Get Off The Stage, Oprah. Or, Some Tips To Make You Look Less Like An Asshole. Or Even, They Stabbed It With Their Steely Knives But They Just Can't Kill The Beast.

         "She's eerily resistant to edged weapons, kinda like knifing a smoked ham.  Let's try the golf clubs."







  It's a testament to the delusions some women are bedeviled by that we have to suffer the occasional monstrosity on our stage. Mostly this is because of lawyers. You see, it's like the guy who sued Hooters because they wouldn't hire him because he was, you know, a dude. Totally hooterless and 100% wanged.


  Hooter's wants hootered and utterly unwanged hot chicks to be their servers, dudes need not apply. They can't come right on out and say this because of asshole lawyers and overly sensitive civil rights activists, but it's definitely implied.


  The same sort of parameters are forced on strip clubs as well, because if you deny a girl the chance to even audition, then any sort of attorney-spawned civil rights horseshit can rear its ugly head. You run the risk, however small, of a lawsuit every time you decline a dancer before even giving her an audition because no matter how you state it, it seems like you're saying something is wrong with her. Like she's too fat, or too skinny, or too ugly, or too black, or too fucking hideous to work there.


  Therefore a strip club manager is sometimes forced, against all reason and humanity, to let some sort of shambling leviathan wallow around piteously on the stage because it wanted to audition. Somewhere, deep in its wildly fantasizing psyche, it hallucinated that it was hot enough to pass for a stripper, yet it was wrong.

                                "No pole skills whatsoever. Unclean box. Do not hire..."


  



              Horribly, horribly wrong.






  To us seasoned Floor Veterans, it's kinda funny. We've stared butt ugly in the face so many times we're immune to the loathing and profound sense of discomfort these creatures spawn. The poor audience however, not having developed the plate mail-like apathy of jaded Floor Twats, cringe with an undefined feeling of hatred and revulsion and are not equipped to handle it responsibly.

                                 

                                          Armor Class 1/+18 vs. Loathsome Skanks





 Back in the old days of course, a manager could just strike a dramatic pose and scream 'Back ye unholy seed of Tartarus!' and throw some valium at it and it would go away. These days though, that doesn't cut it. Everyone gets a chance, everyone gets a trophy, everyone participates and is valued for their contribution.


  Even if their contribution was like a maggot sandwich dripping with elk jizz.

                "Sorry, we ran out of elk jizz so we put moose spuzz on it instead but it's not the same."





               Sucks to be us, people.








  

  So you want to appear less like a walking bag of rotting foreskins and more like a human being, eh?


  Well perhaps I can help you then. You see, I've lived and breathed service industry for the majority of my admittedly advanced years. I've seen all kinds of good people and many varieties of animated trash. The service industry lifers, like myself, are very attuned to assholery and what we call stinking, fucking liars. You can't get much past a seasoned bar staff veteran.




  We've heard it all.




  Therefore I am going to try to help some of you hopelessly dickheaded and idiotic gobshites by giving you some much needed advice. Try to take it to heart, I'm sure you're a sparkling example of humanity when you're sober but when you lurch into my club hammered, no matter how charming and amusing you perceive yourself to be, you're merely another dumb cunt.


  A worthless slurry of cunt with feet.


  So, in no particular order, here's some advice.



1) If you're trying to drop a name in an attempt to get into the club for free because you're too miserly or broke to pay the cover, then try to drop the right name. I had a guy tonight that asked if 'Tom' was working. I told him that no, Tom isn't working here tonight because he, in fact, works at a competitor club across town, not here.


  So not only did this guy and his group not get in for free, they got to look like total shitheads in the process.


  Get your facts straight. If you want something free from Apple, don't tell them your a good friend of Bill Gates.


  Fucking morons.

                             "Maybe you don't realize this, but I like know the owner.....John?"






2) Brush up on Strip Club 101. Industry standard for songs is between 2:30 to 3:00 minutes. It doesn't matter if the song is 15 minutes long, it ends at no more than 3 goddamn minutes. So requesting the live version of Free Bird will not get you a REALLY long dance, it will get you exactly the same length dance of any Rhianna song you care to name.

  And so by extrapolation, if you stay in the dance room with a stripper through 7 song changes, then it's safe to assume that you owe the bitch $175, not $25. Just because you didn't ask for 7 dances, doesn't mean you don't owe her the money anyways. Dancers don't do 'free' dances, trust me on this. It is your responsibility to either say 'no' when she asks if you want to keep going, or to stop her if she just keeps dancing for you into another song.


  This is a classic stripper scam called 'dance stacking' and although it is against the rules at every single strip club I've ever worked at, no one ever does anything about it. Some dancers rely on this to buy the crack and similac. They find some poor schmuck who's too drunk to make any rational decisions whatsoever, or some guy whose friends want to buy him a dance and then they proceed to dance for him for 30 minutes.


  Dude is usually happy as fuck until the girl says "OK, that'll be $200." Poor bastards and his poor friends.


  They'll pay. They always pay.

                                            "I am frightened. Have some currency."








3) If someone in the industry does you a favor, like getting your whole party into the club for free, tip that bastard. 


  Service industry people work for tips. A lot of us make under minimum wage because we earn said tips. Therefore if you want some sort of special favor, show your appreciation with a picture of a deceased President for fook's sake.


  Let me cite an example from tonight. I got a call from a group of people I used to work with from a different place to pick them up at a downtown restaurant and take them to the club. No problem I say and minutes later I'm picking them up and hauling their asses to the club.


  Yay! Titties!


 So I arrive at the club and then they're like, "Can you get us in for free too?"


 "Gosh yes!' I exclaim, it would be my special pleasure to get all of you bastards (who ALL make more money than I do) into the club for free for zero consideration whatsoever on your part. While I'm at it let's throw in a shot of Louis XIII for all of you and a couple of bottles of Dom, on me.


                                 "NO! DON'T TIP ME!"


  My $7.50 an hour is more than enough compensation for the ecstasy it gives me to be taken advantage of by some former co-workers. It is just slightly more awesome than being assraped with a tire iron.


  This is known as abusing our fucking friendship. It does not give me warm and fuzzy feelings towards them.






4) Bachelor parties. You suck, everyone knows you suck, you know you suck and yet still it is illegal to shoot you in the face or anywhere else for that matter. I don't get it.


  At it's best a bachelor is a mess with someone trying to steer it. At it's worst a bachelor is a loose confederation of completely wasted broke guys intent on destroying as many people's nights as they possibly can.


  Chaos with a bunch of legs.


  And for fuck's sake have some kind of communication. The most trying experience of any bachelor party's life will be trying to get everyone out of the club at the same time. It is virtually impossible in my experience and it doesn't matter if there were 3 guys or 30. It simply can't be done without frighteningly strong organizational skills. And even then it's like corralling squirrels; amazingly difficult and mostly unsuccessful.


  Let me cite you an another example from tonight. A group of 18-20 douches erupt from a giant, full size limo bus. Picture a Greyhound bus emblazoned with pictures of hammered dipshits and you get the idea. So these guys do their thing in the club*1 for about an hour and a half and realize they have just enough time for their bus to get them back to whatever hole they crawled out of before they get charged for extra time.


  So about 6 of them head outside toward the bus, clearly expecting the rest of the party to join them momentarily. This of course didn't happen. Therefore 2 guys went back in to try to flush the rest out. Over the next 10 minutes another 6 dudes stagger out of the club. They put their heads together and manage to count everyone and figure out they're still 8 short of a full bus.


  Then 3 more go back in to not only find the rest, but to locate 2 of the original 3 who went in initially to find the remainder of the herd. 15 more minutes go by and 5 more guys come out. So a half hour has gone by and they're still no closer to heading back home than they were when they first entered the club.


  Much thought is carried out by the side of the bus and it is decided 4 guys going back into the club to search for survivors is the solution. But they were wrong again.


  Now I'd like to take a moment to comment on the layout of our club. Despite what you're probably imagining right now, it is almost nothing like a Minoan Labyrinth. It does have more than one room, but that's where all similarity to a minotaur-haunted maze ends. Sometimes it can be hard to find a member of your party because he's in the back room smothered in stripper. But careful planning or a cleverly placed tip can find you anyone.



  So back to our doomed bachelor party. Let's recap: our heroes have been trying to leave the strip club for roughly 40 minutes and they still only managed to wrangle 12 out of 18 bros'. Here the saga gets a bit repetitive as the dumb fuckers keep sending in men to what amounts to the Bermuda Triangle for short attention span drunks and while slowly making progress, they are nevertheless handicapped by a clear lack of intelligent leadership.


  I absolutely shit you not when I say that it took this bachelor party 90 minutes to finally free all of their idiots from the gravity well of the strip club.



  It was sad, like watching kittens choke to death on fluffy toys.





5) This is more of a personal thing, but is obviously advice need by some people, mostly dudes.


  Do not, under any circumstances, feel it is OK to approach any other male (much less a bouncer who can hit you hard enough to maim 3 generations of your family shrub) and stroke his facial hair with a ball-massaging finger action and expect to beat off with that hand any time soon. This is a disturbing action and while I'm not particularly homophobic, I do have an aversion to being touched in a familiar way by people I don't know.


  So in short, sorry about that hand, dude. I'm sure there's no lasting damage although I bet it fucking hurts, doesn't it? I'm pretty sure you'll never even consider stroking another guy's facial hair like that again, will you? Therefore, a valuable lesson has been learned without permanent disfigurement.


  You should've tipped me for the wisdom imparted. It will save your hand and possibly your life one day.....

                        "Actually, in retrospect, there's probably going to be some lasting damage."







  Oh Yeah, We Fucking Well Stabbed It With Our Steely Knives, But There Was No Slaying This Embodiment Of Pure Bitch Evil, And That's A Fact, Squire.




  Some bitches can't be fired, it's a sad and entirely frustrating fact. Some dancers, no matter how many demons issue forth from their hoo-ha are apparently above justice and beyond the law.


  There is no rational explanation for this.*2 But it sucks. Just when I thought I had escaped the confines of a club where the strippers ruled the roost, I find that they, in fact, rule every roost. And only shotguns, flamethrowers and pitchforks will reclaim what they've usurped.

               A rare picture of a defeated Stripper without her makeup or animatronic exoskeleton.







 Meh. That's about all I feel like sharing today. Feck off noo.....




-The StripperHerder
                 


                   








*1 Their 'thing' being yelling "Titties" and spending no money.



*2 Other than blowjobs and surprise anal sex.

And God Said Let There Be Shit, And There Was, Just Like That. Or, Sell Me Some Military Equipment And I Will Eradicate Your Stripper Problem With A Minimum Of Fuss And Some Negligible Structural Damage.

  What a bunch of fucking bullshit...


  So here's the new reality at my club which is in essence the same reality I've been through at every other club I've worked at as well. The Floor Guys are basically the 'police' force of strip clubs, we do everything that doesn't require a manager passkey and yet somehow we're supposed to do more.

                        Club Desire's Floor Staff prepare for an especially ugly champagne room incursion.





  The latest conundrum is girls missing their stage calls, girls being late for their stage calls and sometimes girls flat out refusing to go on stage. The owner is pissed off about it and makes the managers' lives hell so they pass on the misery to us. Why aren't we making sure the dancers are on stage when they're supposed to be?


  Well, let's see.


  First off it's a goddamn Saturday night, which is basically barely controlled chaos at best. Everybody wants something and they want it now. Secondly the Floor Guy staff is spread pretty thin because we're already compensating for the dancers' total apathy about rules. What I mean by that is we have one guy's job it is on weekends to make sure the entertainers have pasties on at all times when they're on stage and that they're not flashing their hoo-ha's like a medieval rat-on-a-stick vendor.

               "Anally impaled rats! I have hot and tasty anally impaled rats here! Four pence a pair, mustard extra!"






 That's his whole job. He's not talking to customers, selling champagne, counting dances or finding out if anyone needs anything. He's making the club absolutely zero dollars because his entire night is 100% dedicated to making sure some daffy bitches don't get us shut down if vice shows up.


  While you read this, keep in mind that a lot of dancers are idiots.*1 They walk around in a semi coherent daze, high as fuck on something, daydreaming about penis or cocaine or shoes or whatever it is that occupies an idiots limited processing power.


  Other girls are merely manipulative, calculating cunts who know what the rules are and simply don't give a shit. They know how to work the system and any sort of collateral damage is just the price of doing business.

                                        "My bib is made from the flesh of an inferior male."







  In addition to this we have the guy counting dances who is chained to his location. We have the guy running around on the bus transporting groups of drunk dudes yelling "TITTIES!" to and from the club. We have a guy stuck at the door because the Door Girls are fuck-all useless at dealing with over intoxicated or problem customers and everyone else is usually running around like methed up terriers trying to manage the VIP rooms, bottle service, bachelor shows and deal with the usual problems that drunk people create; such as fights, vomit and assholes who don't want to pay for dances.


  

  We're pretty fucking busy is what I'm trying to convey.



  So what we really don't have time to do is hunt down dancers who are supposed to be on one stage or another because they can't be bothered to do it on their own. The DJ, who's voice is like a annoying deity within the confines of the club, warns them on 2 consecutive songs AND announces them when they're supposed to be on stage. It doesn't get any easier, folks. The only requirements for successfully making your stage calls are not to be deaf and the ability to physically find and climb onto a stage.


  That's literally it.



  Stripping, while it contains many hidden traps, is NOT a difficult occupation. It makes very few demands of a girl outside of her physical appearance.*2 Some basic math skills, say at a 3rd or 4th grade level will suffice. It's also nice to be able to read, but ultimately not really necessary at all. A lack of dignity, counterbalanced by an over inflated ego is not mandatory, but helps. The ability to walk, not lurch, in heels can be useful as well.


  So for us Floor Grubs to be chewed out for the dancers' inability to make it to stage on time is motherfucking unreasonable. Every other club I've worked at just


  
  Fined a bitch.


  And soon they learned. Provided the fines were enforced, that is. But here all a dancer has to do is moan and bitch and if that fails, turn on the waterworks. Strippers can cry on cue you know, and many men can't handle girlweep. I'm one of them. I see a stripper crying I head the other way, like she's got ebola or face crabs. I'm just not going to deal with it because they cry so often I'm tired of it.


  All the snuffling and the leaking and the drooling.....


  Therefore there's really no punishment for them not doing their goddamn job and now I'm getting reamed for not making sure they do their jobs. When in reality it's the managers' responsibility to fine a lazy bitch, money being the only thing strippers care enough about to actually influence their decision making. But the managers are terrified of fining a ho because they're worried she will just jump ship to one of the neighboring strip clubs, possibly taking some of her cartel with her. And they're scared of firing dancers because of the wrath of the owner who wants all the benefits of a sociopathic, alcohol-fueled cash machine working for him without having to deal with any of the consequences. That's what he pays managers for.




 Its a giant circle jerk and the Floor Guys are the ones who end up eating the cracker. It's aggravating.*3



  At any other job you care to name, even Taco Bell, if you refuse to do your job there are repercussions. At the Bell if you say to your boss, "I'm not making that Meximelt, motherfucker." then you get fired, plain and simple. If you work at a restaurant and you decide you're not going to wait on the table of Asians that's in your designated area because you think they're not going to tip, then you'll probably get fired too.


  But stripping as an occupation encourages a total disregard for authority and this is mostly attributable to the owners. You see, owners want to have as many dancers as they can possibly get, even if the club can't sustain that many girls. They also want these dancers to be somehow hotter than all the other dancers at all the other clubs in the area. They don't really want problem strippers at the club, but in reality, problem strippers usually make a lot of money for the club and therefore are a protected species. Like orcas.





  It's a catch-22. A self perpetuating cycle of tawdriness that consumes itself like decadent Rome, falling victim to it's own self obsession as it's influence over others grows. A tor of hubris that promises a fall that may not be so frightening in and of itself compared to the abrupt stop forthcoming...


  Like a full bowel sewn end to end, it's a never ending poop loop. And we're all along for the ride in exchange for cool cars, alcohol, some cash and the occasional blowjob.


  Gods help us all.











*1 Pretty sure I've covered this thoroughly. For further details read virtually any post in this entire blog.




*2 And even that is pretty fucking flexible depending on club and shift. Most of our day shift girls could scare the paint off a tractor.



*3 And by 'aggravating' I mean fucky-fuck-cuntshit-whoreblast-shitty-ass-fuckity-fuck-scrotum-punch-dickhole rape aggravating. I just didn't want to type that in the body of this installment because I felt it lacked class.