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

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


   Not good math in other words.


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


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


  This is also not good math.


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



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


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


  Then maybe Boris not so patient, comrade. Da?


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




  Once is quite enough, hvala.*4




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


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


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


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











Strippers beget strippers.




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





  Just not tonight.





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


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



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




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



-The StripperHerder














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





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





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


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





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






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



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

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

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


  Dear Sir,


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

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

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

  I guessed at some stuff.


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


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


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

  But you didn't.


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


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


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


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


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

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

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

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


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




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


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


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





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



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

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

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


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


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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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


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



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

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




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

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

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







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

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

  Like a majestic yet ungainly elk.

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

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





Have a great repurposed pagan holiday,
-The StripperHerder












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






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


  
  "Endeavor not to let this happen." 


And

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




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

Still, would've amused me.




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

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

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


 

                                      Foolish Human, your controller is useless against us






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


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


  Fucking weird, huh?



  So let's jump in, shall we?




                           
                              Pop Culture
                                                 



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


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


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


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


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


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




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


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


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

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

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


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


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


 

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






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


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


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





  

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











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


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


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


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


  They fucking suck.


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


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



  

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







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

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




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

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


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


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


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


B) An NBA player


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

  


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


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


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


  My favorites are:


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

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





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

                                               "Shit. What was his name again?"






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

  

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

                                








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


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


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


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

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



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

  





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

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





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


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


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


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


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



 


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


  

 Safety first.





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


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


  Warms me bollocks at night.




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

                                               










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






*2 But who cares about that?






*3 Enya has zero street cred.