Happy St. Patty's day everyone!
No, I really mean it. Go out and get raging drunk and spend all your money then come to the strip club to wind down your night by sharing a beer with your five friends and staring at a wonderful array of tits and ass that you have no intention or ability to tip or buy dances from. Bet your friends that you can get dances from a girl and not have to pay for them, or that you can sit at the tip rail all night and not have to spend a single dollar.
It's what St Patrick*1 would have wanted you to do. It's traditional...
Thankfully I'm not scheduled on the actual date of Paddy's Revenge, I have been mercifully excluded from joining in on that scrum and have thanked several Gods for it just to be on the safe side. Perhaps management sensed I was one rude-twat-in-a-plastic-bowler hat away from going all troll-rage on some poor schmuck and decided to keep me home tonight, I don't know. I'm just happier than a yeti in an avalanche NOT to have to be there.
Sadly though, I will miss all the clever and inspirational shirts the herd members will be sporting, such as "Blow Me, I'm Irish." and "Bushmills, Making Atrocities Seem Reasonable Since 1608." I simply don't know how I'll get through the night.
So with that out of the way, let's watch this brief educational video about strippers and then I'll talk about some other shit that's been on my mind lately. It's gonna be great or something.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jG3BDLoJOUY
A Strip Club Manager Knocked Me Up And Now It Turns Out He's A Piece Of Shit.
Astounding.
I for one can't believe a man who makes his living in a skeevy industry, has access to lots of free poon and who looks like an extra from Jersey Shore would end up being a complete degenerate scumbag.
Mind fucking blown.
All this came about this weekend when Libraria, a dancer I used to work with at Satan's Nipple Chasm came to my club as a customer and seemed excited to see me for reasons still unclear. It's not like I let her in for free or anything, she wasn't a very good tipper as I recall.
But we get to talking and she informs me that she did indeed graduate from college and is no longer working as a dancer. She is one of the few to do this right and not relapse back into the lifestyle of easy money and paid alcoholism. I was proud of her, delighted that occasionally something good comes out of this shitty industry. I immediately began to plot how I could cite her as an example in this very blog to make myself feel better about working in it.
But then she had to fuck it all up. She went on to explain that she now has a kid. I've noticed a lot of girls seem to want to get this bit of information out there as soon as possible when catching up with someone in the event that person might actually give a fuck, which obviously, I didn't. I made some 'aww' noises just to be polite which she chose to interpret as 'please show me pictures of your offspring immediately' and starts digging around in her purse for her phone.
Luckily for me she had left it in the car. While I was breathing a mental sigh of relief she enthusiastically offered to go out to the car and get it, "No!" I exclaimed, "All babies look alike to me!", narrowly avoiding a protracted viewing of her baby's stupid face. "He's the cutest baby ever isn't he Mathilda?"
Mathilda was her squat, unappealing semi-goth friend. "Yes" Mathilda confirmed with uncharacteristic lifefulness*2, "He is the cutest baby ever!"
Funny how everyone thinks their weird looking little wrinkled gremlin thing is cuter than everyone else's weird looking little wrinkled gremlin thing. Biology is fascinating. I might claim to be the world's tallest man or have some of my friends state it, but that doesn't necessarily make it so now does it?
The mere fact that she had reproduced wasn't what had me rethinking my image of her as a success story from our sordid occupations, it was when she told me who the father was. Then all hope was lost. Intelligent girl who happened to be extremely good looking as well, who'd actually threaded the minefield of the strip club ecosystem to become something more than a stripper.
Better. Stronger. Faster than a stripper. With a career that provides health insurance, room for advancement and a work environment where the bathroom isn't haunted by cocaine, vomit and the shattered dreams of a big hipped,tractor driving girl who died there.
And then, after achieving all this and defying all the odds and obstacles, she had this brilliant thought:
"Hey, that new Manager is, like, all hot and stuff. He looks like 'The Situation' from like, Jersey Shore! I'll bet a guy like him who's in his early 40's and works out a lot and uses as much hair gel as he does while he manages strip clubs across the country is the kind of guy I could rely on to be with me forever if I were to get pregnant after I let him fuck me on a dirty toilet."
And here's the shocking part, dear readers, I hope you're prepared for the worst, because...
It turns out 'Tony', the slick, smooth talking short term manager of many a strip club from Nevada to New Jersey is, in fact, a complete piece of shit. He says he wants to be part of the offspring's life but never shows up when he says he's going to. He contributes nothing to the child's welfare, not even child support.
I looked at her sympathetically and made cooing sounds again, just for the look of the thing. What I was actually thinking to myself at the time was:
"You made it through the crucible of stripping to pay for your education. You earned a degree without becoming an alcoholic or deciding to suck five cocks at a time for an eight ball of coke. You found employment in your field almost instantly due to your good looks and strong people skills.
Yet you still found time somewhere in all that to let what is essentially a stranger jizz unprotected into your lady garden at least once and probably more than that and leave you with a baby you'll raise alone because you're merely book smart and were unable to recognize even the most pungent of bullshit wafting off a complete dickhole."
Sigh. Stripperherding will ruin your faith in humanity. Smart enough to finish college while stripping at nights and then start a career, dumb enough not to use birth control with a scumbag.
This is as good a point as any to segue into my next topic, The Tip Rail. For the uninitiated among you, the tip rail refers to the seating that is peripheral to any stage in a strip club. It's where you stand or sit to give the bitch on stage a dollar.
Contrary to popular belief however, it is not mandatory to tip the dancers if you're sitting there. It's kinda dickish not to, but no where in the 'rules' of the club does it state you must tip. I sort of liken it to standing in a fast food line for a couple hours without ordering anything, you're just there to observe other people order food and watch all the activity it creates. Albeit most fast food places I've been at don't have tits bouncing around to a Rihanna song. Which is sad, really.
So I still get dancers coming up to me and saying "That guy's not tipping at the stage. I thought when they sat at the stage they have to tip." It's a fun part of my job explaining things to strippers. It make me feel like I'm mentoring some particularly clever chinchillas.
A related subject to the tip rail is a creature that frequently inhabits it, The Baiter. The standard North American Breast Baiter will head to the bar immediately after entering a club and get a hundred singles from the bartender which he will place upon the tip rail or table he sits at. From that point on he will do nothing with it. That stack of cash might as well be a salt lick conveniently placed by a nearby tree stand during deer season. It will serve no further purpose on this night save to attract dancers like a nice picnic draws ants.
A Baiter just likes to have dancers around him but doesn't enjoy spending his hard earned money on them. He is a sedentary hunter not unlike a pitcher plant or a venus fly trap, letting the irresistible lure of a stack of cash draw his prey to him.
I was originally going to do more with this, but since I'd like to finally publish a holiday edition of the 'Herder on the actual date of the holiday, I'm stopping here. Tune in next time as I confront our society's obsession with footware and the gross-ass part of our anatomy they cover, as well as some various other shite that no one will care very much about either.
Slainte,
-The StripperHerder
*1 Who wasn't even Irish. Look it up.
*2 Lifefulness: an noun solely attributed to morose goth and emo cunts when they unexpectedly go out of character and show some sort of enthusiasm about anything.
