Sometimes I just like to read through my archives and see what's there. That's one of the advantages of being an alco-capable writer, you frequently don't remember writing some stuff and are glad you actually managed to publish it somewhere so you can peruse it sober.
I haven't slogged through my archives in some time, that is anything from this year anyway. I have worked my way through 2012 and 2013 recently and enjoyed doing so. But I felt the time was right for wandering back through the posts from 2015 and that's just what I did. I wish I would've posted more content this year, ideally I'd like to do a post a week, but I'm a fat, lazy wretch with an abominable work ethic when it comes to writing so that will probably never happen.
So I decided to do something I've never done before in this blog, a 'Best Of' special. Since we're nearing the year's end, it's an appropriate thing to do.
All in all, 2015 has been a huge letdown from 2014, which was a far more lucrative and productive year for me. But that being said, it hasn't been too bad. Therefore in the spirit of end of year cliches, I give you...
The very best of the StripperHerder, 2015.
Some gems strained from the past year's septic tank of installments. Stuff that still made me laugh even though I've probably read it a dozen times. Hope you enjoy the trip down memory lane as much as I enjoyed not producing any new content and still notching an extra post score in the archives.
Regarding the species 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 fucking churn for years.
Brooding, materialistic and uncompromising? Sounds sorta Russian to me...
-Ivana Poutvainly: Our former Soviet Bloc ice princess bartender. She has the most amazingly chiseled resting bitch face I have ever seen. It's like the all the Plagues of Jordan are upon her and she doesn't drive a $70,000 Mercedes around; frowning out luxury windows at an absence of T-34 tanks crushing partisan fighters in her name....
Painstakingly researched and historically accurate to the smallest detail...
-Vikings loved the female form, they idolized and revered it. Bitches and Bitch Futures were commodities that were traded regularly on the Viking Stock Exchange. The seafaring practice of mounting a figurehead on the front of a ship evolved from the Viking practice of dragon and beast-head prows. Someone decided that dragons were kinda scary, so why not slap a set of tits up there instead? Everyone loves tits. Seemed like a no-brainer.
Everyone's favorite crazy mammals, redheads...
-Molly's always have tattoos as well. Their flesh looks the the sides of ghetto beverage stores, seemingly painted at random by roving groups of disaffected future criminals. Reading a Molly's rib tats will often bring a sense of sorrow upon the reader because of the misplaced optimism scrawled there.
Common as squirrels but not nearly as fast or cute...
-The DROP Mk 1: (Dirty Repulsive Old Pervert) This aged codger has simple needs, just let him finger your ass a bit or suck a titty while you grind on him through his pants and he will dump a load in short order. His Depends will catch his dribbly shame and he will leave the club with a leer and go home to watch Matlock reruns or shit about World War II, satisfied with his day.
Blonde as fuck, smart as shit...
-The Barbies may not be the brightest bulb of the titty-gang christmas tree, but what they lack in thinky-power, they make up for in sheer blondness and the madness it inspires in many men. In a lot of clubs the Barbies dominate the economy despite the fact that they can't spell 'economy' without using a 'K' and three 'E's'.
Fake hashtags are fun #verylittleeffort #fuckyourhashtag...
-So when management asked me if I could cover a kitchen shift tonight because our latest alcoholic/junkie cook had gotten thrown into jail for throwing a tire iron at police during a drug house raid, my brain said 'no' while my fingers typed "yeah, I guess so" #cunt #fuckyourquesadilla.
If strippers had kept historical records instead of monks, our textbooks would've been more interesting...
-Therefore many a stripper's contributions to the course of human events have been overlooked, downplayed, altered or outright erased from historical texts. It's a bum rap, but that sort of stuff happened all the time if you had a vagina. The thought that a female could influence the outcome of any sort of situation, outside of a well executed porridge, has always been anathema to men of a certain mindset.
The Tip Rail, gateway to Tittyville...
Contrary to popular belief however, it is not mandatory to tip the dancers if you're sitting there. It's kinda dickish not to, but no where in the 'rules' of the club does it state you must tip. I sort of liken it to standing in a fast food line for a couple hours without ordering anything, you're just there to observe other people order food and watch all the activity it creates. Albeit most fast food places I've been at don't have tits bouncing around to a Rihanna song. Which is sad, really.
So I still get dancers coming up to me and saying "That guy's not tipping at the stage. I thought when they sat at the stage they have to tip." It's a fun part of my job explaining things to strippers. It make me feel like I'm mentoring some particularly clever chinchillas.
Excerpt from chapter six of my bestselling book, 'Conversations with my various organs'...
-Please bear in mind that for reasons unknown even to me, my prostate speaks with a heavy Scots accent.
ME: I can't help noticing that you've been lacking in oomph and sending mixed signals lately. Is there anything you want to talk about?
MY PROSTATE: Whatturye implyin, ya greet fat chairwhale?
ME: Well, you know. Frequent urges to go, disappointing muzzle velocity, phantom pee notices. Stuff like that. I was just thinking that maybe it's all a bit premature.
MY PROSTATE: Tell yoo whut, lad. Next time ye fiel the need tae dispoorage mah werk ethic, why dooncha carve yer coomplaint oonto a parsnip and shoove it oop yer fookin arse! That way I'll be shure tae read it.
ME: Christ man! I'm just sayin! No need for all the hostility. We're in this together, OK?
MY PROSTATE: "We're in this toogettir, OOH-KAY!" (in a high mocking voice.) That's what yoo soond like. Quit bleatin like a weddin night ship and deal with yer Elder Pooberty!
ME: Goddamn. You are one angry pink ping pong ball, my friend.
MY PROSTATE: Aye. I am at that. Don't make me crool oota yer wee pahthetic willy, freeclimb your greet, stinkin toorso and slap seven kinds of shite oota ye. Cooz I'll doo it. Ye ken I wull.
ME: Oh you'll climb me, will you? And how do you intend to do that? I'm like 80% sure you've got no fucking hands.
MY PROSTATE: I'll use veins and whatnot then, woon't I? Maybe I'll even drag yer puir, mismatched boolz aloong wit meh and use em as sticky boots. What'd'ye tink o'that?
ME: I think you're a monster!
MY PROSTATE: AAAAAHHHH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!
Part of a quiz for people who have idiots for friends...
3) Your wasted friend just racked up $300 in dance fees because you left him unsupervised long enough to do so. Your next move is:
A) Deny any knowledge of your friend's existence and pretend you don't know him when the bouncers drag him before you, piss stained and wailing. Wrinkle your brow in confusion convincingly; calmly exit club.
B) Sigh to yourself for having retarded friends and pay his dance tab, making sure to include a little something-something for the put upon bouncer who had to haul your worthless, vomit scented friend in front of you and offer you the unique opportunity to keep your stewed buddy from going to jail.
C) Say that you need to go out to your car to get some cash. When the club staff expresses their doubt about this plan, offer your driver's license as ransom to hold until you get back, it'll only take a moment. You have to sell it or you'll have a bouncer on you like ironic work boots on a thug.
When you reach your car, leave. Fuck your friend. A new license will set you back $15.
D) Call the cops. They will be very sympathetic to your friend's situation. Maybe use the word 'kidnap' or 'extortion'.
Conversations with prostitutes seldom leave you feeling clean or good about anything...
RENT-A-HOLE) "Is that old creepy guy still looking for me?"
ME) "You mean the wizened yet somehow still sinister looking geriatric who's staring at you from across the room with undisguised hunger and lust?"
"Yup."
RENT-A-HOLE) "Oh shit, man! He is totally freaking me out!"
ME) "What the hell is going on that he's freaking you out so bad? You could probably take him out in a fight if you had to. Aim for his hip, probably brittle as toffee."
RENT-A-HOLE) "Dude, he just showed up to my house uninvited last week. He was asking me if I wanted to go out and my boyfriend was right there and started yelling at him and he went away. It freaked me the fuck out. What would've happened if my boyfriend wasn't there?"
ME) "How the hell did he know where you live? Did he follow you home one night?"
RENT-A-HOLE) "Oh, no. We went out to dinner a few nights before and he picked me up from my house."
ME) [Long pause] "Really? Fascinating. Is your boyfriend's last name Felcher?"
RENT-A-HOLE) "What?"
ME) "Nothing. Is your boyfriend a big guy, capable of subduing that lecherous grey gnome if he had to?"
RENT-A-HOLE) "No, he's barely bigger than me." (she's all of 5 foot and could possibly, after some pasta and watermelon, weigh as much as 85-90 lbs.)
ME) "You need to move, or invest in a firearm and learn how to use it. That being said I'll go throw the guy out and tell him not to come back."
RENT-A-HOLE) "No wait! Don't throw him out. I'll just avoid him for a while. It's OK."
ME) "Bitch, you sure?"
RENT-A-HOLE) "Yeah, I'll be fine. Let him stay, OK?"
ME) "Whatever you say punkin. If you change you mind or he gets rude, alert me and I shall impose a new paradigm on his behavior options."
RENT-A-HOLE) "What?"
ME) [Sigh.] "Call me if he tries to fist you without your consent."
RENT-A-HOLE) "Oh. OK. I will."
Reflections on the ravages of the titty club industry on fictional humans...
Within a year he (Billy Hawkins) transformed from a mild mannered 24 year old virgin with dreams of really making a difference in the world and saving the family Ebay business, into a broken, raving, booze soaked husk of a man who craved blowjobs and bourbon. By the end of his time at the club he would have happily ran a quarter mile with adorable baby hounds taped to the bottom of his shoes, slapping a dancer every 20 feet.
The culinary arts are a mystery to some...
2) Try to know when something is rotten, it's sorta important. Usually the intense stench of decaying organic matter is your first clue. Serving food that is rotten is bad.
I say this because our kitchen staff almost uniformly refuses to date anything, even though it is a food code violation to NOT date EVERYTHING. Anything at all that goes into a fridge must have a date on it, but our cooks are rebels without a clue. No dates, yo.
This came to terrible realization for me recently when a brand new cook we hired did something horrible and unforgivable. He received an order for hummus and pita chips which is an appetizer we offer but none of our cooks can actually make. They produce large containers of a glue-like product that looks and acts like hummus but tastes like rendered slug and has the consistency of something badly infected with a random jungle parasite. All leaky and shit.
Now I was standing 10 feet away from the new cook when he opened the lid to our current batch of 'hummus' and I could tell by the smell that it was past the prime of it's life by a fair margin. It smelled like it was only weeks away from forming a government or inventing television.
Readings from the Book of Jasmine, Slut...
Jasmine 1:7 "Hand bags are fucking sweet. I will eagerly watch gravy-dipped children fight various ravenous beasts if only a Fashion Priest will make me a uselessly small clutch from the scraps of brat skin he's able to salvage from the arena sands."
Deja Pu: Shit you've experienced before...
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.
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 bush-whackin 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 brutality and coleslaw, but not necessarily in that order.
Small town strip club problems. The fine line between Titty Bar and Haunted House...
You see, strip clubs in mediocre markets are hard up for dancers who aren't that scary to work the far less lucrative hours when the majority of Americans are at work. Most serious strippers are either in a dormant state from 6 AM until 9 PM, have been up for 83 hours but still feel OK, or are even buying a new BMW coupe and wrecking it on the way out of the parking lot.
With only extremely rare exceptions, Daywalkers are the gorgons and boogeywomen of the tit industry. Most are banned from working night shifts and will literally be told to go the fuck home if they try to linger, possibly clinging to a rafter, past what is considered 'Day Shift'.
Book smart, street stupid. A tainted success story...
The mere fact that she had reproduced wasn't what had me rethinking my image of her as a success story from our sordid occupation, it was when she told me who the father was. Then all hope was lost. Intelligent girl who happened to be extremely good looking as well, who'd actually threaded the minefield of the strip club ecosystem to become something more than a stripper.
Better. Stronger. Faster than a stripper. With a career that provides health insurance, room for advancement and a work environment where the bathroom isn't haunted by cocaine, vomit and the shattered dreams of a big hipped,tractor driving girl who died there.
Protect the bottle at all costs...
2) When a wandering stripper shambles up and asks if it can have a drink, you must have an effigy chosen. An effigy is a nonexistent member of your party whom the rest of you all hold in very high regard. Maybe he's the Boss, maybe he's the 'money guy' or maybe he's the bachelor who is extremely uptight about money and who has paid for the bottle. Any way you choose to spin it, when a strange dancer asks if she can have a drink you all have to feign mild panic and describe how not cool your effigy is with free drinks. Pass the buck to the man to the right. After a few revolutions of the team perimeter, even the most determined alcoholic will lose interest or at least get mad enough to walk away screaming insults.
Still a win.
The 'Boss' scenario generally works best in these circumstances. As long as you're more frightened sounding than assholey, the disappointed boozacuda will generally swim away in search of easier drinks.
There ya go, my first 'best of' installment.
Happy Holy Daze and whatnot,
-The StripperHerder
