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Management? We Don't Need No Stinking Management. Or, Tell Me Again But More Slowly This Time What Happens If I Refuse To Pay A Stripper For The Dances She Did For Me. Spare Me No Details, Giant Bouncer.



  The state has come down hard on us lately. Really hard. And by 'really hard' I mean by stripper standards which are, admittedly, less than those of someone who can do simple math problems, or recognize a cop by the ballsitic vest he wears under his shirt.


  It's a very simple equation. You see, we don't live in an active warzone, therefore it is a reasonable assumption that anyone wearing a bulletproof vest under his fucking polo shirt is most likely a cop.


  i.e., don't offer to blow him in a champagne room. Don't offer to manhandle his member like it's a stubborn puppy. 


  

  It only takes a tiny amount of situational awareness, self respect and common sense to NOT offer oral sex for a nominal fee to a complete stranger. Who may or may not be a law enforcement agent. It also only takes a smidgen of intelligence and a dollop of street smarts to recognize an officer of the law when he is wearing a bulletproof vest under his shirt while you're giving him a lap dance.




                  "Hey ladies. Where can a hard working man and his dog get a blow job and maybe some weed?"






  Let's review. Customer is adorned with any of the following accouterments: bulletproof vest, holstered handgun, police dog, badge or shirt/jacket emblazoned with the letters: VICE, POLICE, ATF, FBI, CIA, DHS or really any sort of law enforcement agency at all =do not offer a reasonably priced sex act or there may be legal repercussions.


  It's not brain surgery. I'm pretty sure brain surgeons seldom offer some oral sex for money or drugs which is why they are very rarely arrested for prostitution.*1





                              "All right, you guys finish up here. I'm gonna start blowin him."






  Even a kitten half drowned in a river can grasp right from wrong if given the proper stimulus.




  
 Which brings us to the crux of the matter...




  In order to have an understanding of right from wrong, even a half drowned kitten must have some sort of guidance mixed with a bit of discipline. It cannot be expected to know how to behave unless someone is setting some behavioral parameters for it to learn from.


  Which in this context means that management must have some teeth. If the immediate management of a club can't or won't administer some sort of authority over a stripper, then that stripper will run roughshod over anything in her path and only a well placed right cross to her booze hole will reestablish control.


  That or fining the goddamn bitch. Strippers really hate being fined because they resent the already idiotic fees they generally pay to the House as it is.




  In fact if you don't get her under control, she will consume the entire city and shit out welfare recipients faster than you can exterminate them

 All will be chaos, my friend.





                              "He owes me $624,000. I pleasured him with my little mouth."





  All that being said, here's why being a Manager in a strip club rates just slightly higher on my ladder of shit I never want to be subjected to than being mouth-raped by spiky-dicked demons several times a day, every day, for the rest of eternity.



  Strip club managers are stuck between a world of Owner Feces and Employee Bullshit and it's not a good place to be by anyone's estimation. The malevolent, grasping Owner rains hell on a manager who can't keep an unsustainable level of entertainers employed. And the entertainers themselves, without proper fear of the Management who are afraid of firing them because of the Owner's unrealistic mandates, proceed to destroy everything that is good about life with less regret than ravening, coke maddened werewolves.





                                         "RAWR! I'm a werewolf who does a lot of coke!"





  So when you have the misfortune to be a Manager, you get shit from the Owner for firing girls because he wants as many dancers working per shift as possible and he doesn't care how they make their money, as long as they're making money for the club and haven't lost him his liquor license yet.


  These are the types of problems an owner pays a Manager to sort out which is why there (very nearly) isn't a salary high enough to make me take a management position.



  As a Manager, you rarely get supported when you decide to pull your balls out and fucking fire a whore. Usually your balls get stomped on and since you're not a stripper, you learn not to dangle your tantalizingly vulnerable yams out there anymore.



  Fuck that shit. Negative reinforcement is a powerful thing. Pulverized balls.



  So things progress badly and eventually what you end up with looks like The Muppet Show on crack with extra titties, acrylic nails and crazier hair. It's fearsome and dare I say, repugnant.




                              Udders leaking liquid smack, Ingrid put on the show of her life.








  It's no way to run a club. There have got to be fucking limits....









  Here's what happens at my club when you decide you're not going to pay a dancer for the dances she did. Let's set up a hypothetical situation for those of my readers who don't actually know how a strip club operates.


  A strip club customer comes into a strip club on a Thursday night. All we can assume about him at this point is that he's

A) Paid the cover charge
B) Had a free pass
C) Has a VIP card
D) Is a regular or well known to the Door Girl.
E) Is Police/Military/Fire Dept (who all get in free)


  We'll call this customer Phil because I hate the name Phil and am glad my parents didn't name me it. Think how easy it is to make fun of the name "Phil". Hey it's 'Phil McCrackin' or 'Phil Mybuttup' or even 'Phildo Phaggins' for the slightly more literary bullies. It's a shit name.


  So 'Phil' gets a private dance with a stripper named Nomad. Don't ask me why she's called Nomad, I just like the sound of it. Anyway he ends up being on the receiving end of three separate dances that cost $25 each which equals $75 for the mathematically challenged reading this. The stripper, naturally, didn't get the money for each dance before it started because no one in the industry actually does this. All dancers are supposed to get paid for each dance before doing them, to NOT do this is called "dance stacking" and is a practice verboten at every club I've worked at.


  Which is idiotic of course because it's literally unenforceable, impractical and horrible for dancer income. On the other side of the coin however, there should be common sense limits to protect both dumb fuck strippers and the drunken prey they feed on. Such as asking for the money after five songs or so. Shouldn't be too much to ask for someone to pay for over a hundred bucks worth of services received before dishing out some more.


  But no, I've had conniving and remorseless dancers stack 16, 17 even 20 dances on a guy or do ten dances and try to gouge his hammered ass for fifteen because he certainly wasn't counting while he was fondling her tits and ass. These soulless harlots rely on the Floor Guys to shake down the poor bastard for their money and let me tell you, the ones who habitually do this are always rotten tippers. I've been in fights over $50 for some wretched ho that didn't throw a penny my way for my troubles.


  But that was a younger me, still struggling under some misconceptions and whose heart still held a flicker of empathy for the humans I was forced to interact with. Nowadays when some stripper runs up to me yelling about how some guy owes her money, I only give a shit if the girl is not A) a habitual thieving bitch, or B) a proven lying whore.


  Most dancers will end up dealing with a non paying customer if they're in the business for any length of time, it's the frequency of these events which is most telling. It's a brutal world. The dancers have us, the bouncers, on their side and you, the customer have no one. It's not fair but it's how the world works so plan accordingly.



  Anyway, you inform the dancer that you're not gonna pay her, the reasons are obviously yours alone, but the top ten most common excuses we Floor Dopes hear are:


1) "She never told me dances cost money!"

2) "I never agreed to another dance, therefore I don't owe her."

3) "I thought the whole time that she danced for me was all considered 'one dance' "

4) "They were shitty dances. All eight of them."

5) "I think $25 is too much to pay for a dance."

6) "My buddy was supposed to pay for them."

7) "I thought that when two strippers dance for me at the same time they they split the money!"

8) "I figured out at around the fifth song that she wasn't gonna blow me and now I'm mad."

9) "I completely deny ever getting ANY private dances. I was never back there."

10) "I didn't have any money in the first place, but really wanted to grope a girl despite this handicap."




   In this situation, here's what I do in a handy, easy to write list.



A) Find out why he won't pay for the dances. This will tell me a lot of what I need to know about the whole dilemma.


B) Find out which dancer he owes. This will usually clear up the rest of the mystery.


C) Radio the Counter and find out how many dances he actually did because both of them are probably lying.



  Once I've established the actual amount of money owed, I'll attempt to cajole the customer into paying it. And if it turns out they can't, I try to appeal to his friends to loan him just enough to keep from going to jail. You see, we have cameras in those couch rooms. We know how many dances you've done because we employee a guy who does nothing but monitor the couch rooms and record all dances done. And if necessary can watch some video and count. Not paying for dances we can prove you've received, whether you enjoyed them or not, is called Theft of Services. And is, indeed, a crime.


  Frequently the sum she's asking for is substantially more than what's really due. Strippers, despite their wholesome reputations, lie a lot.


  As such, ofttimes I'm able to tell the guy that he owes the dancer much less than what she's telling him and every now and then a customer appreciates my honesty and coughs up the dough before beating a hasty retreat, usually on a stream of tired expletives. Sometimes however they remain assholey and whiny and grow increasingly cunty the longer the conversation goes on. The most drunken will always revert to lower primate tactics: "I'll just climb high into my truth-tree and fling my mouth-excrement at you from the safety of my drunken delusion tree fort. Where I dictate reality."*2


  This approach to a debt problem only works about 2-6% of the time but certainly never discourages anyone from trying it out.


  Long story short if they continue to refuse to pay and we can't shake down any of his friends for the money then we generally call the cops. Sometimes the customers themselves call the cops.*3 No matter who calls the cops when they show up they'll take a peek at the security footage and then tell the fucking idiot to pay for his dances. At this point in time one of two things happen, either the guy coughs up the money or he talks his way into jail which is always fun to watch.




  So that's what happens if you decide not to pay for dances in my strip club. Thirty years ago you would've been taken out back, beaten senseless and robbed, but those days are over.


  More's the fucking pity.





Guten Nachos,
-The StripperHerder











*1 Today's Special: Remove two or more tumors, receive a rimmy-hum for free.




*2 Sometimes when we Floor Slobs yank these delusional tree-monkeys from their truth-fortresses, they fall down a lot of stairs on the way to the ground. Nature is brutal and full of stairs.




*3 I don't recommend doing this. Ever. Even if you have been ripped off, walk away and let it be a lesson.

  

6 1/2 Hour Work Weeks Are Like Really Hard And Stuff. Or, I Don't Actually Understand What You Mean When You Say "A Work Week".




  I suck at life. I am by no means extremely adaptable to the whims of changing societal norms. I am like the old man shaking his fist at teenagers who tread across his lawn, vowing one day he will cut them in half with a fusillade of flying rock salt and hell be damned the consequences.

  
  It's MY lawn...


 That being said I'm not a total washout from life. I understand that things are going to change and that from my perspective they will probably change for the worse. It is inevitable. To me progress means potential disasters happening faster and I would very much appreciate being excluded from them, but have neither the clout nor ammunition to make it so.*1 Our dependency on computers and electronics will be our undoing, it's only a matter of time.


  But look on the bright side, maybe we'll be dead by then!


 Just because my current phone can't access the internet doesn't mean that I won't...eventually... have a phone that might be able to play Candy Crush.


 I SO look forward to the day.


 You see, I was raised by the cardinal rule that if something isn't broke-don't fix it. Ergo; my phone can not only send and receive calls, but it sends and receives text messages too. Very 2005.


  And even though texting is far less efficient in regards to information exchanged vs. time expended than actually talking to someone, its impersonality is preferred by the majority of humans nowadays and therefore I have adapted their use.


  Not unlike a Bigfoot wintering in an abandoned cabin.

  

                                        "I put up Christmas tree. Poop under it."
 



  My phone is not, by any means, the portable computers that most people have nowadays. And while I admit there are many times it would be handy to have the internet in my hand with a bunch of cool, handy apps, I don't give enough of a shit and/or am not inconvenienced enough yet to make a change in my life.






                Hewn from bakelite, my cell phone doubles as a billy club. Try that with your iPhone.





  I'm most definitely not a 'gadget guy'. Even the fact that I just used the term 'gadget' should tell you I'm at least ten years behind cutting edge consumer electronics. Happily so I might add.



  It's incredible how I manage day to day life with technology over a dozen years stale, but I am an amazing human being so it's only to be expected.



  
  



  As I have iterated many times before, while I have a pretty cool job that is envied by many, it is in fact a job. Therefore, no matter how cool it is, there will always be things drive me shit-monkey crazy about it. For an analogy that really stretches the connection a bit, think of being a rock star and touring the world.


  Sounds pretty fucking awesome, doesn't it?


 


                        "Fuck yeah, brah! Pummlin gash and stashin the slash! Cocaine rules!"





  And it is.


 But then think of touring the world for like the 30th or 40th time and a whole bunch of the shine comes right the fuck off. Is it still a kick ass way to make a living? Hell yeah. Pays great, free head. But is it anything like that first tour? Hell no. StripperHerding is the same way. The first few years are a dream come true, then it becomes a job.





  That being said, my latest (motherfucking) peeve is the practice of some girls to not only come in after 11:30 pm on most nights, but to fucking get away with it for very little consequences. I've written about this before. It's not good for the club for several reasons.



  But wait, before I get into why this isn't good for the club, let me take a moment to talk about some Advanced Strippernomic Theory as supposed by Dr. Alfred Shankaho, inventor of strip club calculus.




                            "I'm Dr. Alfred Shankaho. I'm smarter than you. Go fuck yourself."




  Dr. Shankaho pioneered a system assigning a relative value to each individual dancer according to a set standard of criteria. This value interacts with the relative flow dynamics of a reasonably managed strip club and is parsected*2 by the proximity of truckstops or airports within a 20 mile radius.


  And that are some real hard math, bro...


  Below I will cite factors in his system of dancer valuation with annotations of my own, based on my years of unaccredited expertise on the subject. His text will read black and my comments, translations and evaluations will read blue.




  

 Excerpts from; Stripper Valuation Criteria©, By Dr. Alfred Shankaho, PHD. Copyright, 1973


 


 1) Assessment of physical attributes. Or; how hot is the bitch?



   This assessment must be as unbiased and open minded as possible. One must take into account all aspects of subject and apply them to a general cross section of target market. Is one particular attribute better represented in subject that in the majority of other assets currently employed at the club? Does subject excel in multiple areas in comparison to other assets?


  Is this stripper hot? Look at all her various bits and ask yourself, "Would I be embarrassed to put her on my stage? Does she have an enormous, non saddening rack? Is her ass nice to look at? Does she not only have a great set of hooters, but a fantastic dumper as well? Is she a total package?"

  You have to look at it this way, there has to be something appealing about the girl. You may not even know what it is, or want to know what it is. As long as she makes money for the club and doesn't kill anyone, she's good to go. Most clubs will put up with an insane amount of bullshit from a dancer if she's a good earner. 

  I.e. talking guys into buying shit they don't need and spending more money than they should.




2) Factor in the stripper's enthusiasm level. Is she smiling all the time? Does she have a default facial expression similar to a Victorian serial murderer? Is her manner open and welcoming like an old friend, or as guarded and unsympathetic as a Depression Era Dust Bowl Carny Hooker? A friendly and embracing nature will overcome physical limitations in nearly every case.


  Does having this stripper sitting across from you make you wish there was a shotgun strapped to the underside of the table and that you had your finger on the trigger? Or does she give you feeling that she really 'gets' you and that if maybe the two of you had met in a different time, under other circumstances, that something truly special might've happened? 

  Is she just plain fun to be around, or a dreary, mournful presence at your table, casting a silent pall of despair and desperation over your time in the club? Attitude and personality count for a lot in a world filled with soulless dance dispensers. I've worked with girls who didn't have much going on for them in the looks department, but the had character in spades and they're usually pretty successful. Everyone likes a reasonably pretty, non annoying girl who's either an idiot, or who can convincingly depict a fluffy idiot, so that customers can feel better about themselves.

  
  For the average guy, nothing beats a red hot moron with a shaved cooch and D-cups.


  Sad but true.




3) Can the dancer do pole tricks? Is she well versed in the more acrobatic aspects of her trade?



  No one fucking cares about pole tricks. It's like opera or ballet: it takes years of intense training, innate skill, a certain level of fearlessness, and still the only people who give a shit about it are people who do the same thing for a living. Like me, you may respect the amount of effort and BST*3 that it took to achieve the level of proficiency in any of these arts and still not have the slightest fucking desire to witness any one of them being perpetrated.

  Pole dancing is like this. You respect the the skill and effort involved, but like NASCAR, you're secretly hoping for a wreck. Watching a girl gyrate around on a brass pole in a way very similar to the last girl on stage quickly loses its appeal.


  The 'artistic' side of adult entertainment has been dumbed down for the Common American Idiot. Who needs fantasy outfits and theme dances when you have twerking and laying around with your legs spread?

  No one, I would submit. No one needs artsy when whorey is so much better.






  That's enough excerpts for you. If you want to read further on Dr. Shankaho's theories and formulas for stripper valuation, I suggest you try to track down a copy of his text on the subject. Shouldn't be too hard if you know where to look.




  Now, back to 6 hour work weeks...






                               "I've been at work for an hour. I'm fucking exhausted, OK?"




  The reason you can't let dancers get away with constantly coming in really late (11pm-12:30am) and then worming their way out of paying a large house/late fee is because absolutely nothing stays a secret in a strip club for long.


  Fucking nothing. Everyone knows who's pregnant, who's selling which drugs, who's a whore, who's bebbydaddy is in jail, who's got which STD and who's banging who.


  Therefore if you keep letting a dancer slide on massive late fees while you hit other dancers with them, pretty soon discord has been sown. As soon as discord rears its ugly face, stripper factions form, mobs really, and next thing you know there's a wall of fake tittied, pitchfork wielding single mothers intent on burning someone dressed just like you.*4


  Like it's your fault or something, totally not the Manager who actually made the call. Personally I don't approve of stripper favoritism, from a Floor Goon's perspective all it really does is make our jobs harder. But I recognize that it's never going to go away, like taxes or herpes and have learned to live with it, mostly by endeavoring never to be The Counter.*5


  Gimme the door or shuttle any day...






  That's it for this post, kids. Tune in next time when I feature an interview....with myself. I think you'll find it super objective and wholly unbiased in any way.



Live to win,
-The StripperHerder












*1 Hi, this is Future StripperHerder writing this footnote weeks after I wrote the material it is attached to. I can only think to myself as I reread the paragraph that without air conditioning, cold readily available beer and online porn, I would be totally willing to call it quits.

  What I wrote in this paragraph made it seem like I was yearning to be some sort of survivalist mountain man or something when in reality when our society goes all pear shaped, I'll attempt to right a few wrongs and probably die doing it and am fine with that.

  
  A world without air conditioning is not one I'm willing to exist in.



  Also as far as I know, Burger King doesn't make survival rations: another reason to just say "Fuck it."






*2 Parsected is a mathmatical word I just made up. Fans of Star Wars will notice that I derived the word parsected from a statement made in the first Star Wars movie, Episode 3 or 6 or 9 or whatever: "You've never heard of the Millennium Falcon?…It's the ship that made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs."




*3 BST: Blood, Sweat and Tears. Or in Stripper-Speak: 'Blow, Sperm and Tequila.'







*
4 Strippers generally aren't very good at telling Floor Guys apart or remembering our names, despite the fact that there are less than ten of us and we can regularly keep track of seventy or more of them. I used to find this surprising because I am a half foot taller and one hundred lbs heavier than the next biggest host and tend to stand out in a crowd. But then I remembered that there are many reasons why these girls are strippers in the first place, chief among them being they are just too dumb and lazy for most other jobs.





*5 The poor schmuck that has to cash out each and every dancer that worked that night. 







To Strippers, Jesus Was The Cousin Of A Locally Beloved Coke Dealer. Or, Strip Club Religions: Crappy Gods For Shitty People.



  Many people don't realize that Strippers, like many humans, have their own religions. The industry has been around for so long that is has evolved many different belief systems and dogmas all based loosely around booze, breasts, delusions, sex, drugs and R&B. These faiths sport an impressive pantheon of deities, mostly Goddesses of course, whom strippers pray to and honor in a myriad of unwholesome ways.


  It's sad that if you leave any group of humans alone long enough, they will inevitably contract religion. It seems to be some sort of flaw in our genetic programming. We, as a species, fucking love religion even though it's sole purpose is to make us less happy. Doesn't make sense, but then again, neither do we.


  So without further philosophomification, let's take a look at the Gods and Goddesses of the strip club industry, shall we?


  All righty then...








                   Stripper Goddesses





Prada: A former death-cult Goddess who, in the origin tales, fearlessly slew her enemies and took the best of their stuff as her own. She has evolved with the times and is currently worshiped as the Goddess of: vapidness, envy, short winters, luxury cars over six years old, menstrual predictability and snobbishness.*1




Patronia: A Dionysian figure that in recent times has reached a new level of ascendancy. She is acknowledged to be the Goddess of: chilled shots, surviving car accidents, limes, chinchillas and other small, cute furry critters, locker room fights, stealing other bitches shit, unplanned pregnancies and causing car accidents.




Slothia: Recognized by nearly every Stripper Religion as a major Deity, Slothia is perhaps the most widely venerated Goddess in all the varied crazy Dancer Creeds. Everyone loves Slothia because She demands virtually nothing but gives so much back to Her loyal followers with virtually no effort expended by either side. She is the definition of a win-win Goddess.

  In addition to being the Goddess of Slack, Slothia is also recognized as the Goddess of: ambitious projects, failed diets, video gaming, food delivery drivers, documentaries and sun tea.


  Many strippers love Slothia because she forbids getting up before 3 PM, working more that 15 hours a week or expending physical effort for more that 3 minutes at a time.




Mammaroth: Evil Titty Goddess from beyond the dawna-time. This fearsome Deity is popular among the plastic booby crowd.*3 While it's not mandatory for a girl to worship Mammaroth after she gets fake tits, it's pretty fucking likely going to happen. Mammaroth causes a reckless desire in Her devotees to get larger and larger breast implants until one of the following happens:

A) They abruptly snap in half, sometimes causing collateral damage as their flying vertebrae become shrapnel to those around them.

B) The skin of their face becomes so distorted by their wildly oversized mams that they frighten children.

C) Their feet become rife with fungal infections because they never see direct sunlight anymore.

D) They can no longer shave their own external genitalia or legs unassisted.


  Mammaroth is also the Goddess of: Inappropriate lactation, poor balance, holistic back pain remedies, wheelbarrows and stretchy T-shirts.




Avaricia: The funny thing about Avaricia is that she used to be the Roman Goddess of Conquest a couple of millennia ago. Normally she would have fallen into obscurity long ago like so many of her Roman contemporaries, but She was clever. She saw that some Dancers made a lot of money and that they liked to spend it on unnecessary yet expensive crap. So she saw a niche Goddessing job opportunity and rather than fade into oblivion along with the fortunes of the Roman Empire, she became the Goddess of Greed for hot chicks.


  Not a bad gig apparently and she didn't have to oversee the subjugation of cultures anymore, she merely has to be there for overpaid ass jigglers who have decided that money is the single most important thing in life; trumping dignity, morals and pride by a country mile.






                                    And yet...




  Dancers aren't the only inhabitants of a strip club with their own religions and their own Deities. Studies seem to indicate that at anywhere between six months to two years in the service industry, depending on the subject, all feelings of empathy, compassion and goodwill are corrupted or erased, thus leading the unfortunate fooker to seek out a higher power within their vocation.


  All hope for a better tomorrow is beaten right the fuck outta you by booze and your fellow species who are drinking it.


  So it's only logical given the frail nature of mankind's psyche that other sectors of the titty bar have latched onto their own very specialized Gods. Here are some examples:




                                                 

                          DJ Gods




Din: A once minor God of noises and orators that no one cares about, Din has seen his followers soar with the advent of cheap, affordable portable music players. DJ's worship Din because they are part of Him, they truly believe that their amplified voices reflect Him in all His cacophonous glory when in truth most of the masses do not acknowledge Din or His teachings and therefore don't hear a goddamn thing a strip club DJ says.


  It is said that Din created dubstep when he accidentally ejaculated into his fax machine. I believe this because to me, dubstep sounds like machines cumming on each other with reckless abandon.




Tintamarre: God of racket, loud annoying sounds and people hawking shit in a forum where no one is paying attention. DJ's love Tintamarre because he rewards volume for volume's sake. Just be loud. Mumble shit if you want as long as it is deafening and mostly unimportant.


  Also God of: repetitive announcements, dumb stripper names, lies, lost cell phones and oddly enough, microwavable dinners.

                           







                                 Floor Guy Gods


(It should be understood before we go any further that Floor Guys worship two distinct Pantheons of Gods, not unlike the Norse did with the Aesir and the Vanir, but with way less cool Gods. These deities are divided between the Host and the Bouncer)




Vinny: (Host) Represents the epitome of oily, welcoming dudeness. He can make your dreams come true (with a proper gratuity) and your fantasies come to life (fat tip mandatory). Vinny possesses a preternatural instinct for where the money hides and has an extensive toolkit for extracting it from it's owner; sometimes even doing it legally!


  Floor guys who aren't normally called on to be bouncers worship Vinny to gain the God's favor, manifested most commonly by a customer signing a credit card slip without filling it out first. This is a sure sign of Vinny's benevolence as He prides himself on answering 1700% more prayers than Jesus.




Crudge: (Bouncer) A primitive proto-god to mankind that understands nothing but killing, hitting other creatures with its club and stomping on downed opponents til they squish or stop moving. Crudge revels in maiming and dancing all the dances of disfigurement that His reptilian brain can come up with when faced with rude cunt-mouths.


  His role has specialized over time however, his urge to violence channeled and directed into a reservoir of on-demand cruelty. He has only been bested one time throughout history, and that was by Loy-Yor, the single greatest enemy of Bouncers everywhere, throughout time.


  Crudge is also the God of: rocks glasses (any bar's deadliest drinking vessel), stained pavement, blunt instruments, instant retribution, pre-taliation*4, steel toed boots and racist-euro-epic-stoner-black-metal.




  Hannibal: (Host) History's most famous Floor Host. Hannibal was the ultimate Host at the most popular strip club outside the Roman Empire, a place called Jezebel's Cabaret which was located in Carthage (modern day Tunisia). His power and influence were so great in his pussy-infested domain that a young, impressionable foot soldier named Private First Class Barca decided later in his career to restyle himself as 'Hannibal' as he went on to whup most of Italy's ass.


  Hannibal has long since been venerated as a God by the Bouncer branch of Floor Guy faith, while in the Host denomination he's merely a Hero, or Saint-like figure that's remembered and exalted on occasions where a seemingly indestructible Problem Dancer is finally fired and driven from the premises by hordes of commoners wielding bundles of birch branches.


  Whichever incarnation of Hannibal a Floor Guy acknowledges, it is agreed that His realm of influence also includes: earning potential, calculated risks, top shelf strumpets, giant SUV's, elephant porn and unrestricted credit cards.






                                Manager Gods



  Managers have no Gods outside of their Owners. They worship no Gods known to mortal man, only forbidden entities well endowed in the tentacle and soul digesting department. Deities so bleak and inhuman that to even utter their names is to court a sexual harassment lawsuit or something even fouler....



  This is not a subject I feel comfortable exploring further. Never ask about it, it will only lead to grief.







                   Waitressy Worshippy Thingys



  (I have to be honest with you, gentle reader. I have completely fabricated all of the following Waitress Worshippy Thingys because I could find no historical record nor modern trace of any religion focused on delivering things to tables, but felt that there should be some. Just because the average waitress hasn't developed the imagination to invent Gods in the last 5,000 years or so doesn't mean that we, as blog-using humans, shouldn't be able to enjoy reading about them regardless of their dubious authenticity.)





Whirshmy Tibble: Sort of like a fairy Godmother for waitresses. If you can't remember where a table was that you took an order from, you run outside, locate North and whisper five times "Whirshmy Tibble?" Then when you go back inside, if you've been properly neglectful and absentminded in your devotions, Whirshmy may reward you by having a table of people frantically wave at you, thus solving the riddle of the missing table.


  Like a pagan Nancy Drew.




Hagatha Tipwell-McCuntrage: Some servers believe that they should be tipped a maximum amount of money for performing a minimum amount of their waitressly duties. They've been led to believe that a 20% tip is merely a suggested retail minimum and that what every patron actually meant to put down was a 40% tip.


  They just needed help with the math.


  Hagatha was a frontier tavern keeper in the lawless wilds of 15th century coastal Ireland. She was hard as coffin nails and just slightly less yielding than a fucking stone wall. She's been venerated by the Reformed Drink-Mule Adventists as a Greater Goddess, based solely on her ability to manipulate tabs so that everyone gets fucked but Her.







  I feel like I've done my duty here. Luckily for me, abrupt endings have become so common with the Plight that somehow it's been misinterpreted as part of 'my style', an appellation I still rail against to this day.




Et Tuddles Sine Nistrae,
-The StripperHerder













*1 The Pradian Schism of 1953 split the Church of Prada into two separate entities who now despise each other: The Orthodox Pradian Church, and the slightly less snooty Universal Pradian Friendship Congregation.**


  ** The schism occurred over the interpretation of whether or not it was OK to kill a bitch for her purse.




*2 After a certain amount of time in the service industry, many folks consider a full day where they don't have to see or speak to another human being to be a wonderful fucking thing. These sort of people will frequently make a small offering of nothing to Slothia, who would be pleased with their offering if She could be bothered to get off the metaphorical couch to receive it.





*3 The Balloon Brigade, The Silicone Squad, The Saline Society, The SNS (Stretched Nipple Sisterhood)**


  ** These are some irritable bitches.




*4 Pre-taliation©: Hitting an asshole before he ends up hitting you. Crudge will tell the devout when this is going to happen and let them make up their own minds.**


  **Strict Crudgists aren't renowned for their great thinking skills.