Tonight I stood under a gentle but persistent rain of bitchnanigans all night long. It started early and never let up, even after we'd closed and were just desperately waiting for the manager to finish the paperwork and give us our goddamn money and freedom. It hovered over me like a squall of raucous, pill-crazed little koalas; immersed in marsupial intrigues and marinated in clear liquors.
Leaping and shrieking. Expelling feces.
Seriously, from beginning to end my night was multiply molested by a malcontent menagerie of misguided, moony-ass Marias'.*1 As if someone had fired a twattergun*2, loaded with apathy, nails and enough drugs to slay a college football team, in my general direction.
It fucking winged me.
It got through The Vest.
I remember me Da telling me that when shit got super-fooky
he'd pull out his Twattergun and turn everything in front of him into sloppy joes.
"And yea though I walk through the valley of a dancer's inexcusable five day bush, I shall fear no stubble."
This passage is from the Bible. From somewhere towards the back. I can't remember exactly where right at the moment and my copy of the Bible has had the index torn out so I can't just look it up.
What made me think of this is when I walked into the strippers' locker room last week to cleanse it of its various evils and got ambushed by a bushwhackin ghetto-wannabe/tit-dragger named Misery. Misery was just standing there, panties around her ankles, arguing with some other drunk dancer about salad dressing or some such nonsense while her Aunt Yeti openly haunted her crevasse; startling the shit out of me.
I hadn't seen a woolly clammoth up close for almost two decades and had just assumed it was extinct, so it's sudden and unabashed appearance caught me off guard. But she was of Italian stock so I eventually just convinced myself this was a five o'clock shadow, nothing out of the ordinary.
She reinforced this theory by not batting an eyelash when a small baby bird dropped from her pubic nest and died quietly by her feet.
It was primordial, hosting a primitive ecosystem that was harsh and unforgiving to its inhabitants. Like Siberia mixed with a Tennessee truck stop; there was gonna be sodomy and coleslaw, but not necessarily in that order.
Misery, the sexual missing link, is what I refer to as a problem dancer.
I can think of no rational explanation why she should still be inhabiting the nooks
and passageways of our club, but here she is day after day, month after agonizing month.
Misery is reasonably good looking outside of a few ill conceived and poorly executed tattoos, some unsettling surface veins and a pair of uninspired titties. She is nice, if somewhat coarse mannered and isn't bad to work with as long as she remains a Jekyll*4.
The problem being with this equation is that she's a dyed-in-the-wool alcoholic and drunk Jekylls frequently transform into Hydes.
No one likes a fucking Hyde. It's impossible.
Let me illustrate the difference with some top secret Floor Agent photo technology. If the Guild of Floor Lords were even to suspect I was sharing this information with the civilian masses, I would be subject to death by Brittneys, which is far less pleasant than it sounds.
The following two pictures are of the same stripper on the same night. They were taken 5 hours, 1.75 liters of tequila and an unknown quantity of unspecified drugs apart. I know most of the readers of this blog will be skeptical of the veracity of the photo claim, but I can assure you on my very gravest Floor Hero honor, that they are 100% completely accurate.
JEKYLL:
HYDE:
Believe it, mow-fakirs.
Part 2: Other bullshit that will one day cost another human being its ability to breathe, walk or show its ravaged countenance in public without being deafened by the screams of frightened children.
There's many options under this heading. I face a lot of them every single weekend and though it will eventually kill me I have made my peace with that. So for your amusement, I will list some from the past 3 weeks for you to enjoy and you will remember them deep into your years and gleefully retell them to your offspring in your dotage until they hate you for it and wish you'd just die already.
And then you do and they divide up your stuff. Fuck what your will said.
1) We're Just Here To Have A Drink. (So let us in without paying the cover charge, OK Bro-Hamish?)
-There are literally 12 other bars within walking distance from my club that don't charge a cover at the door, whose drinks are much cheaper than ours and who would love to have your business. Fucking go to one of them.
You see, a cover charge wasn't my idea. I didn't wake up one day and think to myself "Golly, if we were to charge each patron a set amount of money just for the privilege to enter our establishment and then have to pay ridiculously inflated prices for everything else thereafter, the owner could make even more money."
So griping to me about it is like complaining to the counter girl at Wendy's that your Baconator costs too much and how about just charging you for a cheeseburger and throwing in the bacon for free?
Personally I don't give a shit if spend your money at the club or not because if you're already bitching over a paltry cover charge before you've even entered the premises, then you can't afford to be here and should go away before a stripper gets you beaten up.
2) "I've been to strip clubs all over the world and all of them were better than this one. Please give me something for nothing."
Let's get something straight folks, strip clubs don't give away ANYTHING. The only things that you are not charged for in a gentlemen's club is the air you breathe*5 and the use of the men's room. Other than that, you're paying.
So this guy comes in the other day and starts talking to me about seating for his bachelor party group. I look around the club and inform him that regretfully, we currently don't have anywhere we can seat his party of ten where they can all sit together unless they would like to purchase bottle service, at which point we could put them in a VIP section for a couple of hours.
He asks the bottle price and I tell him and he inquires if we could lower it a bit. Well that's not up to me I explain, I'm just a soulless cog in an immoral machine and would never presume to think above my station. I ask the manager, Sir Adultery de Castro XII, and he say's OK, knock off $25. The customer grudgingly agrees to the price and thus was set forth in motion the process of me Getting a Bottle of Booze for an Arrogant Twat, always one of my favorite pastimes.
So as I'm running this little fuckglop's credit card and getting him to sign his receipt, he starts asking me about how he can make his bachelor's night really special. I start suggesting stuff; get him some dances with a stripper he's shown a particular interest in maybe, or how about a champagne room?
He Just shakes his sad faced little head and says "No, no, no. Listen man, I've been to clubs in Miami, Atlanta, Abu Dhabi, Montreal, Dallas, everywhere man. And for me spending $225 on a bottle, which is very expensive..."
AND.......stop. If you can buy bottle service in any high end strip club in ANY of the aforementioned cities for $225, without knowing someone or there being some kind desperate club tactic; like half off Tuesdays, I will fuck a basset hound and post the video to Youtube. I am confident that I won't have to do this.
I'm pretty sure this particular guy was trying to ask me if I could ensure his friend's dick was sucked in a champagne room or if I could score him some wonderful cocaine, but he didn't have the balls to come right out and ask for it. Which is fortunate for him.
I'm not one of those fun, happy Floor Guys who are there to provide you with whores and drugs if the price is right. I don't approve of either of these situations in any club I work in and since he tipped me $0.00 on a bottle I'd already saved him $25 on, it was obvious to me he was just blowing smoke out his ass and was trying to score something for nothing. Had he tipped me $50-100 however, I would have gladly overlooked my moral objections and introduced him to a less scrupulous Floor Drow could possibly make his dreams come true.
I pointed out to the little snizz that I not only saved him $25 on the bottle, but that he and his party of plaid shirt wearing fuckwastes were indeed seated in the VIP and that I didn't know what else he expected of me for his paltry expenditure.
He was generous with his feelings of disappointment and I was equally stingy with my expressions of empathy. I sincerely hoped that he would die in some freak animal-penis related incident in the near future and feel no remorse in thinking this way.
So that's the resolution of the story, valued readers. I apologize about my abrupt ending to the first version of this installment, but I was really drunk and legitimately believed that I had finished it.
I was appropriately shocked and appalled the next day when I discovered this was not the case. And I beg your pardon, loyal Herder'Heads.
I feel I've lived up to and exceeded all expectations with this finished installment. If you disagree, please vote for one of the two party system candidates for anything.
Merry Horstenfuerer!
-The StripperHerder
*1 This fine example of Alliteration has been sponsored by The Society For Reminding English Speakers What 'Alliteration' Means.
*2 It has been argued by Floor Guy Scholars and Historians that what my Father actually said was "Scattergun" and it was only because of his thick Glas-Squatchian accent that it sounded more like 'twattergun', but I know what Pop said....
*3 For the utterly ignorant of role playing game standards, AC stands for Armor Class. This represents how hard it is to 'hit' a character/monster and how difficult it is to damage him/her/it when one does score a hit. The lower the AC, the better.
Ergo the -12 that the Vestment of St Shankaho** provides against Gutterskanks, Triflin Bitches and Related Harpy-Ass Ho's is astoundingly good protection. And in addition to the dramatically lowered armor class, the wearer of The Vestment of St Shankaho also gains total immunity to: Crying Chicks, Dancer Enbullshitment and Fear of Management.
**St. Shankaho was a Beastly Motherfucking Floor Guy. He was impervious to all manner of Dancemancer Whoreshit.
*4 For further information on Jekylls and Hydes, please see this earlier installment:
http://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2014/09/stripper-meta-types-or-wild-wonderful.html
*5 Because they haven't figured out an economical way to do this. Yet.
