 85 miles per hour and claim total ignorance about what became of her after I dropped her off at her house.



  This didn't surprise me at all. In fact that is why I asked Dumptruck to remind Vodzilla to tip me, I figured maybe she might listen to her champagne room buddy. I guessed it was pretty hopeless and I wasn't wrong.

  The best part about the whole thing was the end of the night when 'Zilla was going on the the manager about how that whale is her customer and how she brought him in.

  Really? Is that why you were so surprised to see him 4 hours into your shift? You wretched lipdragger.

  This guy came in with another former co-worker of mine who is really hot and has since gone into the Escort business. He most certainly fucking did not come in for Vodzilla and indeed had no clue that she even works here.

  Her ability to rewrite history in her own mind borders on the superhuman or subhuman or something. I often wonder if she's just drunk mouth-shitting or if she really believes her own version of events.

  Oh how I truly fucking hate her. It's an honest, sincere hatred that I've grown accustomed to, like a terminal deformity that I've made a suicide pact with.





  Fuck me. I'm done with this one.




  Fuck your pictures,
-The StripperHerder



* Like a train wreck but scarier looking and sadder.

Anti-Religious Propaganda. Or, Floor Guy Mythology.

  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.

                      "My buddy Steve's Dad was a cooper. He was fortunate enough one July's day to
                              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.