An Interview With The Vag-pire. Or, Strippers Say The Darnedest Things!

  I sacrifice for my readers, I really do.*1 I willingly wade into horrific situations thinking to myself "This giant pile of assfuckery will make for some excellent blog material, yay! My readers will be so happy when I tell them about all the blood, fecal matter and stripper tears."


  Therefore I decided to do something new here at The Plight-an interview with several dancers. I knew this was going to be like throwing my brain into a wheat thresher, yet I didn't care. I figured if strippers haven't killed me yet, surviving some one on one Q&A sessions was completely doable. Now that I'm out of the hospital and the doctors have assured me there was 'minimal lasting damage' to my psyche, I'm ready to publish the astonishing results.


  I recommend drinking heavily while you read the following material, it will help you understand what the hell they're saying. I will warn you however that some of the transcript below is of a disturbing nature and shouldn't be viewed by the faint of heart or stomach. I have carefully chosen some of the more interesting responses and edited out all references to Satan, The Unholy Triumverate and vaginal lesions.


  You're welcome.



  Without further ado I give you excerpts from the...





          

           Interviews With Strippers







  Our first featured dancer is Lin-duh, stage name Stormy. Age: Unknown, but pretty old. Stormy's been in the industry for a long time, presumably since womens underwear were known as 'bloomers'. She's a seasoned veteran (read: depressing and world weary) who could've retired many years ago had she the merest inkling of investment sense or any financial acumen whatsoever. But no, she still shucks for bucks and it is a heart rending experience to witness.

                                        "Would anyone care to see my squirrel steak? Anyone...?" 








Me: "How did you get started in the industry?"


Stormy: "Well I wanted to go to college and become a doctor, but back then they didn't let women go to school past the seventh grade so I got a job slinging drinks at the local saloon. Soon after that I noticed that if I let men pinch my bottom and grab my boobies, they gave me a better tip. Then one day I went to a carnival and saw the tent where women would dance the hootchie and I said to myself 'I can do that' and the rest is history."


Me: "Ancient history".




Stormy: "What?"



Me: "Nothing. I see you have breast implants. When did you get them and did they boost your income?"


Stormy: "They're pretty recent, like 1987 I think. And yeah they did help out a lot at first, but now they really don't and I can't for the life of me figure out why. I mean, look at them, they're perfect!"


  At this point in the conversation, Stormy pulled down her top and two pale, liver spotted badgers lunged out straight at my face. After I realized these were her tits, I got up off the floor, sat back down in my chair and holstered my pistol. Then I resumed the interview.



Me: "So how old are you, Stormy?"



Stormy: "A gentleman never asks and a lady never tells, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm 38."



Me: "Thirty...?"



Stormy: "Eight. That's right. Should I show you my tits again to prove it?"



Me: "Gosh, no! I'll mark down 36 just to be safe."



Stormy: "You're so sweet."



Me: (Shudder)






  This next excerpt is from my enlightening conversation with Sarissa, stage name Clarissa. Age: probably 22 but her people's religion forbade the use of calenders, so she's not really sure. Sarissa is what some bigoted, judgmental folks might call 'trailer trash', but nothing could be further from the truth, she lived in a house in fact.*2 Sarissa was raised a strict Xxxxxxxxian, which is pronounced 'Bun jo EE An', but since the Church of Bunjo, Fiddler, forbids the learning of letters and numbers, it's spelled Xxxxxxxxx.

                                      "May God's Flail leave you the use of one kidney. Amen."









Me: So Clarissa, last Tuesday I heard you had a pro ball player make it rain on you. How much did you end up making that night?"



Clarissa: "What's a Tuesday?"



Me: "Um, the day that happened before the day that happened before yesterday.


Clarissa: "Oh you mean last Crimpkin*3? Well yeah there was this enormous bla....African American fella and he threw a bunch of all those dollary things that the Condemned use to pay for stuff. My Dad always takes what I make and burns it so we won't go to WalCerberon when we die."


Me: "Um...."



Clarissa: "WalCerberon is like a really bad place. My Dad says it would be like Detroit if the Lions ever won the Superbowl, but I don't know what that means and my Mom says that Dad is a horrible sinner and will stand in line forever in WalCerberon for his heinous knowledge."


Me: "....absolutely. So how is it that you're a stripper for a living? If your parents are that strict and your religion that fuc......traditional in it's observances, how is it OK for you to take off your clothes for money?"



Clarissa: "Because the Prophet Merle says so, silly. We started really young at the local Grange when the Prophet Merle had his bible burnings. Stripping is the sacred responsibility of all girls he says...."



Me: "I'm gonna stop you right there before we go down a path that's, quite frankly, really creepy. Let's get back on topic. You're from a very small town*4, how was it making the adjustment to city life?"



Clarissa: "Well it wasn't easy. Dad makes me wear a blindfold to and from the club where I work at so I don't see sinful things like stores or foreign cars. So mostly it was just a matter of stopping myself running and screaming every time I saw what I now know are called 'people of other races'. They were really scary at first.


  Then I had to get used to drinking what everyone calls booze around here. I couldn't believe it at first how people would drink this stuff and then stagger around doing stupid things. We have that stuff too sorta, except our is always clear and comes in mason jars and we use it to power our tractor that we're allowed to use every other Pluppton.*5 My Uncle Dad makes it in his dancing barn and we were raised on it. The stuff they serve where I work has been thinned out with a lot of water I think. Someone should do something about it."



Me: "So you've been dancing naked and drinking moonshine since you were ten or something is what you're saying."



Clarissa: "Oh gosh no, younger than that, we...."



Me: "This interview's over."











  Our next gem comes from a dancer named Brittney, stage name Anastasia. I refer to her as Anastasia XXIX because according to my records she's the 29th different stripper I've worked with in 15 years who calls herself 'Anastasia'.*6


  Anastasia is not the brightest bulb on the Christmas Tree, poor thing. But because Our Lord Savior sometimes tries to prove he's not a total prick, she has a really great ass and a mesmerizing face. She makes it work for her despite her handicaps of two testicle-sized boobies and crotch full of shaved pastrami engaged in a constant border war with her thongs.

                                         "I am the world's hottest corned beef sandwich."








Me: "So why did you choose the stage name 'Anastasia'?"


Anastasia: "I totally saw this cartoon once and it had a princess named Anastasia and I thought hey that would be a great name for a stripper and I bet no other girl would ever think of it. Hee-hee."


Me: "Can you spell Anastasia for me?"



Anastasia: "Ay-en-ee I think, 7, ess-ach-why-ay. Or something like that. I'm not totally a great speller. Hee-hee."


Me: "Your breasts are like two small mounds of uninteresting silly putty. Do you feel this ever holds you back from making more money in your chosen profession?"


Anastasia: "Wow, yeah, like totally! If I could afford it I would get like double D's crammed in me tomorrow! I met this guy once who said if I came to his house he would do them for like a thousand dollars, but I didn't have it at the time and I haven't seen him since. I totally wish I would've taken him up on his offer when I had the chance, good luck like that doesn't come round very often. Hee-hee."


Me: "Um, it didn't occur to you that he was probably a serial killer or something?"


Anastasia: "No, I'm like totally a great judge of character and stuff. He was a really nice guy. Hee-hee."


Me: "You're probably totally right. So what kind of car do you drive?"


Anastasia: "A Scion TC. It's stands for totally cute! Hee-hee."


Me: "Thank you for participating. Totally"





  My next interview is with Melinda, stage name Eyrnyrtristananniaka, or something like that. She confuses syllables with class somehow and chose the most idiotically complex titty-name ever conceived. Melinda is fucking stunningly hot. Seriously, if my jaded, hypercritical ass says she's stunningly hot, then believe you me, she's hotter than a homeless kid's bike.

  Fortunately for mankind, she has little to no idea how to actually do her job. If I could somehow transplant a malevolent old stripper's monstrous brain into her delicious, lithe and taut little body, I could create something capable of altering entire local economies as guys lined up to give her money and she spent it on astronomically priced fashion accessories and expensive cars that she wrecked 3 days later. She would have virtually unlimited earning power and soon her income would eclipse medium sized African nations' GDP.

  This girl is that hot. RIDICULOUSLY SO.


  But I've gone on about her insane good looks enough. Here's a portion of the interview...

                      "For $500 you can lick the inside of the washing machine that cleaned my underwear."










Me: "Fuck you're hot. How did you get this hot?"


Melinda: (blushing)*7 "I don't know. I just grew up this way."


Me: "Snarling baby Jesus, you're smokin. I want to make a broth out of your panties."


Melinda: "What?"


Me: "I said 'When did you realize your exceptional good looks could provide you a means of making a living?'"


Melinda: "Well I realized when I was probably 10 or so that I was a lot prettier than all the other girls and was only gonna get hotter as I went through puberty and into my teens. I always figured I'd be a model, but they say I'm not tall enough so I became a stripper instead."


Me: "God was good to us that day for a change."


Melinda: (smiling uncomfortably and edging away from me) "Yeah, I guess."


Me: "Do you have any pets?"


Melinda: "Yeah I have a pet hedgehog named Sonic and a bunny rabbit named Sedgewick. They are SO cute!!!"


Me: "Oh, I bet they are...."



Melinda: "You're scaring me. I'm leaving now!" (She flees the room.)


Me: "Wait! What kind of car do you drive?"






  The final dancer I'll include in this installment is Quim, stage name Fucking Quim, Lesasaurus Rex, Miserable Dyke, Angry-Meat-Eating-Cunt-Devouring-GunTwat. She's one of my all time favorites as you can probably tell from my fond nicknames for her.

  Quim is a miserable person. Not miserable like me, as in just crusty and disagreeable like someone's obstinate grandpa, nope. Quim is a full on easy to hate bitch. She's never been happy in her entire life and even when chin deep in snizz she's probably still a depressed sociopathic alcovore.

                                                "Want to watch me fist-rape my girlwhore?"









  But enough loving praise, here's the excerpt:




Me: "So why are you such a cunt?"


Quim: "I'm not a cunt, you're just a giant fucking asshole."


Me ....."OK, I'll give you that one. But no, really, you're a raging cunt. Why?"


Quim: "Just because I like to get drunk at work and fight with my girlfriend doesn't make me a bad person. You think because you have a dick that everything you perceive is the way things really are. Well I got news for you, having a dick doesn't necessarily make you a good judge of reality, asshole."*8


Me: "So you've never had a dick. Attached to you, I mean?"


Quim: "Of course not."


Me: "Well then you obviously don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about, penially."


Quim: "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"


Me: "What kind of car do you drive?"


Quim: "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"


Me: "What's your favorite color?"


Quim: "Are you fucking crazy?"


Me: "I'm guessing it's a sort of pink that gets kinda ruddy toward the edges. Maybe even bordering on brownish."


Quim: "Fuck you! I'm fucking out of here."


Me: "It's a Scion TC, isn't it?"




  So there you have some of it. I have pages and pages more of interviews I have yet to make up publish, and I will be sure to do so at an undisclosed future date. Until then I encourage all my faithful readers to throw a link to this blog on Reddit or some other people reaching site that I know nothing about. I really can't escape this haunting notion that I should have more readers and I think anyone reading this will probably agree.


Share away, please
-The StripperHerder















*1 No I don't. I would've had to do all the crap anyway, but I do think of my cherished readers when I'm moving a mound of feces with my hands or mopping up some stripper spoor.



*2 A less compassionate but possibly more candid author may have chosen any of the following terms to describe the 'house' Sarissa was brought up in: shack, hovel, dilapidated cabin, abandoned outhouse, shed, pygmy barn, pile of random lumber, shithole.



*3 Near as I can tell, this translates to either 'Tuesday', or is a generic measure of time roughly equal to 72 hours.



*4 Again, a less charitable interviewer may have opted to use any of the following terms; cult stronghold, compound, armed camp of religious nuts, Crazyville.



*5 I don't know, Friday maybe?



*6 My research indicates that exactly 0.0% of the girls who've chosen the stage name 'Anastasia' have any idea that the name was made famous by a lost Romonov princess and all the furor that surrounded her disappearance for many years thereafter and even to today. Mostly they just associate it with Disney which, again, is kinda creepy.



*7 Real strippers don't blush. They are no longer physically capable of it unless they're having a stroke.



*8 Although I haven't researched it, I'm pretty sure it does. Once you get past all the sweaty, rutty things it wants you to do, that is.

If Saturday Night Was A Person I Would Stab It In It's Face, Set It On Fire And Fuck Its Charred Remains Before Feeding Them To My Ravenous Pack Of Quasi-Feral Dogs. Or, Maybe Your Management Style Sucks A Giant Container Of Deformed Cocks.

  "Why didn't I go to college?" was a question that weighed heavily on my mind tonight. Why couldn't I have just have sucked it up and got a bachelors degree in some virtually meaningless field like communications or supply chain management? Then maybe I could've been something fulfilling like a telemarketing manager, or the guy responsible for making sure a tarp company had enough grommets to keep producing tarps.


  Oh what a glorious feeling that must be. Alas, I wouldn't know. I herd strippers and drive drunks around in a shitty limo bus for my bread which is about as fulfilling as a mugful of powdered smegma. Then when all the drunks are gone and the strippers have been herded into their four wheeled engines of terror and death, I get to clean the club even though we supposedly pay a cleaning lady to do that job.


  We got our asses handed to us tonight. Nothing we could do, no speed we could achieve our duties with was enough to keep up with demand. We were shit-fucked busy. Busier than a cocaine fueled hamster orgy in a giant barf splashed Habitrail.


  The Town kicked us in the balls continuously and mercilessly for six hours and wouldn't stop until we forced every last wasted prick out the goddamn door. I've never witnessed a titty feeding frenzy quite like it before and I hope to never again. It was like a truckload of nipples dumped into a piranha tank, frenzied and disconcerting to watch.


  
  If the club didn't make 30 grand tonight I'll eat my sweat soaked underwear and then blow a rottweiler.




  Thirty grand in one night makes it almost seem like we're in a real city. For our pathetic little market, thirty thousand dollars is heroic money. Fucking heroic, I say. Every single employee from the lowliest spooge-mopper to the lofty managers busted their asses tonight.


  
  It was total carnage, capitalist style.


 
  "So you all made good money" you simper. Well in this case you'd be wrong. Busyness normally doesn't equate to more dough, and in fact this is usually not the case. To illustrate this, eight out of my ten best nights in the industry were on a slow weeknight when just the right whale came in and was landed by just the right dancers. Poof! Money happened.


  Volume, in our little corner of the world, doesn't translate to bigger money. It just means we put up with more bullshit and vomit for less cash.




  We sold over 60 champagne rooms tonight. That's right, 60. Considering an average Saturday night is around 25-30, I'd feel justified saying that the owner is happier than a pedophile in a daycare center. So it leaves me wondering why the Manager, Sir Belligerent Enema Handmedown III was such a despicable fucking asshole tonight.


  "What did he do?" you ask. Well it will be my privilege and honor to tell you, dear reader.



   He was, generally, a giant chancre sporting dick. I can say that and know what I mean, but as outsiders to this shameful business, I will enumerate the worst of his offences and let you be the judge.



  1) This is my favorite. I was working the door which is my usual position after we stop running the shuttle bus. I am the largest Floor Creep, therefore I am the face that greets each and every drunk cunt that makes its way to the club after 2 am.


  So I'm sitting there doing my job when I see someone I used to work with but haven't seen for a couple of years come through our door. The cover charge at this point is $25 per person but I tell the door girl that I got this guest and the person they're with, that they're in for free. This is because I know this customer is going to spend a few bucks and getting them in for free is the least I can do.


  Well Sir Belligerent sees me do this and gets all shitty with the door girl as to why these two people were let in for free. She and I both tell him it's because I allowed it and that all responsibility falls on me. He starts raging about free entries, a measly $50 when we've had around 150 people pay that cover on top of a stellar night.


  Then he makes the poor door girl pay the $50 out her own pocket.


  She tells me this and I'm completely floored. Sir Belligerent regularly allows a flow of Euro Trash in for free because they speak the same heathen tongue as him. These arrogant cocksuckers never spend any money but stand around and harass the dancers to come home with them, or as they put it "Get in the sports car!" Or, "I fock ewe su goot, bay-beeee!"


  So for him to charge her, not me, for letting in two customers who actually had money and not turnips to spend, made my fucking blood boil. Of course I paid the door gal out of my wallet and not my tips and proceeded to get really fucking pissed about it.


  What a colossally penile move to pull. On a night where we're breaking income records even.



   So cunty....



  2) Then when the all the wasted assholes were gone, the last stripper had been shoved into her rolling kill box and all the math is taking place, we Floor Tripes pay the Barbacks to do our cleaning for us. It's a win-win-win and I'll tell you why.



  -We Floor Guys don't want to clean anything

  -The Barbacks love making extra money off us

  -They do a WAY better job of it than we do


  Therefore when the Floor Turds pay the peasant Barbacks to do their jobs for them, everyone should be happy, God knows that we are and they are for sure.


  But somehow His Excellency, Sir Belligerent Enema Handmedown III, wasn't happy with this unholy covenent. He got really dog scrotum about it and reamed us like recalcitrant slaves, spewing invective on our soft and lazy nature.*1 Screaming at us that's it's our job even though we are purposefully terrible at it.




  I mean seriously. Why the fuck would you care if:




A) The job's getting done better because Barback work ethic is 3 times that of the Floor Boreds.


B) You have two groups of employees that are happier with their jobs than otherwise would be, and


C) You achieved all this without costing the company a single red cent or yourself any effort whatsoever.




  It makes you fucking look good as a Manager for chrissakes. You killed 3 birds with one stone by doing nothing more than keeping your rotten, shitty temper to yourself. By doing and saying nothing you've made your workforce happier and your club cleaner for zero cost.






              What a fucking asshole.






  You'd think a man who just broke every earning record for the club would be in an indulgent mood, I know I would be. I would've bought every goddamn employee a round on the house and told them how proud I was to have a team like this that had stared rampant assholery in the face, punched it in its dick and taken its wallet.


  I would've been proud of my hiring decisions and started planning what I was going to do with the earning bonus that I was about to receive.*2



  But that's just me. I'm a silly old fashioned man mired in attitudes of the past obviously.



  I would've completely failed to stomp on the backs of my support system.






  The back of my shirt does not say 'Welcome',
-The StripperHerder







*1 You know, the guys whose hands had handled two thirds of the money that had just run through the club.

  Yeah, those guys. Because we sucked or something.





*2 I.e. What kind of new gun I was going to buy.

Waitresses Are Just Dancers In The Larval Stage. Or, The Top Ten Names I Would Call My Strip Club If I Owned One.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The Happiness Scale Is One Of The Toughest Climbs On The North American Continent, But I Have A Lot Of Sherpas. Or, Even A Grumpy Prick Has Good Days.

  Ya know, I have at least 3 drafts for installments that are anywhere from half finished to mostly finished*1 and I've been having a rough time lately trying to get them completed. Therefore I decided to go with an intermediate post dealing with some of the facets of my life which are by no means interesting or noteworthy, yet are all I have goddamnit.

  "Have you stopped drinking or something insane like that?" you ask. Hell no and damn you for a scallywag for even thinking it. If anything I'm drinking more frequently, but less heavily so I figure it all equals out in the end and my liver totally agrees and is even encouraging me.


 At this point in time, my liver and I are working towards a Triple Dog Dare and at that point one of us will win and the other will cry uncle.*2





  

  That being said, I consider myself to be, on a general sort of 1-to-10 Happiness Scale, at least a 7 leaning toward an 8. I'll bet many of my regular readers will be surprised to hear me state that. Many of you probably figured my curmudgeonly ass would never admit to anything over a 5, but as I've stated before I am a creature of simple means.

 
  I am dry when it's wet out, cool when it's hot. I am warm when it's cold out and have access to unlimited porn. I am left to my own devices when I'm not at work, there's beer and stuff and I have incredibly few demands on my time outside of my job.*3


  The freedom to do absolutely nothing is high on my list of Happiness criteria. Outside of a few limited situations, I'm not a social animal. I'm not quite a agora/xenophobe, but when given the choice I'd rather be far away from humanity in general rather than stuck in it's stinking loins 5 days a week.

 
  It's probably the effect of 20 something years in the service industry. These occupations breed misanthropes like a medieval whore bred crabs. Better people than me have been broken by this ruthless trade, it will truly make you hate mankind if you're a 'glass half empty' sorta person.


 It's not for the timid or weak. It is a Wrecking Coast for the soul.



 

  So beyond the freedom to be a lazy fucking piece of shit if I choose to be, there isn't much that I really desire.


  The only things I covet are a few acres of wooded land, a dog or three and not to have to worry about fucking money. I hate worrying about money. All these thing would be nice, but are not essential to my overall sense of well being.




  Don't get me wrong, it would be sweet to have a giant house, a classic Mopar in the garage and a shooting range in my backyard. It would be fucking fantastic to visit Ireland, Scotland and Scandinavia and get drunk there while trying not to embarrass America. But I don't need those things to be content with my life. They would be great icing on an otherwise acceptable cake but even without them I have things better than probably 70-80% of the population of Earth. And that ain't bad all things considered.

                                    When I need a 6 pack and a can of soup I take this.

                                  When I need Immodium or Rolaids, I take this.




  I am relieved to find that I don't desire a large house, sweet ass furniture, a 687' HD TV, a German sedan nor even basic amenities beyond indoor plumbing and air conditioning.*4. Hell, even indoor plumbing I can do without if I have to. It would mean risking some 'accidents' after a night of drinking as my body randomly ejects hot liquid remorse with little to no warning, but I could live with it. I could change my underwear.


 


  I suppose this installment is just my way of establishing the fact that the voice I usually write this blog in is, in fact, a facade colored by the minor frustrations and lack of fulfillment my occupation provides me. I actually do know people who love their jobs and couldn't picture doing anything else for a living and I remember a time when I counted myself among their number.

 

 But, as is frequently the case after the glow wears off, my job is just a job. My life is just a life and truth be told, I enjoy them both.


 
Happy Ruminations,
-The StripperHerder

 


 






*1 Meaning I only need to add in some horrible pictures with abrasive captions and a highly amusing sign-off. Possibly some editing.




*2 Or die. Either way both of us could claim victory depending on your point of view.




*3 I consider this to be essential to true happiness. Sometimes you just want to lay around in your underwear reeking of pizza as you watch an entire season of Vikings and then go to bed. Constraints upon my time that don't allow me this option impede my notion of happiness.



  And/Or I HATE having obligations outside of family and friends.



*4 Without air conditioning there is only chaos.