I'm going to do something a little bit different to start off this installment. I'm going to let you, trustworthy readers, decide which caption goes on the following picture. I rarely lead with a picture, so consider yourself incredibly important right now. There are literally people (or a person) in dozens of countries waiting to see what you decide.
Here is the picture, it is roughly equivalent to the SkeevaTron that has recently reappeared in my ecosystem.
I call her Undesirable Antler Wop Whore.
Yeah. What?
It's fitting.
Caption A) "My race have no teeth and breathe through our anuses. "
Caption B) "If you can stop staring at my hair, you'll notice there's no tape on my nipples. No. Keep looking further down. There ya go."
Caption C) "Although my snout and overall expression appears to be mildly disapproving of your presence, I'm merely constipated from methamphetamine abuse."
Totally unlike a cheesy sci-fi film's premise, a much hated dancer*1 has returned, again, to bless us with her presence. The members of the Floor Guy Local 617 are of course e-fucking-lated to welcome back her sharply protruding snout and spindly little legs; bracing ourselves for the inevitable moment when her internal clock goes 'Boing!' and she regresses to Hyde-state.
This is when her inner bitch-spirit loses it's ability to maintain a cohesive Field of False Contrition, thereby allowing her Self-Generating Aura of Cuntishness to collapse the Good Behavior Waveform, resulting in mass destruction and the phenomenon known as Deja (Coito) Pu, or...
shit you've fucking seen before.
When (not if) she goes Hyde*2, she will attempt to destroy everything within her reach. This will take a while because she is tiny, doesn't have much reach, and relatively speaking, is fucking weak. She makes up for these shortcomings by tapping into the heart of all that is evil, petty and annoying, distilling it into the pure essence of undiluted stripper malignancy, and then freebasing the living fuck out of it.
Hydes who haven been smokin on da broken dreams are incredibly dangerous. They have nothing left to lose and are fucking immune to pain, regret and reason. They become juggernauts of misery.
Us veteran Floor Squatches know about Deja-Pu. It is written into our history, our very culture and society. Deja-Pu is the boogeyman hiding in every little 'Herder's closet and under their beds, we grow up fearing it's wrath. All Stripperherders that survive to maturity have been ambushed so often by Deja Pu that that it just bounces off our soul-callouses, leaving an unsightly stain and vague odor of resignation.
Floor Guy politics and their detrimental effects on my personal economy.
I seldom write about this subject even though it is, in one form or another, a constant thorn in my yambag. Floor Guys frequently have just as many beefs and problems with each other as the average misery*3 of strippers do, they just don't act like strippers about it. We rarely attack one another with no warning, we don't generally gripe each other into the gaping maw of the strip club rumor mill. No, our differences are less pronounced and normally just boil under the surface.
What I'm getting at is that there is always a hierarchy among the Floor Brood in any club that has more than one bouncer. This usually amounts to either one all powerful Floor Lord, or some combination of power sharing between 2 or more Floor Guy factions.
A Floor Lord is the lowly Floor Guy who happens to, for all intents and purposes, run the show at any given strip club. He pretty much calls the shots but is able to run management in front of him and to his flanks as needed, shielding him from attacks like arrow-puppets.
A Floor Faction is much more common. Here two or more Hosts are favored by management over all others based on a lengthy work history together or maybe an epic victory over the forces of She-phalheim.. Everyone else on the team is expendable and the choicest shifts are split among them.
Let me cite you an example.
Once upon a time there was this gentle giant of a Floor Host that worked on Thursday nights because he was new at the club and Thursday nights sorta sucked and no one else really wanted to work them.
Then one glorious but otherwise unremarkable Thursday night a drunk Prince came into the club and pelted it's employees with gold coins, laughing at their welts. The new Floor Host made more money than he'd ever seen before and was delighted when he heard the drunk Prince loudly exclaim that he'd be back next Thursday to once again chuck dangerously heavy coins at comely naked girls for fun and diversion.
The young herder was overwhelmed with what money he'd made. He'd been able to buy his Old Mother a feeding horn so his fingers wouldn't be all bit up every other day. He'd gotten his Uncle Clytus out of debtor's prison and bought meat pies for his 34 cousins.
He had prospered. And very much looked forward to next Thursday, which was one of his nights. He'd been working Thursday nights for over a year and a half, for richless and poorer and finally his luck had changed.
The young herder strode confidently into work on the day the new schedules came out, expecting to see his humble name listed under 'Thursday' as it has been for the last seventy-three 'Thursdays'.
But his name wasn't there. For the first time in seventy-three Thursdays the name listed was not his. It read "Carlos, the Desert Hyena". No mention was made of 'young herder'. He sat out the next Thursday as the Desert Hyena made stunning amounts of money in his place.
This continued until the whale that enjoyed pelting people with money switched his 'chuckin' day to Wednesday, which was one of the young herder's day as well. Inexplicably the young herder found himself moved off of Wednesdays and on to some other unprofitable, bleak day of the weak.*4
Get the picture? That shit happens all the time. It makes me angry but what can ya do? The smart player knows when his position is weak. Let's face it, at best I bring my A-game once every ten days and even then it's not really that impressive. Most of the time I work the shit jobs and trade money for not being around drunk shitheads until the point where I lash out.
So, fuck it. That's it. Thanks for readin.
-The StripperHerder
*1 The stripper from this installment is whom I'm referring to.
http://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2015/01/a-touch-of-poignancy-followed-by.html
The only silver lining to this happening is that she didn't bring her ugly little sidekick, StubbleGut, with her this time. Lord have mercy.
*2 Seriously, there's no 'if' whatsoever. Every single stripper I've ever worked with that's been fired for being a drunk, crazy localized disaster and then later rehired, ended up going batshit fucking Hyde again. Just like the first time: Screaming, puking, trying to kill sentient life; it becomes typical. Transcendental even.**
** Soon you don't even flinch. Maybe there's a nearly imperceptible twitch under you left eye that suggests oncoming madness to the experienced watcher, but most don't notice because the plastic of your smile is so shiny and lifelike.
*3 Any gathering of more than three strippers is known as a 'misery' of strippers. Like a 'pod' of whales or a 'plague' of meth-heads.
*4 Ha! See what I did there? That's fucking literary as fuck!
