I Like Ceiling Fights. Or, Rumpled Sweat Pants: Classy Evening Wear Or Warning Sign Of Possible Scumbaggedness? You Decide.

  Dancers rarely do anything different when they go on stage. In my experience their 'dancing' has almost nothing to do with the music and I truly believe you'd get virtually the same dance experience from them whether they were played Cannibal Corpse or Enya.


  Some of the more talented ones will step up their pole tricks when there's a particularly large or generous crowd. They'll shimmy on up to the top of the poles and sometimes even crawl into the ceiling rafters and begin constructing nests out of singles while the DJ narrates everything like a white trash David Attenborough.


  I like when they fight over nesting space. I like ceiling fights.






                                               Dress Codes





  Dress codes exist for a reason. They are designed to weed out undesirable customers, or to give the staff an excuse for doing so, that's it. Read into it whatever you want, but different clubs cater to different crowds and strive to create an atmosphere where they're preferred clientele feel comfortable and relaxed.


  The single most important demographic to the clubs I've worked for has been white males 35-70 who have piles of money to spend and are willing to do so provided they feel like they're not going to get robbed or killed while doing it. It's not much to ask, really. We strive to keep out the worst of the criminal element and luckily for us they generally make it pretty easy to do.


  As most other clubs operating on our level, we list our Dress Code as 'Business Casual'. That of course if a bunch of haggard bullshit. If we strictly enforced the rules, we'd have 6 guys sitting around on most nights.




Super baggy jeans are barred, while plaid shorts are welcome.






-






I can't dance to this song

-Dress codes

-Shitty waitresses

St. Fat Prick's Day, A Postscript.

  Here is an excellent illustration of why I hate drunk people, and thus by extension, St. Fat Prick's Day:


  In our state ALL alcohol has to be off the tables, out of customers' hands and can't even be present anywhere on the club floor after a certain time. For the sake of argument, we'll call it 3:00 AM.


  We have the DJ do last call at 2:40 and serve until 2:50 (which we shouldn't). Starting at 2:55 we start going around and letting everyone know that we're pulling all the alcohol off the floor in accordance with state law and they have maybe a minute to finish their drinks. We do this a couple of minutes early because if the vice squad were to stop by at 2:56 and tell us it's 3:01, who do you think the court will believe?


  We always get idiots. There are always people who haven't heard the DJ's repeated warnings or somehow thought that this didn't apply to them. We're pretty patient with them if they show a true acknowledgement of the situation and a willingness to swill down an overpriced drink so as not to be a douchebag. This being said I have many times had to rip the drink out of some dude's hand who was bound and determined to be as nonchalant and trying as possible.


  Exhibit A for this St. Asshole Day is a guy I'll call DonkeyCum Bonger. I didn't catch his real name but he had a large Detroit Tigers style "D" on the back of his cuntmobile so I just made an assumption.


  Anyway DonkeyCum was very upset with the floor staff because the drinks he purchased at 2:30 and couldn't finish within a half hour because he's a mealy mouthed little party favor, had disappeared from his table as he wandered the club, spreading his special kind of shithead into every crevice.


  He starts complaining to my fellow Floor Snipe, Seamus. Bitching that his drinks disappeared and asking what the fuck was going on. Seamus showed incredible restraint, far beyond what I was capable of after driving around an Irish holiday for the past 6 hours. He explained about those pesky state laws and how they insisted that all booze be gone by 3 AM. He did this repeatedly and with increasing slowness, like someone who discovers that they're addressing a drooling mongoloid and not, in fact, a rational intelligent human being.


  Donkey-Bong gets increasingly agitated because we can't understand his flawed logic. He said that he believed that if he purchased the drinks before last call, then he was free to drink them at his leisure and the law says that's OK. We assured him of his error, repeatedly, my manager Sir Palewheat P. Hatebread even joining in and himself exercised astonishing patience.


  DonkJizz got real shitty at this point. Motherfucking everyone indiscriminately. Again, Seamus and Sir Palewheat displayed a coolness and lack of violence that I can only stand in awe of. I would've escalated about 2 minutes in, if that.


  Because he was so focused on being a twat to my co-workers he hadn't the slightest idea I was standing about a yard behind him, ready to swoop like a lummox-of-prey.


  Full nelsons for everyone! With an optional ring finger into the mandible pressure point, which I can assure you is entirely unpleasant.


  Now to keep everything in perspective, he was being unbelievable shitty for drinks that he'd paid $14 for and had 25 minutes to consume, not to mention several warnings from the godlike voice of the DJ about finishing your beverages before the staff has to pull all alcohol and glassware off the tables. His belief system concerning state liquor laws notwithstanding, his whole attitude was one of 'I am the worst of Homo Chancrous, a true unrepentant rectal sore of a human. If you punch me I'll squirt pus.'



  I SO wanted to punch him. Or headbutt. Or elbow. Whatever. I had endless options.


  These are the times that try one's soul. St Fatty's is among the very worst Occasions from a chaos/profit perspective in the hospitality sector. Everything smells of half digested corned beef, bile and sour beer. Drunks are sledding on hills lubricated by barf; giddy on forced, meaningless cheer from a concept lost to most of them and alien to the rest.


  Santa Claus with Beer. The Whiskey Bunny. Shot Gnomes.



  The quickest way to produce a miserable, two faced shit pile of a human is to introduce them to the service industry. Here they will learn what hatred means and be shaped by their hapless misery into a thing of such shambling horror that children shall shriek and run away in terror.


  Takes about eight months.






  Q. "Where are the pictures with funny/insulting captions?"


  A. "Fuck your pictures, humahh!"*1





  That's all for now. I'll try harder next time but I think we both know that this post is an instant classic, da?




  Enjoy Shit,
  -The StripperHerder











*1 'Humahh' My clever word that is a hybrid of the word 'human' and the 'N' word. Safe from both a cultural and contextual standpoint. Can be used to indicate any supspecies of the versatile bipedal Homo Sapien critters. As in "You my Humahh!" and/or "Who my Humahh?"


  Tested safe for all races.





  

St. Fucking Patrick's Day: Bane Of All Service Industry Workers. Or, Cunty Drunken People Being Twats To Everyone Because Of Some Ancient Irish Saint Who Wasn't Even Irish.

  Incredibly typical of idiot American ideas, making St. Patrick's day even a nominal holiday was one of the poorest decisions our Gubbamint has ever made. Let's take a culture who, deserved or not, has a reputation for hard drinking and ancestral roots that are deeply intertwined with booze, and give them a National Holiday. A day that celebrates their rich heritage, their widespread contributions to virtually every nook and cranny on the globe, and their obsessive love of getting shitfaced and then fucking singing about it.


  It's not at all like the Irish were alone in their complete and total love of hooch. Many cultures have a robust and enduring bond with Sweet Lady Alcohol and yet don't draw nearly the comparison that the Irish do. Take Germans for example, they fucking worship beer. They made rules about how and with what ingredients you could brew beer. Punishments for breaking these rules got all messy and Germanic...



  The French routinely drink insane amounts of wine, more than any other country with a population over 100,000 in fact, based on figures from 2014. And while most rational countries despise France, it isn't because they drink too much wine.


  So for me, St Patty's Day has become this commercially sponsored orgy of inebriated fucktardedness that grates on my psyche like a poorly shaved bush grates on my upper lip.


  Later today I will pilot a large vehicle through teeming throngs of staggering, wasted morons. Even the sober ones will slide unwittingly into intersections because of the vomit-slick sidewalks, a regurgitated slurry-chute of corned beef, shitty beer, Jameson shots and shamelessness.


  I pray to Norse Gods that I don't snap and go all Death Race 2000 on these bipedal whelks. I give it a 60/40 chance in favor of not clogging my engine compartment with human remains. Ya just never know...



  So, happy St. Fat Prick's Day, you fucking fucks. Stagger in front of my bus.



Nubs you,
-The StripperHerder

  

Large Fish In Small Ponds Make Targets Of Themselves. Or, Drugs, Booze, Tears and Cash-The Four Elements Of Stripperherding.

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