Tonight was a night that had me questioning everything. Do I want to continue in this industry? Do I have the gumption to actually show up tomorrow, or should I drink myself into a wretched ball of shit stained misery that mewls piteously every time the manager calls wondering where the fuck I am?
Should I start looking for another job? Should I just wreak vengeance upon those that have wronged me before dining on a shotgun shell?
Do I even give a fuck about anything any more?
Is the whole 'Murrican experience worth slogging through as I age ungracefully and become a crusty cunt with naught but hatred in my soul?
These are questions worth answering and I had to look deep into my soul tonight in search of elucidation. I don't really care for what waved back from the abyss, but it's not like I didn't know what lived in the depths. I simply chose to ignore the warning ripples indicative of a submerged leviathan.
I told my manager, Sir Razorwit Humphrey McAngrystein that I was done driving the shuttle and that if, in fact, I have to drive it tomorrow night, that he can expect to pick pieces of dead idiot's scalps out of the grill as the cops haul me off to jail for gleeful vehicular slaughter.
And I would laugh, I informed him.
Oh how I would fucking laugh....*1
A small consolation of the evening was that I DID get to pick up a problem customer by his hair and testicles and throw him out onto the sidewalk. He was being ripped off by a dancer that I seriously hate and as their argument became more heated, he shoved her. He did not, at the time, seem to realize I was right behind him. Even though I secretly hoped that somehow she would die or get paralyzed from his tiny attack, it gave me the opportunity to scoop him up from behind*2 by his sack and quasi-gay rooster-comb hairdo, open the door with his ribcage, and hurl him to the cement.
And I'll tell ya, if fucking felt good. The 'whumph' of the air leaving his lungs on impact was like a beloved song that I hadn't heard in too long. And to make everything even better, we never did get the money for the babbon-mammaried tree-slut.
To finish this installment off, while the fury still burns hot, I'm going to elaborate briefly on notes I sent myself from my phone during the bullshit parade.
-I'm handicapped, hence I will park in a handicapped spot.
I find it repugnant when someone who is a fucking liar and cheat pretends to be handicapped so they can take advantage of a reserved spot. The reason I bring this up is because I work with a girl who has a handicapped placard in her minivan and uses it to park in spots reserved for people with real disabilities.
This bitch will climb to the top of our twenty foot pole and hang upside down and twirl around and shit. She is clearly not disabled in the fucking slightest and yet she feels that it's perfectly OK to take up some deserving person's spot because she has her Mom's placard.
She giggles when I bring it up to her. She thinks it's amusing that she gets away with it.
-Instead of firing a conniving, pot bellied gangster jizz-sponge, I choose to yell at Floor Guys.
As a Mana-Jur it's much more acceptable and yet much less effective to scream at a Floor Snizz than to actually fire a slack-breasted, over-gutted criminal drunk. Nevermind the fact that until recently we regularly allowed this crunt*3 to cannon off in her Hyundai completely wasted, endangering every living thing on the freeway at 3am; rodents included.
Now however, we have a breathalyzer. And when he can be bothered, Sir Razorwit checks our outgoing strippers for BAC's. I mention this because the other night, Crunt insisted she was OK to drive. We were skeptical because it sounded like she was saying "Imshokay to knrive".
So we hit her with the breathalyzer and she blew a .27. That's over three times the legal limit, folks.
So we waited until she was only twice the legal limit and shoved her out the door. Problem solved.
-He steel owes me nine doooolars!
We have this crazy eastern european bitch. She's from Jizzbakistan or some such country that has little to no relevance beyond it's natural gas reserves. So she lands a room with this local rich guy, a business-drunk who owns parts of three very successful clubs in The Town™.
Long story short this drunk, rich moron gets a bunch of singles, like $600 worth, then decides to go into a champagne room instead of throwing it on stage. Which is the only reason you'd get $600 worth of singles in the first place.
So he pays for a half hour room ($300) in singles. This sucks but what are you gonna do? I take one stack of hundreds as the club's cut and hand her the remaining two bundles of $100. I didn't fucking count it because why would I? A) He's rich and B) Who fucking cares?
Well at the end of the night Eastern Europa comes up to me and complains that money-boy had only given her $191. Nine goddamn dollars shy of what she should have made. I explain to her that this dude regularly comes to the club and spends at least a grand every time and that if she becomes one of his favorites, then she's guaranteed to make a couple hundred bucks every time he comes in.
But no, she was all ex-soviet ANALBLAST about nine fucking dollars and as a result he will NEVER do a room with her again.
Stupid bitch. Like my seventeen years of experience in this industry count for nothing....
I don't feel like doing pictures, I feel like eating tacos,
-The StripperHerder
*1 I drove the bus through catastrophic traffic tonight for seven hours and made $5 in tips for my torment.
*2 I'm not nearly as strong as I used to be, but if this little prick weighed more that 170 lbs, I'll eat my own duck butter.
*3 Crunt: short for Crazy-Cunt.
