Some people need to eat a 4 lb bag of damp cock jerky. I'm not gonna mention any names but will fictionalize the people and circumstances in a forthright manner and let you be the judge.
My manager, Sir Rayjoulous Von Wrathsack II, could use a side dish of dried wang strips in his diet paired with a piquant spunk based dipping sauce. It's awesome, morale building fun when he spatters his fucking misplaced muff-rage onto us pitiable Floor Quims. No really, we love being screeched at and dehumanized for his satisfaction.
The most special part of it is when he brays about something that's utterly impossible to expect us to do. Like reversing time or assfucking a porcupine.
I realize at this point that a lot of you reading this have no goddamn idea what I'm talking about so I will elucidate things for you.
Here's the scenario:
We planned for a 'slightly less busy than usual' weekend night and were not disappointed. For the day of the week, it was noticeably slower than usual due to the holiday. Good for us, because our synergistic and proactive Management Team contributed their combined fuckwittedness to what might have been a relaxed, well staffed and profitable night.
But it wasn't.
It was fucking painful and it didn't have to be.
Among the diversified fuckups the management perpetrated tonight, you might include, depending on your point of view:
1) Not having a Bar Back scheduled. We employee four of the fucking things and yet Dynamic Management Team 13™ (codename: Osiris) decided that letting all four of them take tonight off sounded like a good idea. "We'll just have the Floor Creeps deal with it", which is their universal answer to every problem that ever comes along.
2) Not scheduling enough Floor Creeps. Our normal weekend night tactical compliment is seven. Seven fucking floor guys. Not five. Not eight. Seven. Even if you planned on being kinda slow, five is fucking stupid since you automatically have to take one off to barback for all three bars because all four of your Bar Backs have the night off. Probably drunk as lords and trying to sell used stripper panties on Ebay.*1 That sounds like a Bar Back...
3) Not taking into account all the other duties us Floor Geezers are expected to do as well as the miracle you belatedly asked for.
There are several Floor Guy positions which are static, they include:
-The Counter Bitch: He counts how many dances each stripper has done because the club gets a cut of each and every one. He can't leave his station or he'll be killed or yelled at.
-The Door Whore: This poor bastard has to stay at the door and make sure the unwashed masses don't bum rush the door. He also has to filter the dangerously drunk out of the would be club entrants like a whale strains krill from the ocean depths. His job is made much easier by having a uniformed cop working in tandem with him, which we also didn't have this weekend.
-The Stage Cunt: The Floor Guy who possesses the least earning potential. This miserable wretch's entire job description is to make sure the hammered and deranged strippers don't do anything on stage that could get the club shut down.
Like showing their nether bits, or blowing a random customer on stage. A lesser primate could do this job and frankly, it would be more fun to watch than most of the strippers that grace our stage.
-The Bus Twat: The owner could A) hire a guy to drive the bus for a low hourly rate and all the tips he could hustle, or B) just make a Floor Host do it.
He goes with "B".
So therefore we theoretically had one Floor Guy to run all the champagne rooms, ring up and deliver all the bottle services, set up all the bachelor shows and do everything else us Floor Scum already do, which is almost everything.
It was like asking a blind child born with no limbs to sack an NFL quarterback and then screaming at it when it fails to do so.
All in all, a winning holiday strategy. Congrats Dynamic Management Team 13™! You continue to defy logic!
YOU CAN LEAD A STRIPPER TO VODKA BUT YOU CAN'T MAKE HER STOP DRINKING UNLESS YOU BEAT HER WITH A TIRE IRON. AND EVEN THEN HER LIVER WILL BURST FORTH FROM HER VA-JAY-JAY READY TO FIGHT YOU.
The miracle our Management accused us of failing to deliver was making sure that a certain dancer didn't get drunk. They may have well asked us to stop Detroit from sucking or to stop a hurricane from ravaging some coastal towns. I mean as long as you're asking the fucking impossible, why not go big?
The fact of the matter is that Alcostasia will do whatever the shit she wants and that the only real way to prevent her from going all Hyde on everything is to fucking fire her. But since management doesn't have the balls or common sense to do this, they displace their failure onto us Floor Hosts as if somewhere in our job description it reads "Stop dancers from getting drunk."
I would rather try to stop a Panzer tank with my scrotum, some Star Wars toys and three Toaster Strudels than to try to stop a determined stripper from getting drunk on the job. It's abso-fucking-lutely impossible to do this and I'm about to tell you why.
1) They can bring booze into the club inside their giant stripper duffle bags and stash it in their lockers.
2) They can tip sympathetic bartenders to serve them even when the bartenders know they shouldn't.
3) They can just have their fellow Titsquatches buy them drinks.
4) They can get the idiot customers to buy them drinks.
5) They can lap at pools of spilled booze or suck it straight from the carpet.
6) They can drink leftover/unattended drinks sitting unguarded on tables.
7) They can eat other hammered strippers vomit, metabolizing only the alcohol and re-hurling the bile and chunks of half digested food.
In fact there are only three ways to stop a dedicated Hyde from getting reeling drunk. They are:
1) Kill her.
2) Wrap her in shrink wrap and stash her in a Asian guy's trunk.
3) Weave a basket from discarded hair extensions and secure her in it. Lash the basket to your back and carry her around all night while a second Floor Ninja follows you around and watches her the entire time.
That's it. There's no other way.
And since our forward thinking and strategic management team hobbled us Floor Guys with understaffing and the lack of a barback or cop. We was fucked.
Proper fucked.
Tits are seldom free,
-The StripperHerder
*1 Or something even more loathesome
