If You Want To Be A Complete Piece Of Shit That's Your Choice, I Say Run With It But Be Prepared For Some Consequences. Or, Stripper Bullies: The Sad, Sad Tale Of Wee Robby MacFeeble.

  Some people feel the need to be assholes and like to disparage others for not being assholey enough. It's a plague on our society and sadly enough, is only getting worse as certain lifestyles are glorified in a pop culture mentality that make it seem as if being a fucking twat to fellow humans is the way super cool people act.


  As a grunt on the front lines of the struggle between commerce and the general public*1, I get to witness all sorts of extremes that most folks have to watch Worldstar and Youtube to experience. All the drama, drunks, drugs and dipshittery you could possibly ever crave, served up hot and fresh daily, double orders on Saturdays.


  I don't begrudge anyone a bit of boisterousness. I've been known to occasionally get a bit high spirited myself*2, but my outright cuntishness was pretty limited and mostly confined to a slurred muttering. I'm not gonna lie, I think horrible things about most of the people I see, every day. Inside my head, I'm feel like I'm an asshole as big as any on the planet. Luckily for me I seem to have adequate filters in place that, for the most part, seem to strain my output to the world, catching most of the really unpleasant stuff thrashing about up there.


  Yay, me!


  So I find it extra irritating when someone feels they have to be a dick about everything and the bigger dick they can be, the better they feel about themselves and the cooler they are within their community. I have many examples I could give you, but am going to focus on one particular specimen because I am a lazy bastard and a sorry excuse for a storyteller.


  I don't know what her name is. She's black, ghetto as a movie stereotype and in my experience either a total piece of shit, or someone trying very hard and with admirable success to portray a total piece of shit. I'll call her Brenda, because if she could read this it would piss her the fuck off to be called Brenda.


  Brenda graces the club with her presence about once a month. She always arrives five minutes before last call with a large group of her loud friends and bitches about paying the cover. She'll complain and gripe and make a scene, then grudgingly hand over her cover. Every fucking time. It's like belittling the Door Girl and myself make her feel like she's getting her money's worth out of the cover.


  I've asked to just have her and her cronies banned, but they actually spend some money so the management team won't pull the trigger. Brenda doesn't spend anything mind you, but the people she's with do and she has attached herself to them like a chubby, medusa-weaved lamprey.


  Here's two endearing elements of Brenda's game:



1) Every time she leaves the club she feels compelled to tell me how "Our shit is weak." And, "There ain't be no booties up in this shit." Brenda is very distraught that we don't employee dancers that can make her titanic ass look small by comparison. You would think that after her many visits to the club she would realize that the owner doesn't hire plus sized strippers and that if giant asses are what she wants to see, she should go to A.K.'s AssHaus on the other side of town.

                                         "White bitch ain't got no ass. Dat shit is weak."






2) Another of Brenda's charms is her unabashed altruism.


  As I was walking a dancer out to her car the other night, Brenda and her group were walking in the parking lot towards their cars as well. As another car pulls into the lot, one of the guys in Brenda's crew says to the driver that his passenger side headlight was out. The driver didn't hear him so the guy points it out to him again. This dude was going out of his way to alert a stranger about a problem that might get him pulled over, I thought that was pretty nice and it's something I frequently do as well. Sometimes, especially on well lit streets, you don't realize you've got a headlight out until someone lets you know.


  Turns out the driver didn't realize and was happy as fuck that the guy told him.*3 Brenda thought it was bullshit however. She laughed at her helpful friend and said "You west side, bitch."*4 and "Why fuck you care if dat nuggah go to jail, mowwa-fakka!"



  It bothered her that someone she closely associated with would try to do something nice for someone he didn't know.


  Brenda is her own worst enemy, I'll leave it at that because of beer and stuff.







   



  The sad, sad tale of Wee Robby MacFeeble.

                                                 Wee Robby MacFeeble, Age 21









  Tis a dirge of a story is the mournful yarn of poor, Wee Robby MacFeeble. This stunted lad was born to wee, bitty parents who both nevertheless sported magnificent facial hair. At age twelve, and fully grown, he sets out into the cruel, cold world to seek his fortune among the giants.


  Someone decided along the way that Wee Robby was employable in a field that clearly required no lifting over seven pounds or conflict resolution with anyone over the age of nine. And in whatever field this was, Wee Robby flourished, accumulating over $300 in under a decade. Wee Robby was the pride of his village.


  Then one day Wee Robby decided that he had to see what a woman's breasts looked like so he journeyed to the Big City and went to an establishment where the women showed off their boobies and hung upside down on shiny brass poles.


  It was a whole new world for Wee Robby.



  It was then that two unwholesome strippers latched onto Wee Robby and brought him to an ATM machine. Wee Robby had never seen an ATM machine and was suitably intimidated, such contraptions didn't exist in his world. Fortunately for him the two strippers were there to ensure he wasn't eaten by the machine, something he was assured frequently happens. While one walked him through the the astoundingly complicated steps to withdraw money from his savings account, the other fondled his dude-bits and murmured at him seductively, distracting him from the painstaking process of withdrawing cash.


  The next thing he knew his life savings were gone and the dancers nowhere to be found. He'd been bamboozled!


  As he related his story to me from waist height I quickly became bored and I passed it off to a Manager who will forever curse my name for getting him involved.



  The fact of the matter is that yes, he was ripped off by two predatory strippers, one who had been fired and hired back and another who should've been fired about a dozen times over, yet still stalks our floor. He ended up calling the cops, who just laughed at him. Literally, I'm not even kidding you.


  It was impossible for me to feel any kind of sympathy for him because I think that if you're dumb or drunk enough to be taken advantage of like that, then you deserve to lose that money. Chalk it up to a learning experience and move the hell on.


  Accept the possibility that you may be a total fucking idiot and do the best you can. If all else fails you can work in the mines.





Have a night,
-The StripperHerder
















*1 i.e. A service industry employee.





*2 Read: Large, out of control, ragingly catastrophic drunk bent on ruining something





*3 This dude actually had a spare headlight in his trunk. Who the fuck carries a spare headlight except a seasoned drunk or madhat survivalist?





*4 West Side: An allusion to the helpful friend being from a more suburbanized side of town than was considered 're-ahl'.**



       ** Re-ahl. [Ree-all] As in "keepin it real"

How Karma Pays Me Back Rectally. Or, Feel The Wrath Of Mismanagement Devour Your Hope For Mankind's Survival.

  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.

               "That's right, I found your...ugh...dog. I just...yeah, ugh...fucking found that dog, ughn..."







  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. 

                          "If that bitch dun't have pasties oon, I'm gonna shit down your froat."






  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."

                      "Make me money. I never authorized that. My Floor Guys are running amok!"







  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."

                       "How dare you comp a Bud Light without my consent! I attack your nest!"







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:

                      This picture describes me perfectly except that I'm taller and painfully white.







  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.