Dry your tears my Herderites, I'm back. I feel very, very sorry that I haven't been providing the Plight that so many of you rely on to get through the day. You have my sincere apologies and my promise to try and do better.
What's been going on you ask?
Well, let's see. My business partners fucked me over pretty good. Not in a crime-of-opportunity sorta way, but rather in a cold, calculated from-day-one sorta way. So the past 2 years of my life, including all the 70-120 hour work weeks have all been wasted. I basically built a business for them including customer base and distribution and all I got out of it was an assfucking that didn't include a free dinner first.
I wish I could go into more detail, but there may very well be some litigation involved with this, so an explanation will have to wait for the wheels of justice to crush someone.
Other than that I'm making very slow progress on a script that if it gets made into a movie, will be the funniest movie ever made. So if you're still alive in 30 years or so, look for it in a theater near you.
OK, enough small talk. Let's get to the topic at hand which is Floor Guy diplomacy. The tenets of the following quiz actually apply to any industry where one is forced to interact with other humans in order to hack a living from the wilderness of life. I put my unique spin to some of the things I encounter within the titty club ecosphere, but elsewise it could be applicable to any number of other jobs as well.
It's very simple. I'll provide a statement or question that I've run into at my job recently and a list of possible replies. You decide which was the correct response and I'll provide a list of answers at the bottom and we can all see how well we did.
Ready?
Then let's do it.
The StripperHerder Diplomacy Test Version 1.0
1) "I'm just not doing very well here anymore. Is it me?"
A) Yes, you're still ugly.
B) No, it's the customers, they've all sucked lately.
C) Everything's going to be fine after you get the face and body transplant and those personality injections.
D) Maybe you should ask that of someone who gives a shit.
2) "How does my outfit look?" (fishnet body stocking)
A) Like someone dragged up something long dead in a trawling net, gave it enough of a speech ability to be annoying and forced it to ask me stupid questions.
B) Kinda like a butterfly net full of random, bleached organs.
C) Fantastic. Don't change a thing.
D) Excellent, the crosshatchings of the fishnet really trick the eye into not seeing the 'hell awaits' written in stretch marks across the remains of your titties.
3) "Hey buddy! How you doin?" (People who frequent the club always like to think you're their friend, even when they've never tipped you a dime or done anything whatsoever to assist you in your quest to make a living, or are in fact, a scumbag.)
A) Just great, brother! How you been?*1
B) I've been secretly hoping that you had a previously undiagnosed and utterly hostile alien parasite living in your upper bowel region and that it would choose this exact moment to rend it's way out of your intestinal tract. That way you would stop talking to me.
C) I'm awesome dude because I realize not matter how mediocre and meaningless my life is, I'm still not you!
D) I'm morose. Give me money or I'll hit you with a table.
4) "What's Dewar's?" (I understand if you're new at something, you've got a lot learn and usually have to do it on the job. But really, come on. Learn your shit already. I had a waitress pose this question to me tonight when she asked me what 'deuce' was because someone had ordered a 'deuce and coke'. I told her they probably said 'Dewar's but that she should go and check with the customer. I was right and completely failed to point out to her that to my knowledge there isn't a booze called 'Deuce' and even if there is we certainly don't carry it and that I know this in spite of the fact that my job doesn't require me to take drink orders.)
A) Its a highly toxic aminac acid that instantly dissolves all living tissue it comes in contact with and can only be consumed by demons, intra-dimensional creatures of a diabolic persuasion and Bulgarians.
B) It's a blended scotch made from rejected barrels of various distilleries that are thrown together in an attempt to make them taste better and whose name recognition is mostly linked to the era before single malts ruled the roost. Understand?
Sigh. It's scotch, honey. From Scotland.
C) Its a codeword for methamphetamine so if someone asked you for a Dewars and coke he meant he wants to speedball with you and possibly kill you in a tweak induce hallucinogenic rage. Or he just has terrible taste in drinks, one of the two.
D) It's an amazing costly premium cognac, but for some obscure reason many hipsters refer to it as 'Dewars', or 'Dewies'. So when you order the drink, tell the bartender they want a Louis and coke, that way she'll understand what you want.
5) "OMG! I lost something that is important to me! Help me find it, now!" (I'm usually fairly wiling to help a girl find something she drunkenly left behind because she's an absent minded stripper, even when they're not great tippers or have an unpleasant disposition/odor. But this one girl tonight has never, to my knowledge, given any of the Floor Serfs a single dime and ergo I felt not the slightest urge to help make her problem go away.
She herself was very concerned with the whereabouts of her handbag thingy, so I suspect it's where she kept her coke.)
A) Holy Sweet Burning Baby Jesus! Fuck everything else I have to do, let's find your mislaid property! I will fucking slay another human being with my bare hands if they attempt to delay me finding your Lost Stripper Pouch of WhoreStuff!
B) I will help you find your drug purse if it will make you go away faster. You smell like an ashtray smeared with vanilla frosting that had jizz and tequila spilled in it.
C) Oh. Gosh. No way. Let me help you....oh wait. There's something coming through on my headset. I gotta go.*2
D) You are a delightful person to be around. Since I am paid hourly, I'll be glad to help you recover your casually forgotten property.
6) I have breath like an open mass grave and I choose or my own free will to sit right next to you and chat about innane bullshit even though you're clearly disinterested and seem to be appalled by some aspect of me. (We have a relatively new waitress and someday I'll remember her name if she lasts long enough. I've never really had the privilege of conversing with her before, but tonight we were kinda slow and the mellow manager, Sir Runs Loosely-Whatever, was on duty so I had the rare opportunity to sit down for much of a shift. Much to my everlasting joy she takes the seat right across from me and proceeds to blast me with some benign chatter bourne on the winds of pestilence and bereavement.
This girl, although extremely blond and cute, has the breath of a dying whale or a stump-toothed coprophiliac blowing bubbles at you.
A) Do me a favor and close The Gates To Hell. Now walk away and gargle some holy water then see a certified gastroenterologist and/or stop eating dead animal assholes.
B) I know for a fact that you're not going to understand what I'm saying which is why I'm going to say it right before I respond to some random emergency that's coming through on my headset: When you opened your mouth I thought to myself "This is what the guy standing right next to Pandora smelled when she opened that fucking jar."*3
C) Darlin don't take this wrong, but you could use a breath mint.
D) Your breath smells like a poorly appointed refugee camp. I am appalled.
7) I choose skanks! (This wasn't really a statement made to me tonight and in fact, is something I've never heard spoken. But I do witness it every night, guys ordering dog food when prime steak is available at the same price. Why would you pay for a dance from a wretched skank when you can get a hot chick who'll give just as dirty a dance for the same amount? Hell if I know...
But occasionally, if I've been a good StripperHerder, some guy passing me on his way to the dance room being towed by just such a skank will leer at me and ask something along the lines of "Dude! How lucky am I?" Or, "Bro, how hot is this bitch, eh?" These are the statements I'm addressing in this next series of possible answers.
A) She's like Deep South trailer park hot, dude, you're just drunk and stupid. If her ancestors hadn't fucked each other exclusively for the past 5 generations, she might be OK, but they did and then the whole family developed hare lips and generational drug habits.
B) Bro, good choice! I can see you a dude of excellent taste and demanding standards. You're accustomed to the best things money (or crack) can buy and those benchmarks in class and sophistication show through in every decision you make! Well done, man.
C) STAND STILL DUDE, I'LL GET IT OFF YOU! Wait...what? Oh, that's the dancer you chose. From our entire available talent pool...My bad. Enjoy your dance.
D) Wow. Go on dude. You gots you a hottie, fo sho. I feel envy.
I was going to do 10 questions but then I decided not to. I still have to address the second part of the title which is, if I'm not very much mistaken...
Another Argument For Tipping
Suppose, for the sake of argument, that you're a lowlife, drug dealing scumbag. I know you're not, fine reader, but just pretend for a moment that you are. Your livelihood is predicated upon a chosen trade, and a fickle one at that. But all that is a facade, your true income derives from slinging a variety of pills, coke and heroin to strippers and various other drunk entities.
Even though you're pretty discreet and haven't been caught doing deals in the club, your secret is known to the Floor Scrubs and the local police as well. The local police that we know and who actually work at the club on weekends. The very same local police that you were filming while they were drinking bottled water at our club, letting them know that you're a prominent citizen and were recording their misdeeds as if they were doing something wrong.
Now suppose you needed some special service only us Floor Guys can provide, something like bottle service, a champagne room or some club funny money. You decide to spend $595 on a bottle of French garbage and further decide that you didn't need to tip the Floor Scrub who made all that happen for you. Not a dime, just a heartfelt thanks.
I tried to pay my electric bill last month with heartfelt thanks and was embarrassed to find they don't accept it.
Now you can stop imagining that you're an asshole drug dealer. Now put yourself in my shoes. They're really big, so be careful walking around.
The cops were understandably unhappy with the scumbag's actions, taunting them for no reason as they sipped water in an establishment that lays within their district. I was willing to help them because:
A) This guys sells shit that kills people. He's not a happy-go-lucky pot dealer who can bring you a dimebag upon request. He sells junk and shit that leads to junk to young, stupid girls who have expendable income and/or vaginas for lease.
B) The motherfucker can't be bothered to pay the Watchmen's tax, i.e. money for us to look the other way as he does what he does.
So the dumb prick happened to get randomly stopped last night shortly after leaving the club and got charged with an interesting array of offenses which will keep his lawyer very busy and well paid for quite some time.
That probably could've been avoided if he'd just played by the rules. If I had been busy making money, I wouldn't have had the time to notice when he left the club. It's best to keep the Floor Orcs busy making money whenever possible.
Viva La Booze,
-The StripperHerder
Answers to Quiz: 1) B,
2)C
3) A
4) Noah's Ark
5) 36.34 Centimeters
6) C
7) The Battle of Hastings, 1066 AD
*1 This is usually followed by me pretending to hear something in my earpiece and pretending to reply and then pretending there's something I have to go and do.
*2 It works with strippers too.
*3 It was originally a jar, not a box. I'm going to quietly assume you already knew that, learned reader.
