Ding Dong The Bitch Is Fired. Which Old Bitch? The Cow-Like Bitch! Or, Two Amazing True Stories Of Abject Human Stupidity.

  Wow. Just wow.




  I thought she was immortal. I thought there was a good chance that her evil could only be ended by decapitation and perhaps burning the body and mixing the ashes into some Patron XO and feeding it to her surviving clan-sisters. Or some other such folk stripper remedy. I really felt like I would be burdened by her presence until the end of my 'herdin days.





  But



  I



  Was



  Wrong!





  This is now a national Stripperherder holiday*1. Floor Gobs everywhere-rejoice!*2 This is how the Munchkins felt when the house fell on the Wicked Witch of the West. I'm so giddy I feel like burning my town down, the traditional display of happiness to something really swell happening locally.



  Elsie and her fetid brat-mortar are gone. I'm not even sure it's fully sunk in yet. It's like living in a dream that you're enjoying but are lucid enough to realize that you're going to have to wake up sooner or later and the absolute bliss you are feeling will be exchanged for the blunt realities of real life.


  Still, it's a great day, have a drink with me...


  Slainte!

                               Typical customer reaction to Elsie removing her 'bottom bra'.



  





                                    In other news...





  We have had a population explosion of strippers in recent months. It's like a biblical plague but with more boobies, thongs, car accidents and bottle fights. I'm not sure what the hell is going on, it's like what would happen to rural deer populations if hunting bans were instituted. There would be herds of starving, ravenous and drunk deer all over the countryside breaking into houses, robbing liquor and feed stores and generally making a nuisance of themselves. Fuckin up your vegetable garden and puking in your truck sorta stuff.



  As I've said before a strip club really IS an ecosystem, albeit an economic one. It works on the same basic principle as an environmental ecosystem, i.e. it simply can't support more life than it can feed. But this basic principle has no bearing on any club's hiring practices, not even in this most wretched of months.*3


  A club*4 will always hire average and above average strippers whenever it has the opportunity to do so regardless of how many dancers it currently has working for it. I agree with this practice because it allows a club to cull some consistent problem dancers from the herd, thus freeing up valuable resources which can then be used to keep a younger, hotter and less trainwrecky dancer in it's employ.

                                    Typical management conundrum: Which girl to fire?





  The problem arises when a club hires on a bunch of new dancers, but doesn't fire enough of the more disreputable booze hags to balance things out. At this very moment at the club I work at now, there's at least 5 strippers who should be euthanized fired immediately. In fact every day these pickled, quarrelsome harridans remain unfired increases the likelihood that they will trap and kill one of our little fawn dancers.

                  Typically horrible blog picture editing. Supposed to be a deer in a bikini. Sorry.






  And this would be sad. Like a bunny rabbit being stoned to death for a crime it didn't commit and couldn't possibly understand.

                Typical punishment for cute little langomorphans convicted of numerous RICO Act violations.






  All I'm saying is that management could do a better job of eliminating onerous twats when it's handed a golden opportunity like the current flood in the local talent pool. Have they got rid of a couple of key strife generators recently?


  Yes they have and I applaud them for it.


  But why not make a clean sweep and terminate the fuck out of some really deserving dancers, 5 or 6 of which generate 80% of the bullshit and less than a percent of income.



Say it with me Managers:



1) "You're fired."


2) "Go clean out your locker."


3) "Or I will have a Floor Beast rip it off the wall and throw it out into the street."


4) "Followed by you."


5) "I'll even disable the cameras while he does it so he can be extra mean."


6) "Then I'll call our the cops and have you arrested for trespassing."


7) "And I'll kill your cat."

  I mean, it's just that easy. There's more than enough new talent at the club to compensate for the 'loss' of a few swaybacked lurches that bedevil the passageways and chambers of our club. Out with the trash and in with the treasure.

                                    Put on your Donald pants and get to fucking work.










     Amazing True Tales Of Abject Human Stupidity!



   I realize a lot of my blog depends on the never ending fountain of mankind's idiocy for material, and in this at least, I am never disappointed. I am privileged to witness some breathtakingly dumb people doing their thing in their natural habitat, and I thank a fictional god for the experience. Not only does it give me stuff to write about, but it makes me realize how much better off I am intellectually and judgmentally than a large percentage of the population, even if most of them have more money than me despite this.


  So here are two stories of abject human stupidity that have happened while I was working in the last three months or so. Please enjoy them as much as I did.



  

 1) So one day I'm just standing there, looming over no one in particular and doing absolutely nothing when an older gentleman heads toward the door in a hurry, pursued by our most tireless rip off artist, whom I'll refer to as Notorious T.I.P. As in "Yeah that pays for the dances, but where's my tip?"


 Well, Ms. T.I.P., at this club, tipping a dancer on top of whatever a dance costs is not mandatory. Johns customers can give you a tip on top of the already outrageous amount they pay for three minutes of your time if they choose to do it. Nowhere in the club does it state that dances are X amount of dollars plus tip. But this dancer is legendary for her 'value added' approach to charging our clientele. Amazingly, a large number of our patrons fall for this. These men are either stupid, weak willed or both in my opinion, but regretfully my opinion doesn't matter to anyone.


  His side of the story was that Notorious did two dances for him, but that he had paid her for the first one prior to the dance, and had paid for the second at the end of the two dances. As I start digging into the sordid details, hearing both sides of the story, it turns out that the guy had made the cardinal mistake of giving her money for a dance while they were still on the floor, not in the separate dance room where the magic happens.


  SO in her twisted, greedy mind this was a tip, not a prepayment for an upcoming dance. They enjoy two romantic, meaningful songs together and when they're done he hands her another $25 for the second dance (on top of the $25 he'd paid her while still on the floor). She starts badgering him about more money, claiming that he gave her the first $25 as a tip. He tries to explain that the first time he handed her money it was for a dance they were about to do, not (he was very clear about) as a tip.


  We go back and forth a while and I check with the Counter about how many dances Notorious did and he said "two". Therefore, in my mind, this guy was free and clear. He had given her a total of $50 (she admits that) for two dances and regardless of how she viewed the matter*5, the correct amount of dough had changed hands and he was free to go about his business and continue to make poor decisions.


  But my manager, Sir Rupert Von Hag-narok VI said the poor bastard had to pay for another dance, truth-be-damned-we-have-a-cop. So eventually the schmuck shells out a third helping of $25 for $50 worth of services rendered. He went through the usual litany of unhappy customers everywhere, i.e.: "I'm never coming back here, I'll never spend another dime here, I am displeased with your customer service, You guys are just a bunch of amoral highwaymen whose breath reeks of cock and shite" etc etc.


  I agreed with him except for the cock and shite bit. And as I stood outside and had a smoke while he used our excessively difficult and foul tempered ATM, I considered telling him so as he exited the club. As he left I opted not to tell him I was sympathetic to his plight because Notorious T.I.P. is, well, notorious for this. Her code of ethics would fit in much better across town at Jill's Crab Shack, the abominable shithole I used to work at. Or possibly as an alpha female in a cackle of hyenas that had just discovered meth tastes like baby lions.


  I am very glad I didn't say anything to him because here's where the abject stupidity part comes into play.



 Not fifteen minutes later this guy comes back in through the front door and I figure he's there for one of two reasons:


A) To bitch and complain some more in a hopeless attempt to get his money back or make himself feel less like a scrot-less twat. Or,

B) To shoot me in the face once or twice before going after the manager or dancer or anyone else who happened to be close by.



 I was pretty relieved when he went with "C", Neither.



 It turned out that he had returned to get another dance from Notorious.




 Now I know that many of you reading this totally don't understand what the hell is going on right now, so we're going to go to a slow motion replay of my conversation with this moron to try to shed more light on the subject.


  This conversation occurred just after I realized I wasn't going to be shot to death in a strip club lobby and had patted him down to be sure, and just before my mind surrendered and said 'Holy fuck he's serious.'


  Here's our exchange as it happened after he failed to execute me and I had patted him down to ensure it wasn't a future option:



  ME) "Did you forget something? Need to close out a tab or something?"


  FUCKING IDIOT) "No, I want to get another dance from her."


  ME) "Excuse me?"


  FUCKING IDIOT) "I want to get another dance from her. I can't help it. She's so beautiful."*6


  ME) "I'm sorry, you what?" At this point my head was cocked to the side, like an adorable puppy that has heard a weird sound. Super cute, probably. "Weren't you just bitching about getting ripped off and saying how you'll never spend another dime in here not fifteen minutes ago?"


  FUCKING IDIOT) "Yeah. But I don't know, there's just something about her. I just....I just want to get another dance from her and apologize about the misunderstanding. I like her."


  ME) "I. Wait. You....you just. I mean...Didn't you...She fucking....Seriously? What the fuck is wrong with you?"


  FUCKING IDIOT) "I'm sorry man. She's just so beautiful. I'm sorry."


  ME) "Dude, I can find you a half dozen hotter chicks in thirty seconds who DON'T have to strap on a nosebag when they're eating lunch. Let me help you."


  FUCKING IDIOT) "No...I. She's just special. I gotta go find her." And he scampers into the club.




  ME) "Fuck me. That was the single most fucked up thing I have ever witnessed that didn't involve an edged weapon or radio controlled cucumber."


          "I Fucking Hate Saturdays."





  This was honestly a first in my 18 years or so in this industry. Cheers!






2) Imagine for a moment, gentle reader, that you are a prostitute. You masquerade as a dancer and indeed, the occupation is the perfect camouflage for your true profession with the added bonus that you can sometimes make good money without even having to take a stranger's penis in your body.*7


  So keeping the "I'm sexually rentable" point of view going what, as a hooker, is the one thing you don't want your johns to know? Like, the most important thing you should never let them find out?


  If you answered "Where I live?" with an uncertainty laden upward inflection, then you are one smart dick-scabbard indeed. For is it not written "Crazy bastards who don't know where you live can't break into your house and rape and kill you."?


  Yup, it's written somewhere and it's true.

                                       "Bayonet wounds totally count as orifices."








  So, imagine my complete and utter shock when one of our resident whoo-ers was hiding and all creeped out by one of her regulars that was asking all the Floor Guys where she was. I asked her what the deal was as she came out of a champagne room wiping her chin and it went something mostly like this:


  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*8 a few nights before and he picked me up from my house."


  ME) "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 some firearms and learn how to use them. 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*9. 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) "Call me if he tries to fist you without your consent."


  RENT-A-HOLE) "Oh. OK. I will."






  All right. There it is folks. I fucking slaved over this one so I hope everyone likes it.


  Whoever threw a link to this informative blog on a certain gun chat forum, thank you. Good feedback and lots of hits from there. Appreciate it...



  Tune in next time when I explain how strippers travel back through time and how it almost led to Neanderthals becoming the dominant human subspecies and why that might've sucked. I put a lot of research into it at great personal risk, there's a clandestine sector of da gubbamint that actively supports and recruits stripper operatives to go back in time and fuck things up for normal people.


  No, I'm serious.



Sour Cream Cake Donuts,
-The StripperHerder











*1 Other Stripperherder Holidays include: Whack-A-Bitch Day, Drunksgiving, Pissmas, Goodbye Cunt Day, Whale Wednesday, Found More Than $200 Day




*2 Except the poor bastards who work at whatever club she ends up at. You pitiable bastards.




*3 January is the absolute worst month for the service industry. It's a giant, gaping cunt of a month you just have to get through before things start to slowly improve.**


    **This used to apply to February and March too, and still does but to a much lesser extent than in previous years. The main reason being for this is the relative ease and speed with which most Americans can now get their income tax refund. (Which I'm getting totally fucked out of this year. Honesty doesn't pay...)




*4 Except a high end club in a top tier market with a booming economy. These clubs can always afford to be extremely choosy with their hiring. They frequently operate in a completely gremlin-free state. Must be nice...




*5 She doesn't tip good enough to merit an opinion. If you're going to be a trifling, drunken scam artist, fine. Just tip accordingly to the people who have to shake down customers for your money and clean up your trail of man tears.




*6 I agree that this girl is fairly decent looking, although most of her charms emanate from her body, which is admittedly, pretty goddamn stellar. However it is apparent to anyone who professes to be a connoisseur of hot chick faces that she is at least 1/8th horse, or in racist terms, an octoquine.




*7 This should be read in your best Rod Serling voice.




*8 Which means she no matter what she ordered, she received some sausage and sausage gravy over biscuits. Droopy sack-biscuits.



*9 What can I say? Yeah she's a whore and yeah she's dumb as a crackerful of egg salad, but goddamn it she's kinda nice and even more important, a good tipper. 

A Touch Of Poignancy Followed By A Dissatisfied Customer Quiz. Or, Meet The Team, Part Two.

  This is yet another hodgepodge frankenstein of an installment, stuck together from handy parts I had laying around and jolted into life by an infusion of fresh material brought on by recent club events. It knows both goodness and evil, pride and shame, rejoice and resignation.



  Therefore you may find it a bit more patchwork than my standard semi-coherent and uncompromising style, but don't let that fool you. A whole bunch of emotional fizz went into this installment, it just didn't do it all in one night.



  Let's begin on a high note. You know, for something different than the norm.






                    Fare Thee Well, Evil Penis Gobblin





  God doesn't completely hate Floor Guys. Mostly he does, that much is obvious to any rational human being. But every now and then, and probably just to keep a tiny flicker of hope guttering away in our hearts, he does something nice for us.


  Like tonight when He allowed an annoying mule-mouthed skeeve to be fired and she took her best friend and weeble buddy, StubbleGut*1 with her. It was like Christmas, your birthday and the best head you've ever had all rolled into one and served in a free Bentley.


  It was, quite simply, the best thing that has ever happened to me at this club. I felt what I have heard described as 'happiness' and I enjoyed it. It was a state of being where I didn't want to be a dick to anything at all. In fact I wanted to pet some kittens and give Jordans to homeless kids. I wanted to hug the whole world and reassure it that that evil goddamn braysnatch*2 could never hurt it again. At least not my small portion of it.


  It was a good night and those are rarer than the albino alligators that I enjoy making jerky out of.

                                                     Our dayshift team.
   







I Am A Dissatisfied Customer I'll Have You Know.







  In this industry we have a pretty fair number of what would refer to themselves as 'dissatisfied' if we actually cared to poll our customer base on their thoughts and feelings as they were exiting the club. This can happen for any number of reasons, the majority of which are the patron's fault and may include:


  -Unrealistic expectations

  -Failure to receive head in a champagne room

  -Getting ripped off by a dancer

  -Our ATM's are too difficult/too expensive to use

  -You didn't want to pay a cover charge

  -You didn't like your drink

  -You lost something

  -It turned out the stripper you had a 'connection' with was a soulless cunt

  -You weren't allowed to do whatever the hell you want

  -Our state's laws differ from the ones you're used to

  -We didn't allow you to sit in a VIP section without purchasing something that might actually qualify you as a VIP

  -Our dancers weren't hot/numerous enough for you

  -You couldn't buy coke from anyone in the club

  -We didn't have an Asian stripper

  -We were out of shrimp

  -You got thrown out of the club for doing meth in the bathroom

  -A hammered stripper said inappropriate things to you

  -Your hat looks different after you get it back from coat check

  -You feel like we should give you free passes to come back to a place you clearly didn't enjoy
 
  -You were WAY too drunk to be roaming around free with a credit card

 

   "I spent $200 at your club and my fingers still don't reek of quim. What kind of operation are you running?"





  The list is practically endless. The bottom line is you didn't enjoy your titty-club experience. What separates you from the animals, or those about to get beaten/go to jail is how you handle the situation. I've based all the correct answers on the assumption you were sober/smart enough to make reasonably intelligent decisions, so don't disappoint me.




  1) A dancer has just done one and a half private dances for you and says she did three. She demands money and when you try to explain that she is mistaken about the amount of cash owed she gets all wild eyed and angry and uses her thrice-a-day power to Summon A Bouncer. You:

  


A) Curse her out vehemently as you pull a knife and start slashing wildly at anything within reach.


B) Elaborate calmly and without being a dick what just happened and hope the bouncer will work with you. Explain that you were even willing to pay full price for the half song that she did, but there was no third song. Hope as you do this that there's some sort of system in place to protect the likes of you from stripper depredation and that the stripper in question isn't a good tipper.


C) Explain to the bouncer/manager WHO you are, let them know in no uncertain terms that you are an Important Person and a Very Good Friend of the Owner and that if the situation progresses any further down this unacceptable path that you will be forced to call the owner and have everyone fired immediately.



D) Call the cops and tell them a stripper ripped you off. They like it when you use 9-1-1 for this purpose.





2) Because you're an idiot, you lost your cellphone at a strip club. You:




A) Look for it yourself, carefully retracing your movements through the club ecosystem and checking every possible crevice you may have lost it or set it down in.


B) Accuse the bitch you've been hanging out with of stealing it and make a huge fucking scene, yo.


C) Enlist a Floor Host's help locating your lost item, and tip him something when he finds it for you. Doesn't have to be anything big, even a fiver says "Thank you Godlike Giant. I am a drunk, mongloid wastrel of a man but even in the depths of my own booze fueled stupidity, I can still spare a little something for someone who saved me a boatload of anguish."


D) Call the cops to report a stolen phone. See how that works out for ya.




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'.



4) Your food took 93 minutes to arrive and when it did it tasted like something unfortunate that had died in a chimney and then got scraped onto your plate. You can already feel it sowing discord and anarchy in your bowels. You:




A) Curse your decision to eat food from a titty club, what were you thinking? Head for the men's room to execute an emergency evacuation, dreading the shame and noise/stench that is likely to occur. Hobble from the club a broken man and pray for a life of anonymity.


B) Refuse to accept the dried out remains of what you ordered and complain to the Manager. If you're polite and non-twatty about, he'll likely comp it or take it off your tab.


C) Be a complete and total asshole to the waitress and anyone else who comes to talk to you about your dissatisfaction with the bland, uninteresting and potentially deadly food you've been served.


D) Call the cops. They relish the thought of helping you in a dispute over a subpar $12 quesadilla.

 "I am appalled that the guy you pay $8 an hour can't make sushi."   

5) In an altercation that began over a Long Island Iced Tea, you end up sustaining serious facial injuries from a South American stripper's fearsome stiletto heel. You:




A) Wait until you're released from the hospital and then immediately go get a dance from that same fiery Latino gal who maimed you. She's so fuckin hot...


B) Threaten to sue the club but never actually do it because lawyers want cash up front to take on the club's intimidating legal team and you've spent all your money on strippers.


C) Sue the club and settle out of court for your medical bills plus $30,000 in the club's funny money and a VIP card good for 7 1/2 months.


D) Marry the stripper who disfigured you and care for her children, happy in the knowledge that she lets you stick your nose in her hoo-ha every couple of weeks for your trouble.






               Meet the team, part two.




  Consuela-Another fun thing that happened was when one of our Puerto Rican employees got her thong all in a knot because because I called one of her friends 'Mexican'. I legitimately thought the girl was Mexican. It was a reprehensible, horrible mistake on my part and I have no idea how I made it. She continued to bitch and moan and make disparaging remarks about people from Mexico until I started getting aggravated and eventually screamed at her:


  "I can't tell the fucking difference!"


  Man, if I thought she was upset before, I was wrong.


  She went critical. Starts screeching at me rapid fire in at least two languages. I thought I caught some Peruvian in there too but couldn't be sure because I don't know what Peruvian sounds like. I let her run down while I drank six beers. A Puerto Rican complaining about stuff while they're upset can take a long time...


  Finally she said her piece or simply ran out of breath and I took the opportunity to ask her "So if one of them's NOT wearing a kilt, could you tell the difference between an Irishman and a Scot? What about a Korean and someone from Hong Kong? South African and Dutch?"


  Didn't think so, Suzy. Shut your fucking blowjob hole.

                           "We Puerto Ricans are much more animated than Mexican people."






  Sir Grendel Berserkerheim Von CrushaHo VI-A Manager with teeth. Sir Grendel doesn't put up with much shit from dancers and has, in fact, fired more of them in his time there than any other manager. The fact that the owner forces us to hire most of the worthless twats back notwithstanding, Mr. CrushaHo is like a breath of fresh air in the middle of a dysentery outbreak. He's fearless.


  A fight in the club? No problem, Sir Grendel relishes hurting douchebags. Cater to pretentious high rollers? He's got you covered. He's not afraid to comp a $50 bottle to someone about to drop $5,000 at the club.


  He's everyone's favorite manager and as a result I only get to work with him maybe once in every ten shifts or so. Fucking typical...

                                  "Fine her $50 for being late or I'll put her in a chokehold. Her choice."







  Delores Bleedalot-Useless. Unmotivated. Waitress. These are words which describe Delores, a girl who has about the same level of aptitude as a waitress that I would have if I was to be thrust into the role of a ballet dancer or a theoretical physicist. To say that Ms. Bleedalot is not good at cocktail waitressing would be missing the opportunity to say that she is only slightly better at it than a belligerent, myopic walrus would be, and I'm not going to do that.


  I call her 'Bleedalot' because if you were to believe her every work related excuse concerning her monthly cycle, you'd be forced to believe she menstruated 22 days a month and that her uterus occasionally prolapses. In addition to this she seems to possess a magical talent for cutting herself at work. If there is a broken glass anywhere in the building, which is pretty much every night, her body will apparently give itself a sympathy wound. Kinda like drunk stigmata.


  It's fucking weird. Happily for me I won't have to put up with her much longer because she will be fired any day now. I personally can't believe she's lasted this long...




  Eternica-A dancer who is rumored to be 314 years old. I estimate her true age is much closer to 600 or 700 based on some conversations I've had with her, but I'm not an anthropologist so I'm just guessing. She appears, with the benefit of extensive makeup, dim lighting and alcohol diffused perception to be somewhere in her late 40's or early 50's, but no one of that age should know as much about the Thirty Years War or Renaissance Europe as she does without a Master's in history.


  I choose to believe that she knows all of this information because she lived through it. It may or may not be the case but it amuses me to think about her interacting with Michangelo, giving a lap dance to Gustavus Adolphus or possibly even groping the crotch of Isaac Newton for four pence and a farthing.

                                          

                         Eternica napping between dances in her custom made Tupperware sleep module.


















*1 She's called StubbleGut because her bush comes up to her bellybutton and encircles it like a besieging horde surrounding a neolithic hill fort.




*2 It means exactly what it sounds like it means.**


  ** But if you insist on thinking of a braysnatch as a mythological beast that you may encounter in a role playing game (which I know many of you are already doing, you fucking geeks), then be aware that it is stunningly resilient, wildly hard to kill and that its many Special Attacks include:


Painful Frequency (unlimited per day)-Stripper unleashes a scream that threatens to go subsonic and destroy larger mammals' nerve centers. Extremely painful for Large Class humans and other species such as dolphins, bats and wendigos.

Brass Tears (unlimited per day)-Uncontrolled sobbing saps the will of beings with low Wisdom, Intelligence or Constitution, making saves vs crying chick highly unlikely.

Badger of Misery (once per day)-Enables the stripper to become a whirlwind of raking claws, gnashing teeth, flailing spike heels and often, a rocks glass. Unbelievably dangerous, like trying to tackle and subdue a threshing combine.

Summon Hood Rats (once per shift)-Stripper calls upon her clan mates to rebel against the local authority.**


  **And authority always wins.

Mothers Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Floor Guys. Or, Despite Many People Being Of The Opinion That It's NEVER OK To Put Your Hands On A Girl, Every Now And Then A Little Light Throttling Somewhere Off Camera Is Perfectly Acceptable For Some Bitches.

  Several alternate titles for this installment read as follows:




1)  "I See Your Samonella And Raise Your Some Botulism. Or, My Child Raped Yours And Is Currently Being Held Without Bond Awaiting Trial. My Bad."


 2)  "I Can See How Being A Floor Host Would Suit You Perfectly If You Were Raised As A For-Profit Catholic. Or, Your Morals Are Like A Mighty Anchor On Your Livelihood, Mr. Cleaver."


3) "I Once Knew A Sasquatch Named Gur, Whose Movements Were Always A Blur.... Or, I Am A Cocktail Waitress, Therefore, By Definition, Pretty Worthless."





  If you look up 'wasted potential' in a dictionary, my face really should pop up next to the definition. Sometimes in the small hours of the night I think about all the lives I've disregarded, all the possibilities I've turned my back on and all the roads I never went down. I feel as if I could've made some sort of positive impact on our world if I'd only made better choices and applied the big thinky-thing in my skull to helping mankind instead of encouraging it to get an hour champagne room or buy a bottle of vodka.


  But rather than bettering my world, I've just crawled deep into the slimy underbelly of a degenerate industry and made myself comfortable, not unlike a tapeworm with a body hair problem. And why not? I justify to myself, it's an easy road to travel, my simple needs are fulfilled and occasionally I get to rough up a fellow human being.



Honestly it's an ideal profession for me. I'm large, I'm lazy and I enjoy ruining drunk people's good time. I find it hard to imagine another job I'm so perfectly suited to. (Outside of Dictator/Evil Overlord, of course but the job market's a bitch for Dictators/Evil Overlords these days. Everybody wants 'freedom' or some such nonsense...)



  But 'Herdin isn't for everyone. The occupation will eat away at ones moral fiber like a cheerfully determined cancer and only those who've already strangled their self respect to death*1 and hidden away it's gruesome remains can expect to succeed and survive within it.



  Take young Billy Hawkins for example. Billy was a Floor Guy I used to work with who I just made up solely to provide a character for something awful to happen to, which reinforces the above sentiment about how working in strip clubs is really hard on the soul.



  So Billy was what I refer to as 'dangerously suburban'. Webster's Dictionary defines 'Dangerously Suburban' as:



Adjective

1. Referring to those who use 'Golly!' and 'That's Swell!' in every day language, vote Republican because that's how Mom and Dad vote and believe in stuff from the Bible.


2. Characteristic of a town or village where the worst crimes committed yearly are littering, jaywalking and the occasional and highly scandalous DUI.



Noun

1. A future crime statistic


2. A naive person. Like big-time naive. See Brooklyn Bridge and Magic Beans.







  Billy was the most idealistic, open hearted kid I can ever remember working with. He didn't swear, drink, smoke, work on Sundays or take the Lord's name in vain. He didn't covet his neighbor's stuff, was kind to small animals and thought everything would all be OK if we would just take a moment to talk to one another like human beings.


  Then he started working in a titty club and it was like 15 years of cynicism and misanthropy cock punched his spirit all at once. If you could've observed him long enough, maybe with the help of time lapse photography, you could've actually seen tiny bits of his soul sour and die right in front of you. Billy was like a tragic ongoing science experiment for us Floor Scum who had already mortgaged our souls to pay the bills and upgrade the transportation sector.


  We wanted to help him. We urged him to run like hell from this business, that it wasn't for him. But he was suburban stubborn, which is sort of like garage-veal if you catch my meaning. This industry just plain overwhelmed him. It devoured him. He never stood a chance. It was like expecting one twelve year old boy armed only with a kitchen strainer to take out SEAL Team Six.


   He was destined to fail.


  Within a year he 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*2, 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.


  It was sad to watch. Too much reality, too fast.*3 It fucked him up good and to this day he's still institutionalized and fed a constant diet of Thorazine to keep him calm and unkilly.


  It takes a special breed to be a dancer wrangler...




  It goes without saying that there are a lot of dudes running around wild in this world who would benefit from having some of their facial bones broken by someone who didn't want to fight, but was forced to in order to defend himself from unwarranted aggression. If only more bullies got their asses handed to them by their would be victims, then the world would be a much better place I feel.


  Alas, the same also holds true for some females. A much smaller percentage to be sure, but still there are some...


  I'm not advocating domestic violence here of course, it's (almost) never right for a man to hit a woman. Yet even in the face of this undeniable fact, I have witnessed exceptions to the rule. In rare occasions, it's not only OK to hit a girl, it would probably do her some good or at least bring her reign of terror to an end. To persons in the security field, like myself, she'd still have to hit first. Being attacked opens all kinds of doors to the carnage-ly minded; it invites self defense, which in and of itself may actually be a really crippling attack.









  Six reasons why I can't hear you in a loud club, for the dumber, more timid waitresses:





A) You're tiny. Which means your mouth is roughly level with my anus, which doesn't hear so good because it's an anus. A fucking anus.


B) I've been in several metal bands and have attended hundreds of metal concerts which means my hearing is fucked. Especially when there's loud background music, like Rihanna.


C) You're talking like we're alone in a tiny camper together. I can see your wee bitty mouth moving, but none of the meaningful sounds are registering in my brain because you're talking to me like I'm a special needs kitten.


D) Whatever you're asking me is something you should already know and I don't care about any of it because I'm tired of helping you do your job. You should tip me every time I point out a new table that you didn't notice walk through the door because there are a lot of them and you really suck at your easy job.


E) I am a total dick who doesn't care about any of your problems or any of your offspring's achievements, thus negating any possible content we could have to interact over outside of me telling you there are new tables to wait on.


F) I have an earpiece in my 'good' ear and it's usually spewing useless, unimportant bullshit that not only impedes the efficient execution of my duties, but makes your rodent-like mewling seem contrived. Almost like you're part of the problem...






  For REALZ*4, why is it so hard to have a competent wait staff in a strip club? A girl can make really good money here if she just knows her game. It's not difficult at all. It's not like a busy restaurant where you really have to be at your best and have to have some sort of specialized knowledge, like the day's specials. We don't have specials. Our food sucks and is cooked by idiots.




  Which is as good a segue as any to explore the topic of our cooks, which is, quite frankly, frightening.




  Our cooks don't just murder food products, they desecrate them. It's like the difference between just killing other humans as opposed to killing them and making interesting rain gear and useful household items from their skin and various internal organs.


  The main problem is what we sorta refer to as our 'Kitchen Manager'. He is what could charitably be called Blanco Garbige, or more domestically; one car payment short of being homeless. And as I have elucidated before, birds of a feather flock together. Therefore if one is a lazy ignorant wretch, it only stands to reason that the majority of one's friends will be uneducated troglodytes with a poor work ethic as well.


  And this is the case.



  I'm not Gordon Ramsey by any means. There is so much culinary stuff that I can't do that it doesn't even bear thinking about. I can't dress a carcass, nor fillet a fish. I am a modern cook who is accustomed to working with shit that's already been neatly cut up for me.


  That being said I can be drunk in a wheelchair, blind and half-heartedly masturbating and still cook better than our entire kitchen staff combined. Their knowledge of food safety is laughable if you don't ever intend on eating their dishes, or an intestinal gamble if you do.


  I'm just going to list a few of the things they do wrong here to illustrate my stance. Those of you with no culinary experience and who have never seen the Food Network or were even aware of it's existence may not appreciate the following factoids I'm gonna throw at you, but it doesn't make them any less startling nor valid.



1) The first is simply a waste issue, but it bears mentioning. When you take a food from frozen to thawed, you do it in cold water or in the fridge. Most restaurants do it in cold water because it's much quicker than simply letting sit in the fridge.


  When you thaw stuff in cold water, you place it in a container under a running faucet. You do this because bacteria has an incredibly difficult time reproducing in water that's not only chilly, but non stagnant as well. The faucet doesn't have to be running full blast, it merely needs to be dripping enough water to keep the surface of the container that is thawing whatever it is you're trying to unfreeze continually over-spilling its confines.


 So the reality is that it's not the running water that's actually thawing the subject material out, rather it's the immersion in less-than-freezing water that's doing so. The water just needs to be running enough to keep the surface of the thaw water moving, which is incredibly confusing to bacteria apparently.


 But our cooks say 'fuck all that' and keep the water on full blast while they're thawing stuff. They believe in their heart of hearts that it's the running water that will successfully unfreeze stuff, and like medieval peasants, believe in the power of running water to repel evil spirits.


  They have wasted, in my conservative opinion, roughly six billion gallons of water in the last three weeks or so. They do more damage to the environment than NASCAR or Mel Gibson.



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.*5


  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.


  New cook never even blinked. He filled a dish with it and shambled off to the microwave, oblivious to the hummus's impending sentience. I mentioned to the 'senior' cook that he might want to smell the hummus container and thus stop the new cook's obvious agenda of manslaughter and intestinal turmoil, which, to his credit, he did.


  Needless to say, all hope for new cook shattered.



 
3) Cooking steaks to temperature is something that takes practice. Hell, cooking any kind of meat to perfection has a little bit of a learning curve, I'd be the first to admit that. But with at least a couple of months of hands on practice, and with proper mentorship by an experienced chef, anyone who intends on continuing to make their living by preparing food should be able to do it by instinct and touch alone. Anyone who cooks meat for a living should have a 80-90% success rate at cooking a steak to correct temp.


  I say 80-90% because it is a restaurant industry fact that a fair portion of the steak-consuming population doesn't actually know how it likes its steak cooked. People who request and think they enjoy Medium Well often in reality prefer Medium and those that claim to favor Medium Rare are frequently fans of Rare and just don't know it.*7



  Our culinary wizards are like blind squirrels-every now and then they find an acorn and by that I mean they cook a steak correctly.
 



  What other gastronanigans*6 have they been up to you ask?



  Well, we make orders of mashed potatoes in plastic bags. I'm gonna pause the narrative for a moment and let that sink in.


 
                       (insert intermission music here)



  I'm going to assume there's a least a few people who read this blog that haven't worked in a kitchen before and aren't very handy in their own kitchens either and therefore the following statement is intended for them:



    Mashed potatoes aren't made in plastic bags. 






  Fuck it's late and I can't even begin to cover them all. It's motherfucking 10:15 AM and I'm really tired and sorta drunk. I really want to do pictures, but at the same time I want to just publish this already and pretend I did it in time to be a 'year-end special'.




  Happy "New" Year and fuck your goddamn pictures.

-The StripperHerder


















*1 Quietly, while no one was looking.




*2 Hey I said 'suburban', not rural. There was no farm to be saved even though it would've made a more compelling narrative.




*3 I was going to do a song parody of Mother's Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys here, but when I got to looking at the actual lyrics of the song I noticed something kinda fucked up. Here are the lyrics from the first chorus and the first 2 lines of the second verse:


"Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
Don't let 'em pick guitars or drive them old trucks.
Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such.
Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
'Cos they'll never stay home and they're always alone.
Even with someone they love.

Cowboys like smokey old pool rooms and clear mountain mornings,
Little warm puppies and children and girls of the night.."


  Um, children and girls and possibly even warm puppies of the night? Surely I can't be the only one aware of the older and somehow more polite term for a prostitute, 'Lady of the Night'? So presumably, judging by the original lyrics, a cowboy may indeed like a girl, a child or in a pinch, a warm puppy prostitute? No wonder you shouldn't let your baby grow up to be one.


 Imagine the conversations between doting mothers:



Miriam: "Hi Nancy! What do you want you babies to be when they grow up?"


Nancy: "Hello Miriam! I want them to be doctors and lawyers and dentists. That way they can make a good living and help others at the same time. What do you want your babies to be when they grow up?"


Miriam: "I want them to be pedophiles and zoophiliacs who have the moral convictions of drunk jackals. That way they can make a good living and destroy others at the same time."

*4 Can't believe I just typed "For Realz". I'm be on crack.





*5 Except in certain quaint regional delicacies, most of which predate refrigeration.





*6 Gastronanigans: Short for Gastronomic Shenanigans. Having fun at the expense of, or torturing others with food. This can be intentional or otherwise.





*7 I myself am one of those crazy people who prefer my steak Medium Well to Well done. A good quality cut of meat cooked to Well by someone who knows what they're doing can be every bit as tender and delicious as a medium rare one. The problem is that there are many folks out there who equate 'tender' with 'squishy'.