You Call This Winter? Pah. In My Country Summer Lasts Four Hours And There Is No Spring Or Fall. Or, If You're Working At The Club Tonight, Who's Hooking At The Trailer Park?

  Things have taken a turn for the ugly at the club lately, on several levels I might add. The money's been down, problem customers and fights have been up and our dayshift is like a Carnival of Horrors, heavily seasoned with 'scary drug clown'.


   Not good math in other words.


  This past Thursday was a hallmark example of this. We threw more people out of the club this past Thursday than we do on any given insert local NFL team's name here home games, which are like a St. Patty's Day but with more jerseys and other kick ass officially sanctioned NFL gear.


  Our tally for a single night shift was eleven people. We threw eleven fucking people out of the club that night. Normal for a home game is 5-10 and on those nights we're really busy. Tonight we never had more than thirty bodies in the club at any given time.


  This is also not good math.


  It all started when our Floor Bastard, Boris, overheard some sort of eastern European dudes talking shit about him in the bathroom. They had no idea he was Russian and that he understood the mish mash of jagged, discordant consonants that comprise whatever language they were gargling out. At least enough to understand they were insulting him. Had it been me in the bathroom instead of Boris they could've said anything they wanted and I would have never comprehended a damn thing.*1



   So, much to their surprise, Boris calls them out and tensions escalate from there. He alerts me and the Manager, Sir Humphrey von Warjibber II, that he is about to commence hostilities in the men's room and that we may, if we so desire, join him in glorious combat if we're quick about it, but that our presence wasn't mandatory unless we brought mops and tarps.


  Now I don't know what sort of frightening Bratva/ Spetsnaz history or training Boris has. He doesn't talk about it at all and we have ceased to ask questions we probably don't want to know the answers to anyway. What I do know is that although Boris is gruff*2 in the face of rude customers, he is possessed of a very patient demeanor until such a time as things have become irrevocably stupid*3 or suddenly violent.


  Then maybe Boris not so patient, comrade. Da?


  When I heard Boris declare war, I rushed to the bathroom not to help him against some former Soviet Bloc D-bags, but to help them against Boris. It may take a great deal of effort to get my Russian co-worker to snap, but when he does he gets very enthusiastic and matter of fact about it. Boris is so precise and crippling when he starts throwing various body parts at people that I have never seen him need to hit someone twice.




  Once is quite enough, hvala.*4




  My Mission was to get to the bathroom in time to save some Eurotrash cunts from grievous bodily harm and/or sudden death, or failing that, to help Boris process the bodies assist the wounded and sanitize the crime scene men's room.


  Thankfully I arrived quickly because I was lingering near the patio anyway watching a couple of potential Lawn Darts*5 talk about throwing their unsuspecting buddy onto the stage. I ran in just as Boris was flicking an internal switch from 'Dour Russian Floor Guy' to 'Blurry Killing Machine'. I was able to wrap up two of the little buggers and keep them safe from Boris but unfortunately he happened to the other two.


  When all was said and done the two that I had saved were able to guide their less fortunate companions to their Land Rover. They didn't want to call the police, their lawyers or the state prosecutor's office, which is what is usually threatened in these situations and they refused our offers of an ambulance for their wounded.


  I imagine it will all culminate in gunfire and I hope I'm not scheduled that night.











Strippers beget strippers.




  It's true. Tragic, misbegotten and poorly thought out as it is, most clubs offer some sort of bounty on new strippers. I'm not talking about just cutting off their heads and dumping them on a table in some forgotten warehouse somewhere, you sick bastards. No, some clubs offer free house fees to a stripper that brings in another stripper who manages to make it for more than a week. This seldom produces anything useful but goddamn it, every now and then it fucking pays off.





  Just not tonight.





  Look, here's the intrinsic dilemma: birds of a feather flock together. Say what you want about the phrasing, but it's a social truth. This is not an absolute of course, nothing is with humans, much less strippers. But if, for example, you have a very trailer-iffic stripper working for you and she says she has a cute friend that wants to audition, it's OK to assume the friend is gonna be a bit trailery herself. One wind storm short of homeless so to speak.


  This held true for us tonight when one of our 'rural' strippers, Winne-Bella, brought in her dear friend, Trucka-Sarahus to grace our stage and join our team. Trucka-Sarahus told me she drives a truck and trailer for a living. I completely hid my shudder of terror and wondered to myself, "Then why the hell are you working here?"



  She will not make it in this industry. I'm making that call right away. Time will prove me right and if it doesn't I'll lie about it and you'll never know the difference unless I write 'Plight of the StripperHerder: Deathbed Confessions'




  Well that's about all I feel like doing tonight. Fuck the pictures.



-The StripperHerder














*1 Like many English-only speakers, I always just assume when someone slips into another language in my presence that they are talking about me and have nothing nice to say.





*2 He's actually gruff with everyone but since he's Russian, this is considered being pretty fluffy.





*3 Irrevocably Stupid [noun]: The critical point in any verbal or nonverbal interaction between two or more parties when it becomes obvious that further discourse in any length will result in no further change in the present situation.


    Irrevocably Stupid [adjective]: Characterized by tedious repetition without any meaningful advance in logic or solution.





*4 Hvala is Croatian for thank you. For some totally unjustifiable reason I always assume the heavily accented miscreants I'm dealing with are Croatian. Not sure why this is.






*5 This term is actually misleading since the club has no lawn anywhere near where theses idiots are going to land when we toss them bodily out of the club.**



    **Pavement Darts would be much more accurate but doesn't sound as good nor bring to mind a pleasant summer memory.

To Move Up to My Weight Class You Must Consume 90,000 Calories A Day For The Next Seven Years. Or, A Drunk Girl Crying? Huh, You See Something New Every Day...

  An open letter to the small Arab man who took a swing at me tonight.


  Dear Sir,


  Once upon a time a really small man met an equally petite woman and they fell in love, or were introduced just before their arranged marriage took place, please fill in correct phrase.

  So as I was saying, these two presumably wonderful and diminutive people were married (I'm assuming they were married since neither of them appear to have been stoned to death before they were able to breed) and as happens, they had sexual intercourse and a few months later the woman grunted you out into the world. The doctor (or village handywoman, whatever the case may be) presented your parents with a small wrapped bundle and said "Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. ShazamalammaLam (sp?), you're the proud parents of a healthy 3 1/2 lb boy, with ten little fingers and ten little toes. Now get out of my hut."

  A lot of that is speculation and casual racism on my part. For all I know your family name is something much more ridiculous than ShazamalammaLam, you were born in a modern metropolitan hospital and you weighed five lbs.

  I guessed at some stuff.


  Here's what I do know. These are facts, son. Facts weigh a lot.


1) It was instantly and piteously obvious that you have zero fighter training, no fight experience whatsoever, poor decision making skills when intoxicated and know virtually nothing about physics.


2) When all I had to do to defend myself from you was to reach down and grab a handful of your shirt and straighten out my arm, you should have been able to hear the ghosts of your ancestors crying out "Dude!"

  But you didn't.


3) When you swung at my face, missing it only by 6 inches or so, I realized that if you'd been standing on a stepstool, you might've actually connected. Luckily for you you left it and your platform heels at home. Things might have gone less goodly for you had you been wearing one or carrying the other.


4) I would've been perfectly within my rights knocking you back into Biblical times, or what you refer to as 'last Tuesday'. I chose not to do this because it was far more humiliating for you to be conscious as I carried you out in a full nelson like an angry, hissing bearded seven year old who been at the cookies baklava while Mom and Dad were out kidnapping photojournalists.*1


5) There are ways of escaping a full nelson, none of which are foolproof. There are substantially fewer ways of escaping a full nelson that's been applied by someone who's done it many times before, is well over twice your weight and strength and while your feet are no where in the vicinity of the Earth.*2


6) I know all of the tricks to get out of this hold and had you attempted any of them, I would have quickly and with very little concern for your well being, executed the following series of actions.


  A) Rotate 90 degrees and smash your wee grumpy goat face into the nearest available wall.

  B) Withdraw your face from the drywall it is imbedded in.

  C) Step smartly one pace to right or left (depending on wall availability)

  D) Repeat steps A and B. Check for continued resistance, then repeat steps as necessary or until I run out of wall or you run out of the will/capability to fight.


7) Despite the horribly emasculating experience of being carried out of a strip club like a naughty toddler with its little feet kicking impotently, I regret that I didn't have the presence of mind to enhance your abrupt exit and my enjoyment of it by whispering any of the following statements in your ear:




A) "Daddy likes it when you kick around like an unwilling goat. Struggle for me, that's right. I feel like I owe you $20, you give good struggle."


B) "Oooooh! Iz'm Mummie's widdle man all an-gwee? Ooooooh! Him so wiggly when him mad! Who's a widdle mad guy? Who's a widdle mad guy? That's right, you are! Him a widdle mad guy all struggly and cuddly! All fuzzy like a Teddy bear! Momma's widdle smoogums gets picked up because him all cwabby and needs to go sleepy time! Awwww! Widdle man still twying to get fwee? So cute! Now snoogums get to meet Mr. Sidewalk!"*3


C) "Snobar! Addiss!" The only two words of Arabic I learned while working at a middle eastern restaurant. They mean tomato and pine nuts. Bear in mind all you authenticity loving, fact checking ghouls out there, I was drunk a lot of the time I was there, I'm not sure of the spelling of course and I don't know which word means which anymore.





  Right. Now that that's out of the way you may be wondering what led up to this whole situation. Well, I'll tell you because that's kinda the point of this blog and I enjoy helping other humans.



  As everyone reading this undoubtedly knows, at most strip clubs photography and videoing are strictly prohibited. Some of the girls may well one day run for public office and they don't want any compromising videos of them to surface at a critical campaign moment. Totally understandable.

  So I catch my little brown friend just openly videoing with his phone. Wide openly. Like Spielberg. So I go over to him and say 'hey man, you can't video or take pictures in the club, I need you to delete that please. DO NOT DO IT AGAIN.' When I say that last bit he gives me this look like a constipated badger that just had something slimy and gross ooze across its paws. Like I was beneath contempt and if I lived in his country I would have all the rights and respect normally shown to shit-stained furniture.

  I didn't hover over him and watch while he deleted the video like I would normally do because the dancer he was filming never even noticed him doing it and because I fucking hate her in any case. Cheap bitch.


  So as far as I was concerned it was the end of the saga, although I had stored the look he gave me for future consideration.


  About a half hour later I was out on the patio enjoying a cool, refreshing cigarette thinking to myself how great it was to be alive, when my 'lil friend and his equally small but much smarter friend came out and lit up. I kept my distance and pointedly ignored them, but there's always a bit of tension in the air when you have to be in close proximity to someone you issued a stern warning to.


  Not two minutes later one of the other Floor Tribesmen comes out to the patio and tells the same little guy that he needs to delete the other video he took while I was eating and paying him no mind. "That tiny fuckwit." I thought to myself and moved in to box the small Middle Easterns between our imposing Anglo Saxon frames.

  The other Floor Guy's name is classified, I'll refer to him by the codename Strider because he's 68% leg. Strider's one of the nicest Floor Dicks around. He's very good at establishing a camaraderie and fellow feeling with most of the club patrons on all strata of the titty ecosystem. He is one of the best of us...

 Anyway Strider's trying to get this guy to delete videos, the guy brings up the videos and then suddenly the phone powers down. Drunk accident, right? I was willing to entertain the notion, just this once, if only for the novelty of it. Strider flashes me a look, I raise an eyebrow and then the story continues.


 When his phone turns back on, he shuffles through his apps like he just can't remember where he left that pesky camera function and then, lo and behold, his phone mysteriously shuts off again. "Motherfucker" I hear Strider say. I look up in mild surprise because he doesn't normally swear at customers until we're way deeper into the "How Much Of An Asshole Can I Be?" game. I raise my other eyebrow at him. I'm ambibrowstrous*4 like that.

 Strider's clearly getting kinda shitty, and no wonder. I know it doesn't seem like much when you read the above paragraphs, but this went on for some time while we pretended our little Arab friend wasn't doing it on purpose and tried to remain polite about it. At this point in similar situations I've been in before, a Floor Guy would just grab the phone out of the dude's hands and either he'd delete the videos or pics in question, or we'd be fighting because the dude got all attacky when we seized his fucking phone. Hell, I woulda already grabbed his phone if I had even the slightest notion of where the incriminating stuff was, much less how to get to it.

  Picture me stomping around a smashed phone with my arms beating my chest while I made enraged chimp noises and you're not far off.

                            "How many times do I have to hit it before the pictures spill out?"




  Finally Strider says "Goddamnit dude, give it to me! I know how to do it." And he makes a grab for the phone. The little bastard twists violently away from him, sheltering the phone away from Strider. And then his phone mysteriously turned off again.

  That was it for me. The camel that broke the straw's back. I said, "that's it gentlemen, you need to leave the club" and I put a hand on both of their shoulders and very gently nudged them toward the door. The smart one was on the same page instantly. He was very apologetic, which was refreshing really.

  The other one, our little amateur Scorcese, decided violently knocking my hand off his shoulder was a much better plan than just leaving and going home to enjoy whatever poorly lit, nearly useless bits of video he had successfully fled the club with.

  I felt he was wrong of course and unsurprisingly, physics agreed with me. I really hate when people do this but when they do it gives me the justification to protect myself. I did this in this instance by pushing him so hard that for all intents and purposes, he teleported six feet away.


  And I could've gotten much more distance if it wasn't for that meddling wall...



  I'll give him this, he got back up fast and came right the fuck at me. No hesitation at all. Like an emaciated Wolverine who was lacking every single attribute that made him tough except the anger control issue. I saw right away he was gonna try to hit me because he'd raised his fist immediately on rising and was coming at me with it held fingers forward somewhere far behind his shoulder. Like a classic example of how you should never, ever punch someone.

                                       "Yes I film bitches. No I not erase. I fight now."




  At that point I just stood there and let him run into my left hand which I had sorta put out there in front of me like a smallish oak branch. When my hand met his chest I grabbed a huge fistful of shirt and chest hair and extended my arm out while leaning slightly back as his poor engineered fist came sailing by my nose, smelling of fattoush.

  It was insanely easy at that point to pull him in, duck under his right arm and snake my right arm up and around his to land the full nelson. Then all I hand to do was stand up and it was goodbye ground, hello embarrassing-mobile-powerless-hissyfit exit from titty bar.

                               "Oh, it's so cute that you're attacking me. You're doing really super!"







  In other news a drunk bitch lost her keys tonight and no one cared even though it was obviously someone else's fault, not hers. She was just the victim here and couldn't possibly be blamed.

  Contrary to the average 'Herder reader's opinion, I am not a monster. I will and have cared about the trials of hammered strippers in the past and fully expect to do so again at some point in the future. But when you're one of those girls who's fucking wasted two out of three nights she works, I'm done at like the third time in a month. At that point I will gladly load you into your car, start it for you, put it in gear and run for my life.

  Like a majestic yet ungainly elk.

  We're adults. If you can't curb your occupationally sanctioned alcoholism to like once a month or something, then I can't curb my apathy for even a night.

  God Speed, wasted chick. May Dog have mercy on your bowl.





Have a great repurposed pagan holiday,
-The StripperHerder












*1 More casual racism. I apologize for degenerating into this kind of narrative chlamydia but at the same time am going to leave it in. So.....






*2 Believe it or not, getting caught in full nelson applied by a person of superior size and strength used to happen so often in ancient warfare that the famed Chinese general and author of The Art of War, Sun Tzu, had this to say on the subject:


  
  "Endeavor not to let this happen." 


And

  
  "If it does happen, surrender because you're fooked, boyo."




*3 The problem with all of these is that he was really Arabic and either spoke very little English, or was good at pretending he didn't speak any. So I may very well have wasted some effort here.

Still, would've amused me.




*4 [Ambibrowstrous] The ability to arch either eyebrow at will, thus conveying more information than a five minute phone call or three pages of cleverly worded text.

The StripperHerder Wastes Your Time And His With Groundless Gripes And Baseless Bitching Because It's What He Does. Or Ukraine Surpasses Russia In StripperHerder Readership. What Does It Mean To The Global Economy?

  It's amazing to me the kind of things I can find to waste time that would be better spent working on my movie script. Like writing this for example. Or playing Galaga and Elevator Action on an arcade emulator with a joypad that is awkward and frustrating to use, thus killing any actual enjoyment I might've experienced from playing them.


 

                                      Foolish Human, your controller is useless against us






  My neighbors are probably still wondering why screams of "Cunt!" and "Motherfucking Dickbag Jizz Eating Horse Twat!" were echoing through the hallway from my apartment a few minutes ago. It's a miracle I didn't break anything but I'm getting better at that, and getting into a baseless rage just seems like an awful lot of work nowadays


  So that being said, I'm going to explore things unrelated to strip clubs and my occupation in general that aggravate me. Why? Because I'm bored and seem to enjoy doing stuff that makes me no money over things that might actually make me wealthy.


  Fucking weird, huh?



  So let's jump in, shall we?




                           
                              Pop Culture
                                                 



  When anything starts to get really popular in America, I generally start disliking it. Since I have little to no respect for humanity in general and Americans in particular, I figure if a large portion of the population likes something then no matter my previous inclinations on the subject, it must suck. Into this category I can confidently throw things like beards, music, craft beer, cocktails, our national obsession with food, skinny jeans, eyeglasses one doesn't actually need, headphones, tattoos and designer anything.


  There's so much here to cover I don't even know where to start. So, in the continuing theme of this blog to avoid any kind of involved and cohesive narrative, I'll just break it down in one of my sorta famous lists.


Beards) So facial hair has become popular again for the first time since the 80's told us that a nice even face full of stubble was pretty fucking cool and the 90's convinced everyone that sideburns (in the face of all available evidence) looked good on a man. Now we have shows about facial shrubbery and get to look at all kinds of dudes more famous than us sporting some hairy faces.


  So like all things the public at large embraces, if everyone else is doing it, especially celebrities, then it must be awesome to do and will make you more awesome by imitating it. Nothing lower primate/ovine about it at all!


  Let me put it this way; for some reason many dudes feel completely comfortable approaching a total stranger and saying something like "Dude, you're beard is awesome!" because beards are now popular and no one thinks anything of it.


  But suppose a random guy came up to you and said something like "Dude, your eyes are enchanting!" You may feel slightly less OK with a statement like that because it would be weird.




Music) I realize that beauty is in the eye, or ear, of the beholder and at a base level I respect that. No matter how much I rail against the travesty that the American music scene is, there's a small voice in the back of my skull which acknowledges the right of anyone, anywhere to like whatever kind of music they wish and that my opinion is completely irrelevant on the subject no matter how much their musical tastes suck sloth cock.


  I blame this voice on either a tumor or an extradimensional entity who inhabits my brain whenever it can be bothered to do so. I don't enjoy listening to the voice, but will grudgingly admit that maybe it's right every now and then.


  It still doesn't explain, to my satisfaction, why large amounts of the human population will willingly, nay eagerly, listen to and enjoy music that sits like a hot, steamy pile of runny shit-pudding on the brain. Music that has nothing meaningful to say and requires very little musical talent to produce.

  Now before I go any further on this topic, I'd like to throw out a little disclaimer:

  I am forced by my occupation to listen to music. Forced I say. I have no choice and don't seem to possess the filters that some titty club employees have that allows them to virtually be oblivious to the ravaging effects of horrible music. I wish I did, but there you go.


  So having got that out of the way I hope that you, Venerated Reader, may have a more sympathetic ear for the approaching tirade.


  I respect musicianship above all other attributes when it comes to, you know, music and stuff. This is not to say that there aren't many bands out there comprised of highly skilled artists who nevertheless manage to churn out crappy music. Take the Red Hot Chili Peppers or Rage Against The Machine for examples. All the dudes in these bands can fucking play, but still I hate all of their music.


 

     Rihanna is the trifecta of musical torment: Hideously Overplayed, Not Particularly Talented, Cross-Racial Stripper Anthems.






  Part of this can be blamed on repetition or course. Listen to a song you love 50 times a week for a year and chances are that you'll be OK with not hearing that song again any time soon.


  I don't blame the artists for this, I blame the public. If, as an artist, someone came up to me and said I will give you ungodly amounts of money to make simplistic, repetitive shite that takes virtually no thought whatsoever to create, I'd say sign me up.


  But then again I wouldn't know a chord if it leapt out of a cave and savaged me, so what do I know?





  

                                                   "Argh! Are you a G Minor?"*1











Craft  Beer)  I love beer. I love drinking it, I love consuming it and I love pouring it down my throat. I like the way beer tastes but would never drink it at all if it didn't get me drunk. Being a high functioning alcoholic has it's pros and cons, chief among them being an utter lack of regard for the craft and art of creating alcohol.


  Oh I dabbled with being a beer snob back in the early 90's when the first microbrew revolution hit America and suddenly you could get any number of tasty, sophisticated beers that weren't Bud, Bud Light or Miller. It was like a whole new world for practicing boozers, full of flavor, character and a sense of superiority over others who stuck to their mass produced garbage-water. It was the first time in US history that the rest of the world took us seriously as a beer producing country, and I proudly waded in and drank a bunch of expensive beer.


  That was then and this is now. Today I mainly stick to Labatt Ice as my beer of choice for three reasons: 1) It's $3.99 for a six pack of 16 ouncers. 2) It's 5.6% ABV which provides a bit more kick than your average shit beer. And 3) It is slightly more beer flavored that anything else you can get for a comparable price.


  What bothers me about the popularity surge of craft beer is that it somehow becomes a badge of belonging to certain elements of society. Take IPA's for example. IPA's taste like gnawing on the side of a hemlock tree. They're bitter as an old nun's taint and flat as Kansas in every other flavor category.


  They fucking suck.


  But Jebus-onna-stick they are very chic at the moment if you happen to wear plaid shirts, brightly colored pants, retro jackets or a particularly gay hat.


  Seriously, if these are the advocates of IPA's then I can't think of a better reason to avoid them.



  

              Tastes like a Calcutta goat's yam-sack with layered hints of grapefruit and gently used latex gloves.







Craft Cocktails) While the idea of paying $20 something dollars for a drink that takes a long time to make sounds kick ass, I'll take a pass on it. I figure if I'm buying something that's really just hastening my death, I don't want to overpay for it. But if it's your thing, then run with it I say. Some sort of carefully prepared cocktail may very well be the tastiest drink I've ever had, but unless someone else buys it for me I'll never know because paying that much for a drink is fucking idiotic.

  I simply don't care if it contains fresh shaved ginger, locally grown fruit, premium liquor and the bartender hacked the ice cubes out of a giant block of ice harvested from an Icelandic cave instead of some made from an ice machine. Details like these are irrelevant to us HFA's. I don't drink to experience astonishing flavors, to have credibility within my chosen subculture, to say I've done it, or to feel a vague sense of smugness at my own coolness.




Tattoos) This one's probably going to irk at least a few of my friends who work in the tattoo/body mod field. Sorry, just my feelings on the matter which are as valid/meaningless as anyone else's. The bottom line is I don't like tattoos anymore and will probably never get any more ink.

  Once again pop culture has killed something I used to love.


  When I got my first tattoo way back in 1990, it was still a pretty uncommon thing to do to yourself. At that time only people with a rebellious spirit who were willing to put themselves at odds with mainstream America got tattooed. It stigmatized you, set you apart from the ordinary and if it couldn't be hidden under a tee shirt, severely limited your job prospects unless you happened to be a criminal or a tattoo artist.


  Nowadays however, celebrities and reality TV have shown us that getting slathered in ink is actually super cool and that you can sport full sleeves openly so that people will know that you're:


A) A super rad hipster in touch with all that is cool in America who in addition to being a walking doodle, probably owns many interesting and totally ungay hats.


B) An NBA player


C) Someone so edgy and atypical that you have to mimic what other edgy and atypical people do so the public at large will know what an edgy and atypical kind of person you are. Understand and respect!

  


  I especially enjoy tattoo trends, because it reinforces my point that humans are much more lemming-like than any individual human will ever admit. We're masters of self rationalization. We can look upon something stupid that a thousand other homosapiens are doing and can construct in our own minds a personally valid reason that we should do it as well.


  Tattoo fashion is a brilliantly illustrated example of this. Remember 'tribal' tattoos? Know anyone who's got one of those in the last decade? Didn't think so. How about asian symbols? So five years ago....


  Today's tattoos are much more well thought out. No, really. Stop laughing.


  My favorites are:


1) Angel wings: You saw some other silly twat with tiny, cherub sized wings tattooed on their back and thought to yourself, "I am going to get those imbedded in my skin too, but bigger and for much more meaningful reasons than that dumb skank."

                                    "That other girl is too thick-waisted to be an angel."





2) Memorials to the dead: "I am pretty likely to forget the death of someone very close to me, therefore I shall have a reminder of them etched into my forearm so that I will never forget them and so others can see that I've known someone in my lifetime who has died. Because that's instant fucking street-cred, yo!"

                                               "Shit. What was his name again?"






3) Anything on your neck: Nothing says 'parolee' like having a sweet neck tattoo. All of your peer group have one and they look fucking bad-ass, mowwa-fakka.

  

 Feathers look like loaves of French bread and Blessed is, for some reason, correctly spelled. 

                                








Headphones) How did we manage to survive as a species from 1997 when the Sony Walkman died out, until 2001 when the iPod came out? How could anyone manage to exist without constant and instant access to music? It seems impossible...


  But for four long years we did it. That and the rest of pre-1980 human history of course.*2


  Thankfully today we know that it's OK to be a self absorbed, distracted and hopelessly cool person who escapes social interaction by not being able to hear the world going on around us, thereby saving us from unnecessary human interaction while damaging our hearing in a totally cool way.


  Two dozen professional athletes in inspiring commercials can't be wrong...

                                  Secretly listening to Enya, terrified someone will find out.*3



  
  Thankfully these very same athletes are now letting us know that headphones with wires aren't cool any more and that to be more like them you must upgrade your headphones to wireless. Because being cool is sweet as fuck!

  





  Potential Gunfire And The Lack Thereof) This is kinda a long story so I'm just gonna go ahead and shorten the living shit out of it. If I had to get into every subtle detail of each time there was the possibility of gun violence rearing its ugly head in my occupation, I would spend a whole lot of time writing the words 'motherfuckah!' and 'Go ahead and skin that smoke-wagon and see what happens.'

                             "Are you going to do something or just stand there and bleed?"





  So to not belabor the point, we had a situation tonight where a customer lost the keys to his ghetto-wagon and after we exhausted every possible means of finding them for him, he got all hostile and stuff. We didn't let this bother us too much on the surface because there were four of us and I alone outweighed this guy by 150 lbs and he was unaware I was behind him as he threatened my fellow Floor Guy.


  Picture Great Dane vs Surprised Corgi and you get the idea.


  So after all was said and done the Floor Guy who got threatened wanted to blast the windows out of this dude's Hood Cruiser with my handgun at around 5 AM. I was willing to entertain the idea at first but realized that I was the only one of the three of us who could hit the asshole's vehicle at 150 ft which is how far we had to go to get out of surveillance camera range.


 At this point, despite my alcoholic impairment, I decided to do the responsible thing and declare the whole concept a bad idea. I don't own small cute guns that go 'crack' and 'pop' and wouldn't be noticed by the surrounding apartments. I own giant, death spewing shit-cannons that make jolly fucktons of noise and fire and put massive holes in stuff. Because...


     
  If I am ever forced to shoot something, by God it's going to stay shot.



 


  So we hid behind a parked Suburban and threw rocks at it until all the driver side windows had been broken, totally without gunfire. 


  

 Safety first.





  Well folks, that's it for this one. I apologize for the slow down in recent posting, but I have other irons in the fire and someday you may be able to enjoy one of them in a classy theater near you. Maybe even in 3D or TittyVision™!


  Until the next post I'd just like to thank all my loyal followers who stop me in the street and ask me for money and then tell me how much they enjoy my blog when I tell them I don't carry cash. It means a lot to me that you thought I was so good I actually made money from writing the Plight.


  Warms me bollocks at night.




Peace, Rihanna and Reasonably Priced Love-Substitute,
-The StripperHerder

                                               










*1 I realize that this is a horrible caption. I accept it. I acknowledge it. And most importantly, I embrace it.






*2 But who cares about that?






*3 Enya has zero street cred.

It's Getting Cold Out, Throw Another Stripper On The Fire. Or, Scientists Theorize That Semen May Cause Pregancies, Story At Eleven.

  This whole post is going to be about stuff I talk about on a regular basis, namely human stupidity and other shit that happens all the time at our club.




  Human stupidity is an unfortunate side dish you're going to eat a lot of when working in the booze slinging portion of the service industry. It is the curse of a vengeful God who is pissed off because you're able to make a living without intense and protracted physical labor, or the blessing of the Church.


  Now that being said, I'm going to offer up some justification for my hostility towards dumb people.


  I, myself, am not dumb by any means. I are actually pretty smart. I have the ability to learn anything at all that I am interested in without expending all that much effort.


  The problems in the path of my intellect, not unlike tree trunks laid across a bullet train's tracks, are as follows:


A) I'm not interested in anything that is practical, useful or could make me large amounts of money.


B) My intelligence is hampered by a healthy dose of poor impulse control, laziness and the inability to deny myself instant gratification.


C) It's easier to be smug about my intellect than to really apply it to something outside of trivia.


D) I am afraid of failure, therefore it's easier to just not challenge myself in any way rather than to venture and lose.


E) I hate 95% of mankind so I wouldn't want to accidentally make any kind of breakthrough that might benefit them.



  So stupidity is one of my all time pet peeves. I can accept ignorance I suppose, but I feel like the truly stupid should stay at home and work on being less of an idiot rather than going out among other humans and spreading their stupid-spore.






-The ATM: Listen, I know I've pretty well covered the ATM in at least 3 other posts I can think of. How can I possibly have anything amusing left to say about ATM's and the morons who try to use them?

  Well, I don't. ATM's aren't intrinsically amusing machines, they are not built with humor in mind at all. They simply give you money from your account when you perform a very familiar and simple set of tasks that you've performed thousands of times before. In fact here is a list of terms that don't describe an ATM whatsoever and may literally be construed as antonyms of the ATM experience for most people.

    -Baffling, Mysterious, Enigmatic, Confusing, Alien, Conundrum, Riddle, Mathematically Impossible, Fiendishly Difficult, Like Super Hard Dude, Lottery and Utterly Flummoxing.


  Let me take this opportunity to point out that there are only 4 possible ways to begin an ATM transaction, thus leading to a random 25% chance of getting it right on your first try, and leading to a 25% gain in odds with each successive attempt, unless you're a fuckwit in which case you could be there forever.



  The card can only be inserted into the machine in four ways:



-Mag strip up and to the left.
-Mag strip up and to the right.
-Mag strip down and to the left.
-Mag strip down and to the right.


  That's it. Four possibilities. There is no fourth dimension, no secret language and no esoteric alchemy involved whatsoever. Therefore if you feel like you've tried all four of these possibilities and you still can't make the ATM give you money, you're drunk-go home.

  I would never think to ask a stranger to help me use an ATM because that would be admitting that I'm a complete fucking lipdragger and I won't do that unless it's a close friend of mine (who already realizes that I can drink myself back to fetal stage). Seriously, in the annals of defeat, being vanquished by a bank teller machine ranks really high on the list of stunning idiocy. Children use ATM's.

  These conquered people will always make it seem like the ATM is somehow at fault, not them. The poor abused ATM will even spit out a receipt when it fails to yield money saying why it didn't give you any. All one has to do is read it for a valuable clue.


  Frequent drunk hurdles to successful ATM use are:


-You've gone over your allotted withdraw limit or exceeded the number of transactions allowed per day.

-You've asked for too much money. Most strip clubs have a transaction limit so that someone who wants an inadvisable amount of cash will have to do multiple transactions thus making the club more money through it's insane ATM fees.

-You entered an incorrect PIN code, you fucking retard.

-God hates you and so does everybody else.

                                                A world of infinite mystery awaits.

  



        More Stupid Stripper Tricks, Vol 17





-Champagne Room Ninja: At any club you care to name, the dancer gets paid a certain amount for a VIP room and the club takes the rest. If the room is $500 an hour, chances are the dancer is only going to get $200-300 of that.

  SO some stwippers think that they can just sneak into a room with a customer, have him pay the full amount for the room and keep it all. Like the Floor Gripes aren't going to notice. We may be big and simple, but we're not big and stupid...


-But the Manager Said: Sometimes a stripper will come up to you and say something horribly wrong sounding and follow it up "Insert Manager's Name Here said it would be OK."

  You fuckwit stripper. I have a radio. Your machinations cannot outrun a radio signal.

  Never stopped them from trying though.


-I'll Tip You Next Time: Yup, the check is in the mail. Payment is forthcoming. No seriously, I got you. Sure, Jesus is real.


  Based on these fleeting guarantees, I figure I'm owed $72,334 over the course of my career, give or take a few dollars. I keep telling myself I should keep a small notepad and pen handy at all times and always make a note when a dancer tells me this and make sure she sees me doing it.

  Not that this would help any.



 

And finally...I'm giving myself a medal tonight. It's not a medal for doing something great, it's a medal for not doing something terrible.

                                           First Prize in the Failure To Choke A Bitch category.



  "Don't you fail to choke a bitch every night?" you ask. Well yes, yes I refrain from throttling a loony cunt every single day I work, but tonight was something a bit special. You see we have this dancer named, I don't know, let's refer to her as Toby because she's built like a 12 year old boy whose parents inexplicably decided to ram some fake C cup titties into him.

  So Toby and some other daffy twat we'll call Stinky claim they did 5 dances for a guy and that he owes them $125 each. I caught the guy as he was trying to flee the club and said gimme me a minute and I'll get this worked out. So I contact the Counter to find out how many dances these girls actually did.

  Well it turns out the Counter was busy doing something else and had failed to count any of their dances at all so we had no proof as to how many dances this guy did or didn't do. Add into this equation that unless he gets physical with me first, I can't actually put my hands on him at all without opening myself and the club up for a lawsuit. So all the man had to do was make his way in a determined and nonviolent fashion out the door to sweet, sweet freedom and there was fuck all I could do about it.

  So taking into account all these facts, plus the added tidbits that stacking dances is (still) not allowed at the club and that Toby is a shitty tipper, my motivation level wasn't very high. I get the guy to agree to pay them for 3 dances each for a total of $150 and, having explained the situation to the girls, get them to accept payment for 3 dances. I get his credit card to run the club's funny money to pay the dancers.

  What I failed to mention is the upcharge on the funny money, the 15% the club tacks on to rape customers. I return to him with a receipt for $172.50, not the $150 he was expecting and he flat out refuses to pay the extra $22.50. As if somehow he wasn't still getting away with fucking murder, financially speaking. We finally convince the guy to go to the ATM (which to his credit he was able to use on the first try) and get $150

  SO at the end of the night the mismanager, Sir Oswald Cabbagemaster VII refuses to let Toby slide on her house fees, a paltry $25. Both Toby and Sir Oswald start screaming, she about losing out on $50, he about losing $25.

  I'd like to pause for a moment just to mention that I've seen Toby walk out with $500-1000 on many nights. Despite her lack of physical charms, she gets by on a latent pedophile gene some men obviously carry which makes them crave young boys but feel OK about it if the boys have breast implants.

  We're talking about $50 here folks...

  Toby of course resorts to tears but Sir Cabbagemaster was unmoved. She had to pay the house fee.

  Stinky for her part, rather than appreciating she was gonna get paid for some of the dances she did, rather than none, just got all shitty and said that if she had to suffer then everyone was going to suffer.

  Fuck you, Stinky.



 







  You know, I thought I was going to be done here, but I have a final gripe to add inspired by Stinky bitching about how she was raising a child all on her own and that men like tonight's asshole didn't understand how hard that is.

  Well I can sympathize, but only in a limited manner. What I'm really tired of is how some parents complain about how hard raising a child/children is. Fucking duh. Turns out it can be pretty challenging, huh?

  Who would've thought?


  My problem with all this is they make it seem like offspring are just something that happened, like your car breaking down, or the bus running late. Like they have no culpability in the matter whatsoever and we should somehow have extra pity on them for making poor decisions or a lack of planning.

  I've said it once and I will reiterate it because I believe in it strongly, it's no mystery how kids are made. They aren't dropped off by random watershed inhabiting birds and they don't just spontaneously appear in patches of leafy green vegetables. Accept a load of happy little sperm in your vagina without using birth control and you may just have one of the wee buggers start growing in you.

  

  Absolutely zero rocket science involved.

  
  So, why the fat hairy fuck should I feel some sort of extra sympathy for you because you didn't have to foresight to demand a load be pumped onto your face rather than in your hoo-ha? Just because you didn't have to presence of mind not to use birth control, or decided to have a child with someone who you didn't know well enough to realize he was going to disappear when you told him you were pregnant?

  I don't get it. 

  Ladies, I'm not exonerating men for responsibility here, far from it. But most of my experience in this area stems form females, not males, so I'm a bit biased and extremely fed up with women who think the world somehow owes them some sort of indulgence for being sexually stupid or irresponsible. Grow the fuck up.

  And while I'm on the subject of irresponsible breeding, why the hell would someone who makes $10 an hour, can't drive and indeed doesn't even own a car, impregnate a chick? Seriously, can anyone tell me? That's what one of our cooks did and he even managed to do it with a girl he really hates as an added bonus.



  I just don't understand the way some people think. I was listening to the radio a few months back and there was an interview with a sad Spanish couple. They were sad because with all the economic hardships and fiscal austerity measures going on in Spain, they couldn't afford to have a child. It was simply beyond their financial means.

  Well fuck, I thought. Move to America. Not being able to afford having children stops absolutely no one from doing it anyway. Don't worry about it, there's plenty of dumbshit taxpayers here, like me, who will help you feed your poorly thought out offspring. Continue your careless breeding, we're here for you.


 
  All that being said there is no fucking rules at all about how to proceed through life. It states, absolutely no where, that you are born, you grow up, you get a job, you get married, you have kids and then you die.

  There is no obligation to reproduce. If children are your idea of happiness, then by all means start squeezing them out, just ask yourself if you can support them first because I'm tired of paying for them.


  That is all. Hate mail can be sent to stripperherder@yahoo.com. I relish it.



  Fuck your couch,
-The StripperHerder

Are You Smarter Than A Stripper? Take This Test And Find Out! Or, "Gimme My Whuppin Stick, Billy. I Have To Go Into The Dressing Room After The Free Tequila Party."

  Strippers don't think like rational human beings at all. I've witnessed this first hand many times and just when I think nothing can surprise me any more, some dazzlingly stupid dancer will prove me wrong. They are faced with a lot of adversity when it comes to making good decisions and the industry itself discourages girls from gaining independence,


  In their quest to find a balance between being able to pay their bills and doing it in an industry that doesn't make them a drunk junkie whore, a dancer will encounter many obstacles. Chief among them are:



1) Dancers are often very young and therefore, naturally stupid. I was stupid when I was young, you were stupid when you were young and we (probably) didn't work a job that encouraged us to get hammered and naked for cash.


  Think how hard a time you would have adjusting to any other occupation after you were able to make 6 digits a year by getting wasted, sexually objectified and offered all kind of drugs.


  It's amazing that anyone gets out of this system alive or with a college degree for that matter.



2) Strippers don't pay taxes. They have tits and obviously feel that this is good enough. Entertainers on the other hand, do pay their taxes and that is because (in this context at least) they are smart strippers. Entertainers are the girls who use stripping as a means to an end, such as paying for college, or supplemental income that they invest wisely. They realize that claiming some if not all of their tips will count as provable income, thus raising their credit score and enabling them to obtain credit at non crippling interest rates.


  Strippers, as opposed to Entertainers, never claim tips and gripe about how they can't get a car loan for anything more than $2500 at 29% interest. All they see is the cash they make and they can't fathom how someone who makes as much dough as they do, can't get credit. Strippers also run a much higher risk of getting audited by the IRS and when that happens they get fucked. Proper fucked.



3) Strippers are frequently on a lot of drugs. I'm not talking about weed here folks, all of them smoke weed. I'm referring to hardcore, debilitating, soul ravaging drugs. Now don't get me wrong here, I believe each and every person has the right to do whatever drugs they choose to do whenever they want to do them, provided they are willing to live/die with the consequences of their decisions.


  I myself have done damn near every drug that didn't require a needle or crackpipe to do and have managed to come through all of it mostly intact (for all intents and purposes). I do however take exception to being around other humans who are whacked on heavy drugs and people doing drugs in my place of employment, so I get cunty about it whenever I get the opportunity to do so. I feel everyone should have the common courtesy to go out to their cars to do their drugs and not consume them in the club bathrooms.




  So taking all these factors into account, and others I haven't even mentioned, let's see how you fare in your thinking compared to the average stripper.



  Ready?









1) You've just made $1500 in a champagne room. Your rent is due, you have no car and your Victoria's Secret card is maxed out. You:


   

   A) Go shoe shopping!


   B) Pay the rent, save at least $400 toward a car and throw however much else you can spare at your credit card debt, while working as many shifts as you can for the next few weeks.

  
  C) Suck off your landlord for free rent, buy enough coke to kill 3 lead singers and binge out for the next week then spend the rest on your useless, unemployed boyfriend/bebbydaddy.


  D) Take 9 days off and return to work when you've spent all $1500 on anything besides your bills.







2) Despite you lower-than-average IQ you realize that you can't keep stripping forever. Although you don't really understand what 'exit strategy' means per se, you sometimes think that someday you might have to retire from the industry and will require other means of support. Your plan for that day is:


  
  A) To marry a rich guy, even if he's Arab.


  B) To overdose long before that happens.


  C) To have earned a Master's degree in a meaningful and well paying field from your hard earned and rigorously budgeted Stripper days.


  D) To get knocked up by an NFL Wide Receiver and get paid handsomely to raise his unwanted child.






3) You've been drinking a lot on the job lately and coupled with the unrelenting munchies you get from smoking idiotic amounts of weed and the resulting desire to sleep and watch TV that this engenders, you've put on quite a few pounds. You:


 A) Say 'fuck this, my livelihood depends on my attractiveness' and start eating better and going to the gym.


  B) Start doing meth because all the other meth girls are skinny


  C) Buy bigger outfits and pay someone to shave your coochie when you can no longer reach it.


  D) Just start dancing for black guys. Duh.






4) You're dancing for a guy in a private room when without any warning whatsoever he whips out his pecker. You:


  A) Smack it like a wayward child and tell him not to take it out again.


  B) Giggle, take it in your hand and offer a variety of sex acts for varying amounts of cash. State in no uncertain terms that you don't accept personal checks.


  C) Leave the room immediately and tell a Floor Host who will either issue a warning or throw the fucker out. Either way you get your money because the rooms are paid for in advance. 

   Move on to next customer.


  D) Wrestle it to the ground like an unruly ferret, punch the guy in his yam-bag and demand a tip.






5) Another dancer vultured a customer from you while you were on stage. You deal with this by:


  A) Confronting the poaching dancer at your earliest opportunity and tell her how having a customer stolen from you in an underhanded fashion makes you feel. Use lots of hand gestures and upward inflections.


  B) Corner the bitch in the dressing room and ruin her face with an aggressively wielded 6 inch heel.


  C) Make a huge fucking scene in front of the whole club. Be sure to use lots of profanity, threatening postures and tears. 


  D) Do the same thing to her and smile while doing it. Whenever practical, tip the Floor Guys to ruin your adversary's night-they delight in it and are devious and ruthless when in your employ.






6) The Manager just fined you for breaking a rule you were well aware of but chose to ignore anyway because for some inexplicable reason, you think you're the shit. You respond to the fine by:


  A) Crying to the point you piss yourself and then trying to hug the Manager when he rescinds the fine out of sheer disgust. It's not hard if you're drunk enough and you won't remember it the next day any way.


  B) Call the club owner and whine and complain to him and threaten to quit. Owners want lots of dancers working at their clubs and are therefore extremely receptive to your groundless bitching. 


  C) Pay the fine and stop being a tedious cunt.


  D) Completely ignore the fine and let the Manager know that you're completely ignoring the fine. Maybe raise an eyebrow or something to show your disdain. You know they always back down even as they tell all the other employees that they're going to fire you.





7) You've just attacked a much smaller dancer over $38 and it's become pretty obvious she's dead. You:


  A) Call the Japanese business man that you service outside of the club. He will take the corpse off your hands discreetly and for a handsome profit. When questioned claim ignorance about slain dancer's whereabouts. Remember to clean blood spatter first.


  B) Hide the body and contact your Uncle who is a high ranking Mobster/Aryan Brotherhood/Ghetto Kingpin/Archbishop and/or Russian/Latino Human Trafficker. Tip all potential witnesses generously and make sure to tell them about your Uncle...


  C) Try to convince the House Mom to help you stuff her body down a shower drain.


  D) Wash off the gore and go about your business. Pretty girls always get away with it.






8) A man who is clearly wearing a bullet proof vest under his polo shirt gets a dance from you. During that dance you:


A) Blow him immediately because he's law enforcement and your parents taught you to respect the police.


B) Offer him a dazzling array of sex acts for bargain prices.


C) Fail to do or even suggest anything illegal. Completely abstain from grinding your crotch against his like you're trying to start a fire.


D) Try to sell him cocaine.





  
9) Really bad strip clubs can be like a Supermax prison; the strippers band into gangs for both mutual survival and control of certain facets of the club economy. These various factions*1, like their correctional institution counterparts, can be extremely vicious when defending their turf. 

  Having learned that you inadvertently snaked one of the more feared Latina dancer's customer and she has sworn blood vengeance, you:


A) Flee town immediately. It's easier to just pack up and leave and start over again somewhere else than have to listen to rapid fire Spanish cursing and avoid dagger-like acrylic nails for the rest of your career.


B) Offer the Barbie Clan protection money. It's better than dying.


C) Bang the owner. All of your problems will just disappear.


D) Spike the bitches Patron with some rat poison. That will gain you respect in the yard.






10) Because you have a difficult time being original and enjoy the security, in and out of the club, of being a member of the herd, you decide to have the side of your torso tattooed with some deep, inspirational shit, yo. The message scrawled across you ribs and waist will be:

A) The names of your children and their birth dates. Because, you know, sometimes you forget about stuff.*2

B) The Serenity Prayer


C) Some crap about how sensual, mysterious and unique you are. With misspellings of course.


D) A list of high end luxury name brands.




  So, how'd you do?



  Since I'm not going to post the answers, you'll have to figure it out for yourself. Try some heroin maybe. It might make the answers more clear.




Gut Nite
-The StripperHerder





*1 Examples include: The Barbie Clan (With Assorted Non-Blond Extras), PMS-13: The Angry Latinas, The PsychoDyke Sisterhood, Eastern Eurotrollops, Drunk Loudmouth Italian Girls, The Needle Finger Janes, Association For The Advancement Of Plain Looking Bitches, SpeedShank Skanks, OG's (Old Gals)**


        **A brief study in strip club gang culture will be the subject of it's own post in the near future. Way too good to pass up.





*2 As if the stretch marks weren't a clue.

Conglomeration Post #9: A) The Situation In My Apartment, Which Is Just Fucking Horrible. B) Stupid Stripper Tricks, Vol. III. And C) How Being In A Strip Club Makes Everything More Valuable.

  I am a slob. It's not a fact I'm proud of, but it is indeed, a fact.


  I live in squalor, not because I'm too poor to give a shit or live in a third world country, but because I never clean anything. Finally bagging heaps of trash and hauling them out to the dumpster is what passes for 'cleaning' in my reality.


  And while I'm horribly embarrassed by the thought of anyone seeing the horrid, reprehensible shambles I dwell in, rather than actually clean it up, I just forbid any living creature entrance to it and go about my business.


  I'm somewhat ashamed to say that one of the few reasons I could use a wife in my life is to pick up after me and do obscure bits of tidying, such as vacuuming, dusting and I think it's called 'washing dishes'. Oral sex would be nice too, but is only worth it if I never have to do anything or go anywhere I don't want to, which has proven to be impossible in previous relationships.


  I don't do any of that housekeeping stuff but have become remarkably adept at circumventing the need to do them. For instance I only use paper plates and plastic cutlery. I always wear socks so random shit littering my carpet doesn't stick to my bare feet and I burn a lot of incense and use those outlet powered Air Wick thingies to combat the smell of neglect and ambivalence that dominates my abode.


  I figure my apartment is clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be happy and if it hasn't killed me yet, it isn't likely to do so any time soon. Therefore I just go with it...




  I endeavor to find holistic solutions to the problems caused by me slobbishness. For example I have a rice moth infestation in my apartment from when someone left a large box of free food sitting on my apartment stoop and I brought it in and ate some of it. The only difficulty I had with this free food is that it contained a bag of rice, which I don't really like very much and this bag of rice was inhabited by rice moth larvae.


  I didn't discover this fact until I had small, annoying moths zooming all over my apartment. I figured at first that they were just some seasonal aberration and would go away with the onset of winter. I was horribly wrong of course and the fuckers just keep multiplying and fluttering about.


  Its fucking maddening.


  So one day I got fed up and set out to uncover the source of these cocksucking moths. It didn't take long for me to look in the cupboard where I stashed food I wasn't likely to eat anytime soon so long as a Burger King remained open within a ten mile radius of me, and low and behold, there was the one pound bag of white rice crawling with tiny worm thingies.


  This bag was like an entire civilization of pre-moths. It moved. There were tiny malls.


  So, like any person who hates maggot-like organisms, I threw it away and figured that soon my moth problem would go away and I could again focus my rage on Russian poker players. Well, that was like 2 years ago and the moths are still here.


  I've started naming them because with the way my life is going, they're as close to a meaningful pet as I'm ever likely to get. Nevertheless I would enjoy having a moth-free environment again as they tend to fly into my eyes and mouth frequently and I'm kinda tired of that.




  So fortunately for me, my seasonal fruit fly invasion has proven clearly hostile to the moths; they don't get along at all. It is open warfare on a really small scale in my living space and luckily for me it's virtually silent or I would be forced to give a fuck or even take sides.


  Their aerial warfare is like watching a squadron of ME-109's descending on a flock of B-25s; brief, one sided and visceral.


  At this point the larger, fluffier fliers still appear to have the upper hand, but I don't think they'll hold on to it for very long. Have you ever tried to get rid of a fruit fly infestation? The little bastards are unbelievably resistant to almost any effort to destroy them. You can take their food, you can make your apartment cold as a penguin refuge, you can coat every square foot of your space in undiluted bleach, but still the wee cunts find a way to persevere and float around annoying the piss out of you.




  The best outcome I can hope for at this point is the the fruit flies conquer the rice moths and either we reach a detente, or I ally myself with the enormous population of spiders that inhabit every neglected corner of my abysmal cave and convince them to escalate hostilities on the fruities.


  I've thought about introducing bats to end my flying insect dilemma, but then I would need to install a larger predator into my realm to consume the bats and things would just spiral out of control from there. At some point I would need grizzly bears or orcas to balance my ecosystem, and quite frankly my apartment is too small to comfortably host those critters.

   So for the time being I live in a quiet, self contained battlezone.



   I feel like David Attenborough.*1










   So if you hang out in bars, or have a similar app on your phone then you're familiar with 'What A Mess', or 'Underwater Mess', both of which are games that feature an image jam packed with random items of which you must find a specified list of items.


   Don't know what I'm talking about? Then continue in darkness, you fucking Luddite and pray the world gets less technical. Good luck.



  To all of you who know what I'm referring to, here's the StripperHerder version of 'What A Mess'.





  In the following picture can you find.....?

1) A catfish

2) A pile of .40 caliber rounds*2

3) An outdated cellphone

4) A gay-ass Ed Hardy lighter that I found on the floor of the club

5) A holster for a 9mm handgun*3

6) The cure for ebola*4

7) A Taco Bell sauce packet

8) A waterproof pill container

9) A bible*5

10) A phone bill

11) A platinum ring*6

12) The recipe for a weaponized form of bleu cheese.*7

13) A pouch containing a toe bone of St. Herve the Bard and a petrified piece of the wolf feces it was found in.*8 Absolutely priceless to Catholics.

                        Stupid Stripper Tricks, Vol III




  Strippers can be shady as hell. I know that this is shocking to you, average reader and I apologize if it tarnishes the image of the happy-go-lucky, heart of gold stripper you often see portrayed in movies. I'm sure that for some of you finding out that strippers can be drug crazed, criminal scum-whores is like finding out that the Easter Bunny is a pedophile or that the Tooth Fairy carries a hammer and a strainer....


  But alas, it's true. They can be diabolical.




  So let's run down some of the more typical stunts in their bag of twicks. It should be fun.




Just Passing Through: Migrant strippers are a nuisance species which plague the industry not unlike locusts plagued ancient farmers. The roam from city to city like a vampire bat flits from cow to cow, stealing nourishment from the local villagers.


  Migrants are a pain in the ass for every single layer of the strip club shit-cake. They are generally pretty good looking which is how their evil works. They can descend upon a town and work at a different club every night, burning their bridges behind them without a care in the world. A frequent scam of theirs is to audition at a club and work there that night only, but to tell the management that they'll be there all weekend. Thus when they sneak out at the end of the night, having tipped no one because they'll never see them again, and having skipped out on the house fees they owed, there's no repercussions for them at all.


  JPT's also take a bite out of the regular staff's pocket garter by stealing dances from them. The regular staff is there for the club on schedule (for the most part), so to hire itinerant strippers is kinda a shitty thing to do really. They have no allegiance to the club and no interest in making friends or a positive impression.


  They play the system and they win.


  If managers were smarter they's make these girls pay a 'deposit' house fee, refundable at the end of the night provided she pays out accordingly. But I've never seen that happen and probably never will.


  This are a dumb industry.



The Bait and Switch: Two girls come through the door wanting to audition. One is really hot and the other is.........not. The girls make it clear that they are a duo, the usual excuse being because one girl is the other's ride, or some such nonsense. Even if this is the truth, it will always turn out that the ugly one has the car and legal right to drive.


  Well, you want the hot girl on your staff so despite your deep, tormented misgivings you hire her, and by extrapolation, her overweight hobbit sidekick. The manager who's been around the block a few times recognizes at this point that he's probably going to be saddled soon with a dumpy halfling in a thong which creates a cloud of discomfort wherever it's unnaturally large and hairy feet take it.


  Sans hot friend of course. She's moved on to helping one of her other equally repugnant friends land a job.


  Baiters work on the same principle as Migrants except that they may be willing to stick around for a few more days to make sure their much less attractive friends become firmly entrenched in the new club's flesh. Like some kind of arboreal parasite. Then they flee and leave the dumpster behind.







        How a Strip Club Makes things more valuable





  I used to work with this bartender. She was hot as fuck and mediocre at bartending, but to most clubs hotness is valued more than competency so she was able to keep her job despite the fact that Stephen Hawking would've been  more effective behind the bar.


  Her go-to move when she was drunk and thought a customer was attractive was to reach across the bar and rip his shirt open. I don't know why she did it, apparently she figured this would make her seem highly desirable to said club patron and would get her laid or something.


  A lot of guys let this go because she was a hot chick and she had just ripped their shirt open and I'm sure that many of them ended their night with their penis redolent with her vaginal fragrance.


  It was a win-win.


  But a few guys took exception to a bartender destroying their clothing and complained loudly to the managers. "This is a $200 shirt and she just ruined it! I want the club to reimburse me!"


  In other instance I've had guys come up to me complaining that they'd lost $4000 earrings, or a $10,000 watch, or a $6000 bracelet. I act concerned and then go out for a smoke because I don't care in the first place and more importantly, don't believe them in the second.


  Yeah, your $35 K&G shirt is suddenly worth $200. And your faux diamond earrings jumped to $4000 value the second you walked through the door. Everything becomes more expensive the moment you walk through the doors of a strip club and the conniving strippers have stolen it from you.


  It amuses me to no end.



A) I don't give a fuck if it cost you $10 or $10,000. Go eat a dog cock. If you actually cared about it in the first place you would've never lost it or let a deranged titty beast destroy it.


B) If you're dumb and materialistic enough to pay WAY too much for something that has no intrinsic value in a real world situation then you deserve to lose it. Stop being an elitist twatburger.


C) In all my years of hearing customer complaints of this nature, strippers were involved in about .30% of the cases. All the others were just a drunk customer losing stuff because he was drunk. In the cases where his shirt WAS ripped open/off by a stripper/bartender, it wasn't worth anywhere near $200. It was a Steve Harvey at best.


























*1 Except bigger, fatter, drunker, angrier and 100% less British.



*2 You're wrong. The pile in the photograph are .45 ACP rounds. You suck.



*3 Wrong again! That's a Taurus Judge holster. You still suck.



*4 Just to the left of the westernmost crackers.



*5 The bible is a bunch of worthless paper, don't you see it?



*6 It's poking out from underneath the crappy gum.



*7 Just in case the French get uppity again.


*8 St. Herve the Bard was a blind storyteller and historian reputed to have traveled with a domesticated wolf, and indeed he did. But one particularly harsh winter the wolf decided it wasn't quite domesticated enough to not eat Herve and decided it was just wild enough to survive that winter.**


       **This is all true, look it up.***



                   ***Well except for the part about the wolf eating him, I'm made that up. That doesn't mean that it may not be true however, the records are pretty vague...