In my opinion I've accumulated a small avalanche of good karma over the years and am patiently waiting for it to metaphorically sweep my inner ski village into a crevasse of cash and profits. So far karma has utterly let me down and has, in fact, drugged my beer and taken obscene liberties with my butt.
I am understandably unhappy with this situation. I've been a reasonably good person despite my online StripperHerder persona and feel like karma should make more with the determined fellatio and less with the angry, fiscal sodomy.
It's not too much to ask.
The reasons for my bitching are varied and well founded, yet admittedly, mostly my own fault. I keep doing stupid things over and over and somehow hope for a different result. These are the actions of a man with a subpar brain and it's time I admitted that I'm just another goat-brained jackfuck like every other service industry euglena floating around in similar dismal carp-ponds.
The list of why I'm a wretched fucklard is long, but for this post I will keep if short and sweet.
First off: my continuing delusions that anything above and beyond the call of my job description are appreciated or valued by the Mismanagement team. For whatever inexplicable reasons I seem innately compelled to obey the unreasonable whims of my bosses*1. They invariably play a game called 'Bullshit' and I always show up with a handful of cowpats and an idiot grin on my face.
I've never won a game of Bullshit personally, merely watched as every other Floor Guy raked in his hand.
I'll never get the hang of it. The rules seem to change constantly. Or they don't and I'm a complete fucking blanket monkey. I don't know which but I'm guessing it's the latter.
Secondly: I am the Bringer of Financial Woe. Among the many powers as such, I can Alter Reality and Change the Laws of Probability. Such as tonight. Us Floor Gnolls made about $325 each in tips tonight, which sadly is my second best night of 2015. We made this money because we were able to tack on gratuities to some pro athletes's tabs because they are rich and shit.
The irony is that there were far less sports superstars in the club last night (which I didn't work) as there were tonight and still somehow they spent WAY more money because the Floor Schlongs made just under $700 each last night. Now If I had been on the schedule that night, like maybe in a separate timeline or an alternate dimension, we would've only made $300. Somehow, some way, I poison economic ecosystems with my presence or even my lack of it.
Like when I'm driving a shuttle bus all night and am not physically in the club.
It's distressing.
The Wrath Of ManagerZilla Part One: Underground Bomb Testing
It has been scientifically proven that the underground testing of atomic bombs by several countries has led to the accelerated evolution of a species of Manager known for its volatile temper and unsympathetic suborbital ridges, Manageris Unreasosapien.
It's a sullen organism and its greatest pleasure on this mortal plane is to sow discord and demoralization on as large a scale as possible. Its ultimate goal is to butter the corn of unhappiness and it has been at the churn for fucking years.
I can't even go into details about how our CaveManager handled things tonight. It's too revealing.
What I will say is that there are two distinct Managerial styles in the service industry ecosystem. One is Ostrich Style: "I don't care as long as the Club makes money and in fact, the less I know about it, the more I can disavow later if shit gets all fucky."
The other is Cock Badger Style: "You will obey my will, even if my will contradicts itself unpredictably. Like what was OK last night is somehow NOT OK three days later. You will be punished or disparaged no matter what you do."
The Wrath Of ManagerZilla Part Two: This Club Is My Personal Tokyo And I Am Going To Stomp The Bejesus Out Of It.
When you are the boss, you set the tone for the night. If you're mellow and calm while going about you're duties, that feeling of serenity tends to trickle down to your minions and everything runs smoother and with less drama.
If on the other hand you storm into work with your guts twisted in hate and bile, seeking out underlings to crush under your mighty boots, then work is going to suck for you and by extrapolation, all your hench-people as well.
Cock Badger is the preferred management style of Sir Ponderous McFuckboots III, everyone's least favorite authority figure. He comes into work desperately looking for an outlet for his bottomless malice and almost immediately begins to spread the misery around like a hemorrhoidal marmalade, all chunky and acidic.
Lest you think I'm merely being a judgmental twat, let me cite an example or two to bolster my opinion:
1) We were horribly understaffed recently due to a big event in the Town and as a result got our asses handed to us. We didn't have enough Floor Grunts, Waitresses, Bartenders, Barbacks, Cooks or Managers. We didn't have enough anything to handle to deluge of business that swept through the club like an economic tsunami. It was all we could do to stay afloat, much less make our way towards the shore.
It was what I imagine it is like to be a retail employee on Black Friday; you're terrified and trapped in the seemingly endless whirlwind of a capitalist feeding frenzy. Your goals have been reduced to simply surviving the storm, hopefully with all of your limbs intact and crawling back to your hovel to cry in the shower and wash the footprints from your back.
So insert into all of this the extra madness of a boss who lashes out at the slightest request and belittles and shrieks at anyone who dares ask for something only a Manager can do, and it was miraculous that the entire staff lived through the night and no limbs were lost.
My favorite part of the entire night was when at one point Sir Ponderous growled through the walkie talkie that he was the only one doing anything in the club. I almost rage-shit*2 myself when he came up with that one and at that point I simply stopped asking him for anything and only pretended to call him on my mike when something needed his attention.
It turned out that he wasn't angry with the Floor Worms, but at the waitresses and bartenders*3. But when you say it over that radio, only the Floor Worms, DJ and Door Girl hear it which may lead them to believe that you're referring to them.
2) "Use your judgment." Is what Sir Ponderous told me that night while I was working the door and had a dude and his people wanting to come in without paying the cover. I knew this guy and his entourage and while he may not spend much personally, he pays for all the dances and other such nonsense his entourage enjoys every single time he comes to the club. Which is pretty much every weekend.
So Mr. McFuckboots was giving me permission to use my my Doorguy's intuition in doling out the free covers. Yet if you'll recall a few months back, I wrote about him charging me the cover for two people I let in because I used that same intuition.
Mixed signals? You fucking betcha. Decide one way or another to give me a measure of autonomy or not. You abso-fucking-lutely can't have it both ways.
3) I've never worked with a boss who so predictably manages to escalate every situation where defusing things should be the goal. Fights are bad for business, folks. If your club gains a reputation as an unsafe place to go, then the kind of customers you want will avoid your club, while the kind you don't want will flock to it.
Manager McFuckboots will take a contained situation and piss napalm and racial slurs all over it. He is literally one of the angriest people I have ever met and this is me talking, folks.
There have been many times where we Floor Guys had the situation utterly under control and then Sir Ponderous wades in and starts shit up all over again. It's a wonder he hasn't been stabbed by now.*4
In the immortal words of Sgt. Roger Murtaugh:
OK, I think that covers my discontent for now. If you were inclined to pity me based on what I wrote in this installment, don't. I have since made $1500 in a single night and that helped me climb from the financial rut I was hanging posters in.
Sorry things have been scarce lately, I've been busy and distracted.
Send money,
-The StripperHerder
*1 A search of the StripperHerder archives will reveal that my parents passed down an unreasonably intense work ethic that I have done my best to subjugate because my job is a meaningless pile of tripe flavored money shit.
*2 Rage-Shit: To become so angry that you just shit yourself. Even if your butthole is so clamped up that it looks like brown cousin of Easy Cheese haunted your drawers. A tiny yet persistent curling of fury-fudge frequently followed by a frenzy of frenetic fucking violence.
*3 Who, admittedly, are mostly terrible. But he even yelled at the two good ones we have and frankly, we needed double the workforce of what was scheduled.
*4 These paragraphs are fucked up because I had originally put a picture in this space but had to remove it and this fucking website thinks that it's still there and so my paragraphs are all fucked up and unfixable. It's not me, I swear.
