It has been a long goddamn time since I've published something and I regret this. I've been extremely busy fucking my life up and making insanely poor decisions, the kind I normally criticize others for perpetrating.
I let one of my demons get the better of me for four months or so and was slapped with a bill of consequence, which I paid, and came out through the other end licking my self inflicted wounds. It wasn't fun, it wasn't pleasant, but it happened and now I'm better than I've been in a long time.
I've partially de-twatified myself...
I don't remember where I left off, club narrative-wise, and I'm not going to go back through the last few posts to figure it out because I am a lazy piece of literary turd. Here's the current situation at the titty shack I work at every day.
Management: There was recently an all out war between management factions at out club which resulted in much havoc and yelling. This idiotic yet compelling struggle went back and forth a few times over the course of several fortnights before Sir Quimsmash Justifiable Batterchick VII eventually defeated Sir Gormby De Withercunt IV in one on one combat.
Twas ugly, the War, but the Floor Guys were able to survive it by hunkering down and not doing anything illegal for 3 nights out of every week.
Sir Quimsmash yodels his triumph. There is much rejoicing.
Floor Hosts: We just did the equivalent of a tribe of chimpanzees taking to the high canopy when a jungle cat was stalking around looking to eat some stray little monkey. We moved around a lot, stuck together, hooted and hurled some feces. We did whatever it took to survive when the management War Gods were painting every surface red in preparation for their cataclysmic cock-joust.
Persecuted primates, us Floor Guys, darting behind honesty and denial when Management hunts the environs. Hoot and fling, motherfuckers, hoot and fling! It was our only hope.....
Floor Guy Boris warns Floor Guy Jake away from his hiding spot.
Jake panics; there's a Manager sniffing around at the base of the tree
Waytrezzes and Barpnenders: Our current brood of drink bringy-things and drink-makey things is hands down the worst batch I've ever had the misfortune to work with. Part of this can be blamed on the training at our club which is minimal and poorly conveyed at best. The rest of it, the majority in fact, can be blamed on hiring pretty morons and cute lazy bitches as waitresses and drink slingers.
One bartender recently put in a $150 food order at 2:22 when last call for the kitchen is 2 fucking 10 and we close at 2:30. TWO FUCKING TEN isn't a tough concept. It's just basic math. This girl also waitresses and just plain should have known better because:
A) It was going to take a minimum of a half hour to cook this order
B) The cook on duty is good on flavor, yet terrible at everything else. He doesn't prep as he goes along, he doesn't restock his line in between orders and he 's downright ignorant or apathetic about food safety.
He was going to fuck this order up good.
This is how you thaw food products when you don't know how to thaw food products.
The Cooks: (See also-Gastrossassins, Bacteria Ranchers, Bowel Warfare Specialists) What can I say? They show up for their shifts and cook food. Everything else they do is a gamble with a crippling digestive tract affliction. If danger is a spice you enjoy with your food, then by all means-order away. I would rather rifle through garbage for my dinner, but that's just me. I'm picky like that.
That being said they are still strippers and among them roam junkies, thieves, crazy chicks, and all manner of trash and predator. Despite these bad apples, random locker room assaults and all out stripper gang wars are almost nonexistent here.
In fact I've seen less stripper fights here in almost four years that I did at Cracky's Stabaret in less than ten months.
The Money: Although 2016 started off very weak as far as earnings go, it soon picked up quite a bit of momentum. The Town™ has been on a bit of a roll lately and it has translated nicely into some very lucrative nights for our club and us Floor Dudes.
This week for example I made $40 an hour for the week. Not bad for a high school dropout from a disadvantaged Samsquanch family.
"We too poor for school, son. You work in Service Industry."
The Bus: Still a piece of shit specifically engineered to cripple anyone over 5'8".
Bachelor Parties: Still suck. Cheap, wasted, despised, inevitable.
The Weather: Seriously Summer, go fuck yourself already. I hate you and can't wait for you to be over. Eat an infinite bag of dicks.
All right, if I'm cursing the weather then it's time to wrap this one up. Good night and thanks for reading.
-Da StripperHerder
