Unhappy Strippers And Wounded Mules: The Startling Similarities. Or, Let Me Fix You A Nice Hot Cup Of Shit Your Bitch Mouth Up.

  Stripperherding isn't for everyone. It's a job that requires almost godlike patience, an iron stomach and the ability to ignore things like morals, right and wrong and dignity. That being said you can make a decent living if you're willing and able to relenquish all hope of feeling good about your occupation and just grab cash.

  See, strippers don't think like the rest of us, they have a celebrity mentality. Men fawn over them and hand over their money and tell them how hot they are all the time. Many of them have never had to work a real job where you're not allowed to drink, smoke pot and snort coke on the job and get paid a lot to do it. In fact if it weren't for strip clubs, most of these girls would die at an early age hustling on the streets because they are incapable of handling a real job or managing their money.

  So when things don't go their way, some of them bray like a mule that took a spear in its flank. Loudly and without concern for anyone around them. They are not happy and as a consequence they will do their best to make sure no one within earshot of them is happy either. Unless listening to a bitch in a thong loudly complaining about making more money than she deserves is something you enjoy that is.

  Let me enlighten you as to what brought this to the forefront of my thoughts...


  The other night I was just doing the usual for a slow night; envisioning creative ways to kill myself in an effort to make time go faster and avoiding wandering strippers for fear they might try to converse with me. Suddenly a dude comes in who has money and everything changes.

  To spare you the onerous details, this guy goes into a champagne room with his driver and two of our dancers for an hour. This sets him back about a grand and he orders an insanely overpriced bottle of fizzshit*1 on top of that so he's in for roughly $1700 at this point.

  Well not 10 minutes go by and he steps out of the room and motions me over. I head over and ask him what he needs. He asks if he can swap out one of the dancers for a dirtier one.*2 I tell him no problem but I can't transfer the money from one skank to another, nor can I refund the money. If he wants a new dancer in the room he has to pony up the dough for that new broad.

  Whatever, he says, he did after all have a black card and could certainly afford any number of bitches he chose to pay for.

  So I pull the rejected stripper aside and tell her that the customer wants her out, but on the plus side she just made $300 for less than 10 minutes of her time and to count this as a victory, not a setback.






  Ahem, she didn't see it that way. That's putting it mildly. Insert wounded mules sound track here...

      Fast forward to the 40 sec mark to see a great analogy of the stripper complaining to me. Notice around 47                                                  seconds when I momentarily contemplate smacking the bitch but decide not to.





  She keeps complaining for the rest of the evening and I couldn't help wondering why. I would certainly like to make $300 for 10 minutes of my time, what's the big deal? Well it turns out that this guy was telling everyone he was going to spend $6000 that night and she thought he was telling the truth and ergo, she was going to miss out on it.

  Hahaha, I laughed. In my entire 15 years in the titty business, only one guy I can remember ever spent what he said he was going to spend at the club. With that one exception in mind I can tell you that if someone says they're going to spend x amount of dollars in the club they are, in fact, lying. It never happens. Indeed it is a signal that they are not really going to spend money at all, but merely waste everyone's time and that they are, realistically, worth less than a bucket of monkey spunk.


  And I was right of course. The guy ended up getting another 15 minute room with the girls and in actuality spent another $400, not $6000.

  



  I hate being right all the time.




  This didn't stop the mule from crying. She squealed out her anger continuously for the next 45 minutes and then thankfully went to the dressing room to sulk and count her money. And to anyone who may think I'm being unfair here, this particular stripper wasn't exactly broke. She'd already done 4 rooms that night and had a bit over $600 in her garter for her efforts.

  So, you know, fuck her and stuff.





  Another high point of my night was Catastrophe, an admittedly hot stripper who just happened to be really drunk. Shocking, I know. She was so drunk she actually admitted she was drunk, which is pretty fucking drunk.

  Anyway the other Floor Schlep had marked down her house fees incorrectly and she let me know in no uncertain terms that it was wrong. No problem, I fixed it. Other than that she had done 3 dances that night and had only paid for 2 of them so far. So her adjusted pay out at the end of the night was $35, not $55.


  

  Reinsert braying soundtrack here.




  It went something like this:




  Her: "I paid for all my dances already, why are you guys always trying to fuck me over?"

  Me: "We're not. We rely on you dancers for tips so why would we try to over charge you for dances and fuck up our chances of getting some money from you?"

  Her: "I told you I paid for all my dances, quit being an asshole."

  Me: "Is it possible that since you're drunk and I'm sober that maybe I'm right about counting to three and you're not?"

  Her: "I tip you guys good when I make money and you're always trying to fuck me over."

  Me: "I assure you that you're mistaken and to prove it and get you the fuck out of my face before I have to do something debilitating, I'm going to pay for your dance out of my own pocket."

  Her: "No, fuck that. How much do I owe you?"

  Me: "$35."

  Her: "I told you my house fee was marked down wrong, what do I really owe you?"

  Me: "Yes, it was. And I told you that I have fixed that already so your House Fee PLUS the dance you haven't paid for comes to $35, not $55."

  Her: "But I paid for that dance. I think I would know if I paid for my dances or not, quit charging me for shit I already paid for."*3

  Me: "Fuck it. Here's $10. I'll pay for your 3rd dance out of my money. Don't worry about it, no big deal."




  Replay this conversation about 3 more times and end with her giving me $17 which she thought covered her fees.

  Now picture this nearly every night with a variety of hammered dancers and now you know what the end of the night is like in my industry.


  Dancers are like wasted, bipedal carp. Useless.




Carp on Diem,
-The StripperHerder











*1 Otherwise known as Dom Perignon



*2 He didn't actually say this, but us Floor Mammals are adept at reading between the lines.



*3 I have removed the slurring from this dialogue to make it more comprehensible to the average reader.

  

A Triumverate of Twattarts*. Or Why You Should Pay Up And Walk Away When A Stripper Rips You Off.

*Twat-Tarts. Pronounced twa-dirts. An Old English term for a bandyhoople.








  I really tried to make some sort of clever post here. I had the best of intentions going into it. Honest, I really did.


  But then I started getting drunk, my subject matter got totally kerfuckled, and next thing you know I'm set adrift on a sea of inability to write about something I know very little about. It became a conundrum.

  The subject I had intended to tackle was Strippernomics, possibly featuring a flow chart.


  All this became unobtainable when I realized by doing a bit of poking on the subject of 'economic principles', that all the rules that I memorized from my 7th grade economics class applied to macroeconomics. You know, the big, overall rules; supply and demand and all that.

  The stuff that came up on my web search baffled and frightened me out of trying to do a 'Strippernomics' post. It seemed like real research might rear it's ugly head and I can't condone that, not in this blog.





  So at that point I drank a little bit more vodka and decided to just post mean shit about random strippers that I don't like and it goes something like this.





  Triumph, the ironically named stripper who isn't good at stripping but is awesome at ripping customers off.



  I was having a smoke outside the club when I see this dumb stripper who works here pull into our parking lot and take up the exact middle of two parking spaces with her shitty twatwagon. I waited until she got out of her car and said "Are you really going to park like that? Directly in the middle of two spaces?"

  She got out of her car and went around to the passenger side to see where she had parked in relation to that car. She made a noise like "Meh-eh!" and threw her purse into her car, fired it up and slammed it into reverse and with a mere 68 gear changes and corrections, finally got it into a single parking space.

  I was proud of her and said so, yet she stormed by me claiming I made her 5 minutes late and that she was glad I was happy about it.

  Well shucks, bitch. I nubs you too.



  Fortunately for me, when she got into the club and decided it wasn't busy enough for her to work, she came back out and we had the following conversation:



Dancer: "You're a fucking asshole."


Me: "What about our children?"


Dancer: "You're always an asshole to me. Why? What the fuck did I do to you?"


Me: "You never tip, you have a shitty attitude and you constantly rip off customers forcing me to have to shake them down for money. You're a smelty cunt."


Dancer: "Fuck you, insert my name here. Go suck a cock!"


Me: "I would never deprive you of a post work spuzz-gobble, my dear, I have too much respect for you. Do you kiss your daughter with that jizz breath or do you gargle some Scope first?*1

                                                            Sunrise, another ironically named Stripper.




  And then there was Protrudia


 This girl is just plain gross. She really is, I'm not just being mean. She is visibly unattractive.

  That being said I was talking to another Floor Grunt when I happened to glance in the direction of the stage and it wasn't good timing. Protrudia is laying on her back on the stage with her legs way in the air and it appeared she was smuggling a shar pei puppy in her thong there's so many wrinkles and folds all gnarled up and relishing the open air.

                        If this is what it looks like under your thong, please get a bigger thong.




  Hatchet nose, suborbital ridge like a fucking Klingon and great brown capped udders wallowing about shamelessly. It was a fucking horror show.

  I turned to my Floor Orc companion and said "I 100% honestly wouldn't fuck her if she was the last girl on earth. I'd rather microwave a cantaloupe."

  He said "At least you'd get more flavor out of a cantaloupe."*3


  "Flavor?" I said. "Licking any part of that bitches body would be only marginally better than tongue-cleaning the hot tub in the Detroit Lions locker room. I would rather lick the floor of a Free Clinic."


  I wasn't lying, she's that gross. Lucky for her the only reason she needs to come into the club is to line up johns for her one girl prostitution ring.





  And how about Quim, the world's 3rd angriest lesbian/alcoholic/professional slattern. Quim is ugly, tattooed like a Maori pirate and apparently comes in to work for the sole reason to fight with her girlfriend in someplace besides their apartment. I'm not sure what she does for a living because it certainly isn't stripping, she's too busy running back and forth between the bar and the smoking patio.

  It takes a lot of work being a lazy barfly. I would hazard to guess that on the majority of nights she actually loses money by coming into "work". I know she's not a whore, at least not for men which leads me to believe that she sells drugs to the other dancers or pimps out her tiny, meek girlfriend and then beats her for being a whore.

  If your 'official' weekly income look something like this:

Monday: 6 hours worked, -$38.00 earned

Tuesday: 5 1/2 hours worked, $27 earned

Wednesday: 8 hours worked, -$41 earned

Thursday: 5 hours worked, $60 earned

Friday: 3 hours worked (sent home after fighting with girlfriend) -$35 earned

Saturday: 12 hours worked, $81 earned

Sunday: 6 Hours worked, -$114 earned



  Then something doesn't add up. Maybe she doesn't count handjobs as 'sex with men'.

  I don't know. Fuck her.

                                    "I'm an insane, pussy-craving drunk. You like my girlfriend?"

                         








  Natasha, the junkie Russian rip off artist.


  I thought I had left all this sort of dancer scam bullshit behind at the last club I worked at, but alas it isn't so. Natasha the hot russian junkie is a habitual dance scammer. Heroin doesn't pay for itself, people.

  She takes the total for how many dances she did for a customer and tacks on 2-5 additional dances she didn't actually do and then adds in a tip on top of it. So she'll come out of the dance rooms after 9 minutes and somehow the poor bastard owes her $180 instead of $75.

  It's astounding how many times she pulls this off without the guy arguing. If it was me I'd tell her "You are mistaken, bitch." and give her what I owed her. This is because I'm not stupid enough to fall for her bullshit. If I go back for private dances, I will most certainly count the goddamn dances and I will abso-fucking-lutely not tip her, she already makes $20 for 3 minutes.

  I don't make $20 for 3 minutes and never have.




  Here's a tip for those of you who are stupid, cheap or bent on getting something for nothing:




  As security (at least in this state) we can't put our hands on you without provocation, or so reads the letter of the law. In reality the spirit of the law is a little less clear, as in most of the time bouncers can drag you out of the club after they've informed you that you need to go and as long as you're not injured or killed in the process, the law generally falls on our side.*4

  But the fact is we can't physically restrain you from leaving the club if a dance tab is in dispute and you're not being aggressive or assaulty. We can't put our hands on you, period.

  Yet we do and we get away with it.



  Ha-ha.



  I'm not sure what the advice is except to try to get your fucking ass kicked by a club's security and then sue them for big cash, being reasonably assured that the club will settle out of court for a handsome sum and that you can then spend it on strippers and blow.*5




  Hey, It's Future Me just popping in on a last ditch effort at editing long after I'd written most of the above stuff. You can tell by how the cohesion of the post steadily deteriorates that I was hammering back beers as I wrote it. I am also hammering back beers here in the Future, which is now the Present.

  The actual advice I was going to give to anyone who's been ripped off by a dancer is to just walk out of the club, using peaceful but insistent resistance. Yet this is bullshit and a testament to my impairment at the time of writing.

  You see, it simply never works out for the guy who's been ripped off by a dancer, at least in my experience. There have been recorded cases, yes, but they are so far few and between that you're more likely to photograph a chupacabra that you are to escape a dancer scam.

  The advice is Just Pay Up and chalk it up as a learning experience. And here's why:



  You never win. 



  That's it. That's the explanation. Think about it, you are

  1) On camera, but are only going to be allowed access to the footage by nothing short of a court order or by the direct intervention of an angry Pagan God, therefore the club holds all the cards.

  
  2) You've probably consumed alcohol which negatively affects your credibility. The ironic part of this is that the stripper who's ripped you off is probably way more hammered than you, but since it's part of their job description, it's seldom taken into account.


 3) We know the cops that are going to respond if you want to call the police, which is your right. Most of them hang out here and a few of them work part time for us on the weekend, so good luck with that. When you're being a drunk douchebag it is absolutely amazing how many things you can be arrested for. 




  Furthermore, if you've fallen for this sort of horseshit more than once, then you're a desperately stupid motherfucker. Get a life man. It's only a matter of time until you're lured into a robbery in which you may or may not get shot to death.







-Der StrypenHierden











*! I didn't actually say this. What kind of monster do you think I am? What I really said was "You first, bitch."*2   







        *2 Pretty fucking weak, I know. It was like kicking a puppy.



*3 I really have no idea why he thought anyone would get more flavor out of a gourd fruit they were fucking than a barrel shaped ghetto ho with as much class as a Taliban girls school. He's sorta slowish.



*4 This is because our corporate legal team is like the offspring of Godzilla and an aircraft carrier: hungry, giant, savage and very organized.



*5 I am drunk and although I'm not proud of the fact, I thought I'd mention it and by inference hope you grasp how hard it is to type this and how many times I had to edit it just to produce this.

A Floor Guy Pogrom. Or, The Gordon Stanton-Herbert Feral Stripper Refuge.

 The Manager's have been on a program of Floor Beast humiliation and debasement lately. They are coming to realize that the Floor Beast's are critical to the club's success, much more than they are, and therefore we wield altogether too much power for their liking.

  So to reestablish their dominance they have begun a systemic plan of irritating, needless bullshit flung randomly at us from the safety of their office, like monkeys pelting hyenas with feces from their sanctuaries in the treetops. Suddenly the mediocre job we've always done of cleaning the club or acting gracious, is in question. As a result we now face petty retributions from The MisManagement.

  Things like:

 -No drinking after work because someone is stealing liquor that no self-respecting Floor Guy would ever drink. (Floor Guys are an excellent revenue stream for the club since we barely get a discount over the average sucker that walks through our door but will slam drinks after work anyway.)

 -We used to give you your checks on Wednesday, even though technically Friday is payday. Now you can wait til Friday like the goddamn peasant you are. The good times are over, serf, hand over the fooking potatos and no one gets fired.

-Who's the Late Guy?



   At this point I'm going to stop and explain the concept of 'The Late Guy' for those of you who are unfamiliar with the term.


  The 'Late Guy' is the unarmed, not-interested-in-dying-for-the-club-owner's-money Floor Guy who happened to be scheduled the latest and doesn't have an awesome excuse why he has to leave right away. The Late Guy is required to stay at the club until the Manager has finished the paperwork and is supposed to stay with said Manager for either moral support (which is useless in a gunfight) or possibly to protect against ghosts.

  Let's be clear, the Late Guy is unarmed. The club's insurance is basically null and void if one of it's employees uses a gun in the club for any reason, so we don't. Therefore if someone were to gain entrance to the club after hours with the intention of robbing it, what the hell is The Late Guy supposed to do? The way I see it his choices are fairly limited:


  -He can state quite clearly that he has no intention of taking a bullet in the face for the fucking Owner and lead the criminal to the Manager's office and proceed to talk the equally unarmed Manager into just coughing up the dough in exchange for the consideration of not being shot in the face.


  -He can run and hide using his intimate knowledge of the building to escape the robbers or hole up in a defensible room, thus avoiding getting shot in the face for the owner's money.


 -He could try to defeat an armed opponent or opponents using only his razor sharp brain and ridiculously fast reflexes coupled with an unconscious and expendable stripper as a shield.


 -He can use very bad language and let the robber(s) know in no uncertain terms that they were very bad people and should be ashamed of themselves.


 -He can take no such actions whatsoever and still get shot in the face by criminals not smart enough to wear masks, or those bearing a grudge from a past situation. Happens all the time but isn't newsworthy because Floor Guys are scum too.



  -You can have your credit card tips when you can pry them from my cold, dead fingers..

  Normally the manager will hand over the credit card tips to the Floor Hosts when he has finished counting the VIP drawer. However, a manager on a petty vendetta warpath can choose to withhold those tips until he has finished doing all the paperwork and is ready to close the club up for the night. This usually takes around 45 minutes to an hour and a half.

  This means that if they want their money, all the Floor Trolls are stuck waiting for the boss, not just the Late Guy. It's a sort of unit torture, like making all the men in the platoon do pushups because one guy had a jelly donut in his footlocker.

  Suck a box of baboon cocks, management.


-Here is a tiny brush used to clean the nits from a wild stripper's pelt, go use it to clean the grout in the women's bathroom.


  It's the chain gang equivalent of digging a ditch and then filling in back in. A bored or vindictive Manager can find no end of degradation to subject unsuspecting Floor Thogs to.*1 


  Soon they may taste the fruits or their scorn and the Floor Thog nation shall rise again.









  



  PLEASE GIVE GENEROUSLY TO THE GORDON STANTON-HERBERT FERAL STRIPPER REFUGE.




 




  Let's face it industry people, stripper's who don't retire, die or become so nasty they can't find employment anywhere often end up going feral at the end of their careers. In many clubs this leads to them being unethically released back into the wild where they wreak havoc on the the ecosystem. This cycle has created an imbalance in the ecosystem as feral strippers destroy the traditional hunter-prey relationships found throughout North America. Packs of wild strippers have been documented eating beavers and trying to mate with deer before they drag them down and devour them hooves and all.

  It's like unleashing giant werewolves made of razor blades into a Disney forest, suddenly the singing stops, Nicki Minaq cuts in and cute cartoon shit starts dying horribly with lots of squirting blood and screaming.


  The Gordon Stanton-Herbert Feral Stripper Refuge give clubs a place to send their aged, defeated strippers to where they can live their declining years in a safe controlled environment, as God intended. The Refuge is a no-kill freeform habitat where expired dancers can roam freely in the simulated natural world of the domestic stripper*2, such as a trailer park, a 4 acre Truckstop and two strip malls.

  The resident strippers enjoy such social activities as the Vodka Pool, Slow Moving Old Man Tourist Trolley, Truckdriver Head and they coexist in a 100% Rhianna saturated environment, which seems to calm them.

  It's a worthwhile cause but it doesn't come cheap. The Patron budget alone is like that of a small African nation's GDP, but we do grow our own limes. We're all green and shit because of all the dope we have to grow for the strippers.

  Just give them weed and something with vampires in it and they remain docile. Your dollars provide that, give accordingly.





  Yup.




-The StripperHerder












*1 Thog was the name of the first StripperHerder, as alluded to in the bible somewhere in the back. It is used as an anonymous name for a StripperHerder, as in "If you don't give me my money, I'll call a Floor-Thog".




*2 Lat: Titticus Localus