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Five Strippers Who Need To Be Fired Immediately. Or, The Gordon Stanton Feral Stripper Refuge Thanks You For Your Generous Support.



  Building upon the foundation laid down in my last post, I'd like to expand on why we need to fire several problem strippers while we have the opportunity to do so. We're already starting to lose some of the newer dancers we've acquired over the past few weeks because with our 'talent' corps so well stocked, there just isn't enough money to go around.


  So firing some of our more mediocre-to-nasty entertainers has never been more feasible, yet pressure from the top keeps the managers hands seemingly tied. The Owner feels that the more dancers, the better and he is right. However if your club isn't supporting the girls as strippers, then the new ones aren't going to stay, and the increasingly desperate ones will quickly revert to prostitution.


  Neither of these situations is good for the club and at times I feel great pity for the General Manager because he is caught between the reality of the job, and the fantasy world the Owner lives in where insanely hot strippers grow on trees, drugs don't exist and strippers love working for free.


  The stress for him must be enormous, because unlike a lot of other mismanagers I've worked for, my current GM actually cares about people's well being (for the most part), understands the balance that must be struck between filthiness and legality and strives to stay on the right side of it.


  In addition to this, the factor of stripper work ethics come into play. Most of the girls I list below haven't been fired yet because they actually show up to work most of the time. Sure it may be five hours late and they may very well be wasted, but by golly they usually come in when the boss calls them, even on their days off.


  As a result they are shown incredible mercy in regards to house fees and fines, mercy a lot of the average strippers take exception to and with good cause. Dancers getting away with whatever they want undermines a Managers authority and makes it impossible for Floor Guys to control the crazy bitches with any degree of success.


  My opinion on the whole matter is to fire a few of the loopier twats and give some of the advantages shown them to some select new girls and see how they pan out. It's kinda like a football draft, you get 5 or 6 new players and you hope one or two turns out to be a star.



  So, in no real order to speak of, here are five dizzy snizzes who need to be pink slipped (with a free bonus snizz thrown in for good measure. Your welcome, thank you for your support.)





1) Spuzzpuddle- SO ghetto. To be this ghetto you have to work at it. This girl is so hood I could barely understand her in the few times I was unable to avoid her and was forced to interact with her. It sounds as if she might have a 3rd grade education at best and it doesn't seem to bother her in the slightest. Now I've worked with plenty of girls who talk like street rats when they're in the dressing room and away from customers, but most of them are able to turn it off and pass themselves off as decent , mildly educated human beings when the situation demands it. Like when they're trying to make money off a customer and don't want to frighten him with the feeling he may be robbed at any time.

  That being said, Spuzzpuddle either is incapable of this, or just doesn't give a shit. She's the queen of the double negative, which makes one sound like a complete fucking idiot, as demonstrated in the following sentences:



  "I'm not a whore."-Regular, semi believable person.


  "I ain't no hooker." -Iffy, probably stupid human. Most likely lying.


  "I ain't not no fakkin ho." -Super classy, well educated. Spuzzpuddle-riffic.




                "Spuzzy P da's name an bean aw ignant n'shit be ma game. Shee-it, cuz. Whoop-whoop!"






  To give you some insight into her decision making process, Spuzzy has a child by a guy who also fathered a child with her Mother. Which makes her Mother's child, (her half sister) her cousin or aunt or something, I think.

  It's all very complicated and it makes my brain hurt to think about it. Plus, I don't care. The service industry has worn down my ability to feel empathy toward the vast majority of mankind.*1

  Luckily for me this girl is a Day Shift dancer and any regular readers of this blog will know exactly what that means. Urgh. She just cheapens the entire club by being in it.*2




  2) Chewbitcha- Statuesque? Possibly not. That's a word used to describe taller girls and generally brings to mind valkyries, but doesn't necessarily apply to a scary looking dancer capable of throwing a Kia Soul around when she gets angry.

  This girl terrifies the average human male. She's easily 6 foot tall and an honest to god 200 lbs of pole climbing muscle. The thought of fighting her or having to try to subdue her if she ever goes all rottweiler on another dancer makes me a bit nervous. It would be like facing a combine harvester with a thong stretched over it and overfilled, distressed titties swaying about unpredictably, fit to knock a man senseless.


  Sometimes us Floor Sponges can face great danger.






                                  She's declined thirteen offers from NFL teams to date.

 


  Her immaculately painted nails are about 5 inches long, presumably made of some sort of polycarbon fiber and are attached to arms longer than mine. Like Edward Scissorhands but more outspoken, far angrier and armed with an enormous ass, a gutful of Patron and a total disregard for human disfigurement.


  She's put on a lot of weight since I started at the club and seeing how she has roughly the same frame as me, the results have been.....unfortunate. She used to make a few bucks off guys who like to fantasize about spawning a Master Race of giants, but even that crowd has tapered off in the face of her growing problems with gravity and it's devastating effects.


  She generally just mopes about the club with her default frown further deepening her fright factor, or lays around on a couch glaring at other dancers; a powder keg waiting to explode in stripper maiming fury.







  
      Man, I hope I'm not working that day.








  She is also one of those girls who doesn't understand the whole business of Strippernomics, i.e. tipping your Floor Guy can lead to wonderful new cash earning opportunities and save you money on various other aspects of the job as well. We could easily fit her into a champagne room or two, but the last time we did that and she promised to tip us, she didn't.

  So now she can dance to the light of her burning bridge and go fuck herself.





                                    This is statuesque, not....that other....whole situation.






 3) Monaco- What an utterly worthless piece of subhuman garbage. She's on enough drugs to kill three Corey Haims, drunk before she even comes into work, regularly does stuff right out in the open which would get the club fined or closed and the worst sin of all, she doesn't tip. Ever. Why she's still working here is beyond me...


  However there's hope. We suspect she tried to steal some guy's wallet last night and once the manager, Sir Cruikshank Accomodato Furhergold VIII reviews that camera footage and busts her hiding the wallet under a couch, an end to her evil may be in sight. In fact it is assured. The customer in question just got done spending almost 10K at the club and has done so for a couple of weeks in a row. The thought of losing him because of a loathsome, conniving bitch like her, fills me with rage and my Manager with an apocalyptic fury which man has seldom seen.



  He's gonna gut that bitch an Atlantic Salmon, metaphorically speaking.



                 "Let's see, stomach, liver, purple wobbly bit, Super Bowl ring, keys to a 97 Geo....."






 I'm not ashamed to admit that the thought of her tears arouse me. So......watery and stuff.


  I've mentioned Monaco before. In fact she's the one who asked me how she looked in that fishnet body stocking that I referred to here in question #2:


 http://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2014/04/the-floor-guy-diplomacy-quiz-or-another.html





 

StripperHerder Update!

  It seems, since I wrote the stuff about Monaco, that she was framed. Upon review of the camera footage, Sir Cruikshank discovered it was actually another dancer, Biffany, who in reality took the wallet and hid it in a room for future perusal, a room which Monaco shortly thereafter occupied.


  Unfortunately for everyone involved, the whale that's been frequenting the club lately seems to have a thing for Biffany and as a result, it was all chalked up to a misunderstanding and no firing occurred. In fact she has become bulletproof due to her patron's support, and it will all go badly eventually. For the club and Floor Guys anyway. Probably for the whale too.


  Which is a real shame because....



 4) Biffany- The update I just gave you should give you some insight as to how fucking stupid Biffany is. She has a guy who's come in once or twice a week for the past 7 weeks and given her something like $15,000 over that time frame. But she's so drunk and greedy that she's willing to risk it all for the chump change this guy might have in his wallet.

  This man has a fucking black card for Christ's sake, he doesn't need cash. He can buy an island with his card and afford to relocate it's native population to a neighboring island.

  My mind is officially boggled.


  It's not like she's even hot outside of a downtrodden trailer park setting.





                                       Miss Double-Wide 2005 and Miss Winnebago 2006.*3





4 1/2) Vodzilla- Apparently my ancient foe, Vodzilla (Walking Liver, Vod Dracul, The Vod Squad) has obtained a job somewhere else in a field that is not stripping. Therefore she's only going to be making occasional appearances at the club, you know, for booze money.


  God help that industry. I believe it is in the home health care field thus adding a brand new terror to old age.


  I fear this is only a temporary reprieve because as soon as she realizes that in the real world you get fired when you come into work drunk, or are caught drinking on the job, she'll come crawling back to the club full time. Back to a world where she may not flourish, but can get completely wasted, let her cunt flag fly and still make enough money to buy more alcohol for her next day off.


  I mention her only as a tribute to our historic conflict. In an odd, self loathing way I'll almost miss her while I wait for a new arch nemesis to emerge.


  Which brings me to:



 5) Narcolette- Good ole Narky used to work at our club several months back. She was just a standard pigheaded, stingy stripper Mk 1; good looks somewhat tarnished by excessive poorly thought out and executed tattoos. But then she started getting into the heavier drugs like percocets, moly and oxy and then thought "I should drink more tequila when I eat pills."


  So she went from merely unpleasant to deal with to fucking impossible. She did what ever the hell she wanted and got away with it. She started demanding that the club's shuttle bus take her to and from work, and which lucky Floor Guy usually got saddled with the privilege of her company do you suppose? If you guessed the author of this blog you would be correct oh Astute One.


  She only lives two and half miles away. At best, tip included, a $5 cab ride. Five goddamn measly dollars. Yet it was too much for Narky. Then, (you'll love this) she started demanding that we pick her up in our own vehicles because she didn't want the neighbors to realize she was a stripper.



  

  I bet they would've never guessed.






                                 "I'm not a stripper, I work in public relations!"






  So one day during an otherwise unremarkable weekday night, our local Vice Squad quietly enters the club and one of them makes a beeline for the private dance rooms and lo and behold, Narcoletta has her right tit in a guys mouth and he has, surely by mistake, wedged his finger up her anus and was waggling it about enthusiastically.


  Wham. Club is nailed with a $7500 fine, and Narcoletta is toast. Floor Men everywhere rejoice. It went something like this:



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=siG9PqvHg4s

  



  But then, for reasons known only to them, The Elders (i.e. Dynamic Management Team, Go!) concluded that hiring Narcoletta back was a sound business decision and could only bring prosperity and super-extra-happy glamour to the club.


  There's even rumors that a splinter faction within Dynamic Management Team, Go believe that she may actually be the Chosen One who will herald in another Golden Age Of Stripping, as foretold in the Prophecies.



  I don't believe that at all. She is the harbinger of No-Good-Can-Come-Of-Thisness.


  What the fuck were they thinking? We are not, I repeat, not at all hurting for dancers right now. There's no logical reason for her to be hired back unless she's fucking somebody important. Only plausible explanation, period.


  What an asshole.





  Keep on Herdin'
-The StripperHerder









*1 Thank God.





*2 Since I originally wrote this Spuzzpuddle has been fired by a Manager with some goddamn balls, Sir Godfrey Mace'abitch Slutslayer IV, defender of wholesomeness as it pertains to titty huts.**


    **Long live Sir Godfrey. HuzzahX3!





*3 Despite her hatchet-like nose and small, vaguely mantid appearing skull, Miss Double Wide 2005 is pretty hot. Tall, pale and not tattooed like a bridge support in the projects. And her tits are patriotic, hell yeah.





No One Gets Out Of Here With Their Self Respect Hymen Intact. Or, When You Have A Hundred Round Magazine, You Can Afford To Waste Few Rounds.*1



 Tonight was a Saturday night which means it was aggravating, chock full of douchiness and littered with bachelor parties. Saturdays have never been and will never be any fun to work whatsoever, they're like the week's equivalent to trying to chew razor blades and rock salt and then spit a Picasso.

  But surprisingly enough, it was my fellow Floor Guys who pissed me off the most tonight, not customers, cabbies or baffled female drivers.

  Why you ask? Well before I get into it, let me give a little bit of background history for those new to the blog and too lazy or ambivalent to slog through my archives.

  The last strip club I worked at before this one was, among MANY other problems, staffed by thieves. The VIP Hosts regularly pocketed the majority of money they made, money they were supposed to split with us poor bastards who had to work the main floor, commonly referred to as The Zoo, or Gen Pop.*2

  It didn't even occur to me at the time just how much these assholes were stealing from me and the other guys. It was only after I started working at the current club I'm at (which does a fairly similar amount of business) that I thought back to those days and realized it wasn't merely a few bucks here and there. They stole thousands of dollars from me during my year there. Thousands. I shit you not, dear readers.



  So that brings me around to tonight.



  We're training a new guy at the club and quite frankly he's not very good. I don't really expect him to last but he seems to have a sponsor in one of the managers, otherwise he'd be gone already. So the little cadre of long time Floor Dudes decided he wasn't entitled to a fair split of the tips at the end of the night. He got shortchanged.

  I made my opinion known that I didn't really agree with or like doing this to anybody. By being there, doing his job he was owed a fair share of the money just like everyone else. My opinion was duly noted and totally ignored and I'm not happy about it; it's a cunty move. I don't really care if he's not going to make the cut or not at the club, while he's there he deserves his fair share.

  This makes me into a thief and puts me in an uncomfortable position. Yes he's kinda annoying, doesn't know how to make money and would be fuck all useless in a brawl except maybe as a crude two handed weapon. That being said he's eager to help, very gung-ho and happily accepts all the shit jobs with a smile and a nod.

  So I can't tell him we're fucking him because I need this job and can't alienate the formidable power base the Floor Guy Bloc represents. I also can't protest too loudly to the other Floor Creeps because I'll be told in no uncertain terms that if it upsets me so much, split my tips with him and shut the fuck up, at which point I may burn a bridge or two.

  SO, here I am. A bit more well paid and a lot more disgusted with myself and those I work with.



  But this was only the beginning of the whole turd taco. Read on and splash on some hot sauce to kill the bacteria as you go along.






   Anyway, there's a guy who comes in pretty frequently and spends a decent amount of dough, and tips us modestly every time he comes in. It's usually a $50 tip for every champagne room he does and he's been doing it for years. Those fifties have really added up.

  So this gentleman is handicapped. He's wheelchair bound and his life is made easier when someone can help him in and out of his car. He's not a small man, I'd estimate he weighs between 215-230 lbs. Luckily for both him and me, I am blessed with the ability to fairly easily lift humans his size because I are all big and stuff.

  And recently he's been running low on money. After 2 or 3 rooms, his card starts declining. He used to spend all night in VIP rooms, spending lavishly on girls who didn't give two shits about him and tipping extravagantly, but now he can no longer do it. Possibly his settlement cash is tapped and now he subsists on a budget, I don't know. All I know is that the Floor Guys running the rooms have turned their back on this dude now that he can't spend huge money anymore. Like the years of tipping generously don't mean shit.

  Just like a typical 'entertainer', he doesn't matter to them anymore because he isn't lining their pockets like he used to.





   It's fucking despicable and it pisses me off. 



  I dislike attitudes such as this intensely.







  Then things got even more kick ass:








  At the end of the night this kid is broke. He needs a ride back downtown to his car, but the club's shuttle bus sits too high for even me to easily lift him in and out of. So does my truck. I asked all the other guys if I could borrow their car to drive him the 3 miles to town and all of them refused to do it. Every last one.

  So I call a cab, wait outside with him for 25 minutes or so until the cab shows up. I then help him into the cab and help get his chair stowed, then follow him to town and help him transfer from the cab to his car and stow his chair again. Then I pay and tip the cabbie, who was pretty goddamn thankful that I followed them to the car because the guy was all of 5'6" and 140 lbs and would've been roughly as useful as a marshmallow hammer.

  This is what taking care of those who've taken care of you is all about and it should extend to all facets of life, not just the business side.

  To forget someone who's helped put food on your table, gas in your car and pants on your ass, just because he's not in a position to tip over-generously anymore, is just a reprehensible, dickshitty move.



  Utterly without class.


  



  And Then...







  I get back to the club from helping the customer out. This is after I've already taken 2 of the insert local NFL team's name here players back to their cars downtown. At this point in time we've been closed for an hour and a half, plenty of time for the remaining 5 Floor Bitches to have done their normal crappy job of cleaning the club and maybe picked up the slack for the guy who's driving drunk giants around and deadlifting a 200 lb guy in and out of cars.

  But no, no slack was picked up. I was unpleasantly, but not entirely, surprised to find the club's 2nd worst job had been thoughtfully saved for me.*3


  Make sure you read the above footnote before you continue, esteemed Herderite. I don't have any sort of statistics on how many readers immediately read my footnotes, interrupting what can loosely be referred to as the 'flow' of the blog, as opposed to those who plow through the main body of the post and save the footnotes as a kind of literary dessert. But the information contained in the above footnote, while not vital, is actually pretty important when taken in context of of what I'm about to write. Go ahead, I'll give you a moment.



  Insert sounds of me urinating here


  There. Everyone caught up?

  Excellent.



  The thing that sucked most about the other Floor Dicks 'saving' me a cleanup job is that we had a barback tonight, so scratch Main Bar and VIP Bar off the job list. The Floor Staff then tipped the cooks some dough to do the Trash for us, so knock that off the list as well. The VIP rooms are kept up as the night goes along, there were no crazy parties in any of them, so it was done before we even closed, ergo whoever claimed that job is a cunt. One of the Floor Wolfs convinced a new waitress that sweeping the patio is a waitress job, which it isn't, it's just an old Floor Guy Mind Trick.

  Oh yeah, and no one bothered to do the front of the club, so it will remain scuzzy looking all through Sunday and until around 6 PM on Monday which is when I will arrive at work again and sweep up the weekend's leavings.

  So, to summarize; There were only 4 jobs left for 5 Floor Men present in the club, the 6th one being me of course, downtown squat lifting a cool but heavy, dead weight guy in and out of cars while my hernia gives me the physical equivalent it saying "You know if you keep this kind of thing up, stuff like picking up other humans and moving them around, then someday you can look forward to shitting into your own scrotum."

 
  I gotta tell ya, I got pretty pissed off and I ain't kiddin neither.




  That pretty much sums up the the night. It was not a good one.











  To expand on the second half of the title, let's go a bit into the tangled politics of strip club management.

  I'm not going to go too deep, I don't want to do anyone harm. But I'll brush upon the basic problem inherent in dealing with strippers and the abject misery it must instill in all Mismanagers everywhere.



  You see the reality is that strippers, provided they're on the top half of the one-to-ten scale, can get a job within an hour of being fired from a club. The threat of termination doesn't hold the terror that it would for a steel worker, a fireman, a teacher or even an illiterate dishwasher. Strippers, once the lifestyle has consumed them, don't care about shit anymore but making money and partyin' yo.

  The point being that as a Mana-Jur of a strip club, your main conundrum is having enough dancers to actually operate a strip club. The majority of clubs I've worked at have had issues with not having enough girls working at any given time. To further complicate the equation, it's virtually impossible to keep strippers working if they're not making money. So you, as a Manager, have to balance a number of fiscal issues that grow ever more complicated the larger the club is.

  Are you with me so far? You can't be all fascist about fines and house fees when you rarely have enough girls to go around. They'll just say "Fuck you", snort lines of oxy off the hood of your car before they piss on your tires and go get a job 1.7 miles away.


  So where am I going with this, you ask?



  Here's where I'm going. We have so many new dancers over the past few months that I can't even keep track of half of them. We have so many that the ecosystem hasn't been able to sustain their numbers and some have already left the club for greener pastures. There is a fair number of dancers who will do this after one bad night.

  But at the same time the management is tolerating a number of problem girls. Problem girls whose jobs have been safe because we didn't have enough staff to comfortably fire them. Now we do, we have more than enough.

  But still the higher ups won't pull the trigger. The strippers in question cost the club more than they make it, we've never had a bigger roster of talent, and most of them are slouches anyway, grim and unmerry.

  This is the perfect time to cut dead weight yet we're still saddled with these unscrupulous stink-leavers that make the whole club look bad. I don't understand it. Even axing a select list a 5 or 6 dancers would reduce the drama and crime quotient by several factors.

  Yet there they stand, seemingly above reproach. Tauntingly bulletproof for no apparent reason.


  Fuckles all, I hate it.







Your beloved Uncle Herdy,
-The StripperHerder





*1 I had originally titled this installment "A Douche-Turd Wrapped In A Cunt-Muffin", but upon rereading I felt it lacked eloquence.





*2 The lower level of the club: the space reserved for the teeming masses, populated by the cash bereft, the roided-out UFC wannabes and anyone who doesn't make a sweet-ass six digits a year salary or isn't willing to spend stupid amounts of money.





*3 Although others' opinions and descending lists may vary from mine, here is my version of the end-of-the-night-cleanup job list in order of shittiness, 1 being the worst/least desirable and 9 being easiest/I'm doing that:



9) VIP Rooms- Total breeze most nights. A couple of glasses, some nipple tape on the floor and you're done. Floorotaurs don't mop anything short of barf, poop or pools of blood. A strategically placed couch can hide a multitude of sloth.

8) Foyer/Front of Club- Usually a snap. Run a quick damp mop over the foyer, and sweep up a few dozen cigarette butts and Bob's your uncle.**


7) Dance Room- 15X25 ft room subdivided into 30 little cubicles where the 'couch dances' take place. Almost never gets mopped by the core clique of Floor Yaks. They usually just do 3 feet down each hallway so it looks like it's been mopped. No one ever checks.

6) Patio: A few glasses and a bunch of sweeping butts, with an occasional guest appearance by some gut gravy. I only rate it below Dance Room because it's outside so sometimes it's jungle hot and others it's Siberian cold.


5) Bathrooms-Unless something unspeakable has been perpetrated in one of the stalls, some fecal nightmare or half digested gyros soaked in Fireball shots spattering the walls to a height of 6 feet, it ain't so bad. If one of those things don't happen, then cleaning the bathrooms are normally pretty easy. Quick sweep, slop o' the mop and Barb's your aunt.***


4) Main Bar-The level of suck with this job varies greatly depending on who was bartending. Some bartenders are better then others at making your cleanup job easier, and some just give you money to make their problem go away. Others, however, are inconsiderate bitches. They don't lift a finger to clean their bars and they don't tip you a dime because even though you may be doing the job of barback for them, you are officially a Floor Host and therefore, based on job description, she doesn't have to give you squat.

3) VIP Bar-Both farther away and always staffed by the "B" teamers. Despite it's grand title, it's a smaller, more cramped bar with all the allure of a K Mart food court and all the glamour of sad clown porn. It is also the farthest away you can get from the dumpster and still be in the building. Definite pain in the ass.

2) Dressing Room-Dungheap. Flophouse. Factory of Illusion and Sorrow. The Special Effects Room.

   There are many names for this horror and one does not face it lightly. It has broken better men than me through the years and will undoubtedly continue to do so. One must trudge up the Stairs of Despair, walk the Desolate Hallway, and Enter the Room Where the Death of All Hope Lives and Keeps It's Star Wars Collection. The accumulated detritus of 50 alcohol swilling strippers in an enclosed place is staggering. Make up, baby wipes, bottles, glasses, to go containers, dead underwear, forsaken hair extensions; these are but a few of the challenges that await the Floor Host Errant.

1) Trash-Not surprising to anyone who's worked in a bar/restaurant. Trash cans can be not only heavy, but really nasty smelling- unholy unions of stale beer, old food (that was shitty even when it was fresh), vomit, cigarette butts and even less appealing stuff all commingling to produce a stench that is somehow greater than the sum of it's parts.

  It can be vexing.

  Trash also has a tendency to leak, usually all over anything you got back from the dry cleaners that very day.

  Trash sucks. It is worth it to pay the cooks $20 to do it.











  **For American readers, Bob's your uncle can be translated as "And there ya go." or, "Bada-bing Bada-boom." or even, "And that's that, motherfucker."



*** I made that one up. Feel free to use it if you want.



  

Tumbleweaves Make Great Pets, Part One. Or, Farrah: The Hollywood Years.



  I got Farrah from a Tumbleweave rescue facility about 15 years ago. She's as much a part of my family as my siblings or parents and my life has been richer since she I found her.



                 Although very similar to Tribbles in appearance, Tumbleweaves are actually closer in 
                                                      relation to the Dust Bunny than to the Tribble.





  Tumbleweaves are often regarded as a nuisance species, like rats or rappers. But in reality are highly intelligent, surprisingly dynamic and very loving pets. Not a lot is known about them; their lifespans, their mating rituals or where they migrate to every three years. There are a zoological curiosity that merit further study.

  Initially I knew almost nothing about Farrah except that she was rescued from a strip club in Indiana where she had been tied to a broom handle and used as a mop for two years by a sadistic, cheapskate club owner. Sadly this is a fate common to indigenous tumbleweaves but their plight remains largely unchampioned due to the fact that "science" has yet to acknowledge their existence.

  Over the years I have discovered a lot of evidence that Farrah hadn't always been a downtrodden strip club mophead. In fact she has lead an incredible life and if the evidence can be believed, she's over 150 years old and still going strong.

  Sure I get a lot of funny looks walking her at the dog park, but I'm a gigantic guy walking around a tiny puff of animated hair, it's to be expected. Some people who look at me would expect me to be walking around a grizzly bear or something, not an excitable clump of weave smaller than my shoe.

 



  Honestly I can't believe some of the things I've uncovered about Farrah while researching her past. If the evidence is credible, then I believe she may very well be immortal, or at least extremely long lived and capable of astonishing self regeneration. I'm not sure if she actually eats strippers, or just collects their cast off hair. I've never seen her eat one and haven't ever come across any odd bits of leftover stripper pieces littering my apartment.*1



  But I digress. The fact is I have found out so much about Farrah, that I can't possibly cover even a fraction of her amazing and frequently bizarre story in a single installment. So for this post I'm going to focus on her years in the film industry and her brush with fame in the music business.



  During her long and intermittent Hollywood career, Farrah did just about everything there is to do for the film industry. She's done lighting, set design, editing, worked as an extra and a stuntweave, and even had a producer credit on the unwatchable live action Masters of the Universe movie from 1987.





According to Farrah, that's a cousin of hers on the little dude's head.






One of Farrah's earliest onscreen appearances. She didn't get a speaking role because the director didn't care for her weird accent, yet her screen presence is undeniable. Although being in The Karate Kid (1984) didn't immediately lead to other extra work, it did kindle a passion for the martial arts that she's pursued with varying results ever since. I feel that if she just had limbs, she could be a formidable fighter despite her almost complete lack of mass.





Farrah was much larger back then, but it was the 80's and she is, after all, hair.









Perhaps the role that gave Farrah the most visibility while ironically being one she never got any credit for was when she played Jim Carrey's hair in 1994's Ace Ventura:Pet Detective. It was a demanding role and
Farrah played it so well, no one even knew she was there.





          Farrah and Jim grew very close during the filming of Ace Ventura and still stay in touch to this                                                             day. We've even been to the Carreys house for Christmas.








  Being a stunt double can be frustrating work. You take all the risks for some pampered actor who will make a hundred times more that what you will and any screen time you get will be portraying that same pansy ass actor. The only mention you'll get is in a block of names under 'stunts' towards the end of the credits when there's no one left in the theater. Still, it pays pretty good and Farrah was one of the best.

  Whenever a star's hair was in jeopardy, they called in Farrah. She actually doubled for Chewbacca in the Star Wars movies whenever a scene featured sparks or pyrotechnics of any sort. Turns out the big bad wookie is terrified of fire and would go berserk anytime something sparked.

   I would post a picture of it but have been warned by Lucasfilm's legal team that I would do so without their express written consent and that litigation would follow.

  So instead, here's a pre-editing shot of Farrah stunt doubling for Billy Connally in 1999's sleeper hit, The Boondock Saints. It would be Farrah's final gig in the movie industry and she moved east shortly thereafter.




              Billy Connally likes live fire scenes, but his beard kept catching fire from the blast back.







  Farrah's talents don't just lie in the movie making business, here's an extremely rare promo pic of Kiss from 1973, just before they began their climb to the top. Officially Farrah left the band amicably due to 'musical differences', but off the record she told me it was because she wasn't Jewish. She was drunk when she said it and refuses to discuss her time in Kiss any further, so I'll never know if it's true or not.




                            Peter, Farrah, Paul, Gene and Ace, rare photo of original Kiss lineup.*2









  Tune in next time where I will make a very credible case for Farrah being at least 3000 years old, reveal some more startling evidence and authentic, undoctored photos.

  Until then, I remain, your faithful herder,
-The StripperHerder



























*1 When I got her from the shelter, the lady said Tumbleweave's feed on a diet of small denomination bills lightly dusted with narcotics, fingernail clippings, cheap hair spray, skin and sperm cells, lice and other small parasites and other Tumbleweaves. She also warned me that Tumbleweaves are extremely territorial and will attack and attempt to murder any other mostly weightless, wind-bourne objects that blow through their domain.



*2 Thank you to Greg H., my researcher. I owe you a debt of gratitude for your diligent work unearthing Farrah's past.