Wednesday, A Love Story. Or, The Death Of A Floor Guy: A StripperHerder Obituary.

  Here's how my Wednesday went:


  I strolled into work today at 6:55 pm, five minutes early for my shift. I knew Keen Kenny Dean was scheduled for today at 7 PM also and figured since he wasn't gonna show up til 7:30, that I should be on time so the poor, misbegotten Day Shift Floor Wretch didn't have to stay a moment longer then need be.


  I came into work in a good mood, not sure why because things have been so bad lately, but I was in non asshole mode, which is somewhat rare nowadays. I spent my first half hour wondering about how my lighthearted mood was going to get destroyed, wagering on imagined scenarios.


5 to 1 odds had it at Asshole Customer


3 to 1 odds had it at Inconsiderate Fuckstick Drivers When I'm Running The Shuttle


2 to 1 odds had it at Misplaced Manager Rage


Even money was on Annoying Stripper With A Problem I Didn't Care About




  As it turned out, Drunk Regular Scratching My Truck at 30 to 1 odds would've won the bet. A dark horse contender if there ever was one. But more about that later, I'm getting ahead of myself.*1



  Now where was I? Oh yeah, Wednesday. Right.




  So Wednesdays are when we do our monthly "Amateur" Contests. Not sure why we call them that, it's misleading at best, a bold faced lie at worst. The vast majority of the hopefuls that show up to these are just strippers from other clubs or migrant strippers. Maybe one in fifty girls is a legit amateur who, by her complete dearth of skills and awkward stage gyrations, clearly demonstrates her lack of experience.


  Their twerking is like the convulsions of a dying sea mammal.


  This was one of those Wednesdays. When we would open Pandora's Legs and see what was unleashed.



  The results were.....predictable. A pretty blonde girl won. Shocking.




  But there were other happenings in the club that night, like in the Men's Room. There was nearly a fight between a lone former employee and a group of Hispanic gangsters. We descended on the altercation and restored order because that's what we do: piss on fires.


  So as we're getting things settled down one of the G's is just whizzing right on the floor. He's so drunk that he's trying to talk to his brother and is letting it fly all over the floor without having the slightest notion that he's doing it. I'm sure in his mind, everything was going where it should have been going.


  Needless to say El Leprechauno had to go. I informed him of this and he flat out refused. Seeing as how I didn't want to get riddled with lead later on for a personal slight, I appealed to his brother to get him out of the club. I told him I'd prefer not to put my hands on his wee sibling if possible, because he's the size of a 12 year old child and because he's part of a family that I'm sure has murdered people before for lesser insults.


  But easy way or hard way, his brother had to go.


  He talked to (what turned out to be his OLDER brother) for a few minutes and then came up to me and said "Hey man I tried and he won't listen. Same thing as the last bar we were at. Do what you have to do." He gave me a nod which indicated to me that he realized his brother had fucked up and provided I don't stomp him into unnecessary amounts of cat food, his family wouldn't kill me in a drive by.



 Good enough for me.



  So I turned to his brother and said "All right buddy. Time to go."


  "I ain't leaving..." had just cleared his mouth when I spun him by the shoulders so his back was facing me, picked him up in a full nelson and walked him effortlessly out the door. I scolded him on the way out too, for extra style points.


  Oddly enough, he never tried to get back in the club, which is something nearly every person we throw out tries to do. He just skulked about, mumbling shit and yelling at the rabbits which populate our back lot.


  Fucking weird.





What else happened? Oh yeah. I think Strider got fired. This is a story in and of itself.


  Dedicated readers may remember Floor Guy: Codename Strider from this post:


 http://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2014/12/to-move-up-to-my-weight-class-you-must.html



  Well, here's the compressed saga of Strider, may he rest in peace.


  Strider is one of those Floor Guys who dates Strippers. That's what he does. He's not a banger, who just bones as many strippers as he can get his wang into, no, he gets all intertwined with dancers, becomes their boyfriend and is faithful to them. For the most part. You know, like a guy. Keepin it out of the zip code for fucksake.


  The contingency being that the stripper, who generally makes a lot more money than a Floor Guy, supports him. Paying his way through life with the promise of future recompense in some obscure field of art.


  And that was his situation with a dancer that left our club when she broke it off with him after five years or so. And well, there's no easy way to put this, she broke him. Dude just fell apart. Started missing shifts, doing no call/no shows and getting all fucked on on the shifts he did show up for. Messing up VIP rooms, being 4 hours late and sleeping at the club because he had nowhere to go.


  I tried to explain to him that he was letting her win. By going to pieces and failing to do things that every adult should be able to do on their own, without sponsorship, that he was demonstrating his reliance upon her and really devaluing his Man Card.


  "Pull the thong out of your cabbage patch and fucking well nut up, dude" Is one of the many encouraging statements I made to him. But to no avail. He allowed himself to be destroyed.


  I hope he lands on his feet because he's a legitimately good guy and I wish him all the best.





 

  A lot of people ask me if I pull a lot of tail from the club, or suffer from chronic blowjob syndrome administered by horny twenty year old strippers. I always laugh and say something like "More than you could know, my friend" Or "Yes. My balls are perpetually raisin-like." But this isn't true. Yes I've done the nasty with some entertainers here and there in my career, we all do it to varying degrees, but it's not standard operating procedure with me.


  And to explain why, I feel a list coming on:



1) I'm old. I just don't care anymore. It seems like a lot of effort. I sort of liken it to doing laundry in the 19th century: yeah sure you know someone with one of those sweet new washing machines, but they live 10 miles away in the next town over. So you have to hitch the horses up, load the laundry into the wagon, herd you six surviving children into said wagon and huck all that shit 10 miles over crappy roads to cut down on your wash time. Seems like an awful lot of labor just to cut down on your work.


  OR, since you live by a river, you can just do what you always did. Sure there's a lot of hand work involved, but you can walk to it and there are convenient rocks to grind and smack your clothing against.


2) I've seen the carnage that can occur when the fuck buddy/girlfriend? thing goes all grapeshot on a guy. It's ugly and I don't want any part of it.


3) I've reached that point that I thought was ridiculous when I was twenty, namely, I've gotten to the point where if I can't have a rational, relevant conversation with a girl in a pre/post-coital context, then I'm not really interested. If you had told me this when I was twenty years younger I would've laughed and made an old person joke.


  Now however I grasp the concept. Unless one happens to stumble into that perfect "All right you've fucked me and we've had our fun, now leave" scenario*2, at some point prior to and after sex, most girls will want to hang out and this will frequently involve talking. That's fine. I enjoying cuddling a gal who's recently made me jizz.


  The problem inherent in this is manifold:


    A) I have virtually no crossover in interests with a hot girl under 30.


    B) I have very little patience for the ignorant or stupid.


    C) Giggling is NOT punctuation.


    D) Most of the strippers I work with who are anywhere within a decade of my age have between 3 and 17 children and I can't stand kids. I don't find their stupidity endearing, I don't find their antics cute and I definitely don't want to end up raising one. Especially one who is NOT the fruit of my loins.


  My steamy loins.


    E) I have nieces older than most of the girls I work with and the thought of going all fuck-badger on someone half my age kinda skeeves me out.







  And finally. Our Dynamic Management Team really needs to pull it's head out of its ass. Like collectively speaking. They are decent at major decisions but weak as fuck about the fine details that can aggravate an already bad situation and endanger a fragile ecosystem.


  Let me give you some examples, because if you haven't worked in the Service Industry, you'll have no idea what I'm talking about.



1) Scheduling. It's a thankless job, I know, I've done it before. A successful schedule leaves everyone feeling vaguely unhappy, across the board. You can't cater to to your favorites without some sort of backlash and you most certainly can't keep posting new schedules after they actually begin.


  So if the schedule starts at 4 PM on Sunday, make a concerted effort to post the new schedule before that shift begins. It's really frustrating to not know if you're working in a shift that starts 8 hours after you've left you job. I've worked at many places that do the scheduling in 2 week increments, so I know it's possible to do.


  What happens at our club is that the weekly schedule begins at 4 PM on Sunday but frequently it's not posted until some time on Sunday evening, forcing employees to call the club to find out if they are working that day. If I were a Door Girl at our club, I would be pissed at having to field a bunch of unnecessary calls about whether or not someone is supposed to be at work that day.


  Seems to me that this is something that you might want to post on say Thursday or Friday night, like we used to do. But nowadays you're lucky to see anything relevant until it's already scheduled to begin.


  Doesn't make sense. Shouldn't be that hard.


2) Make the cooks do work that cooks are supposed to do. I used to tip the cooks for everything I ordered in the kitchen, even if I cooked it myself because I didn't want food poisoning. Now, since we've made some changes security-wise, the cooks don't even have to take out their own trash. Now, not only do they not have to haul all their waste to the dumpster, they apparently don't have to even touch their own trash. The Floor Guys do it all.


  So the fat lazy wretches can't even pull the trash cans that they don't have to empty to the kitchen door, nor can they break down their own cardboard boxes.*3 It's come to that. The Floor Douches do it all these days.


  It's one of those things that wasn't annoying the first time, nor even the tenth. But after a year of it, I'm goddamn well fed up. I've never worked in a kitchen that had such low standards for the people who prepare the food. I realize we don't pay them a great wage but what the fuck ever happened to pride in your job? Clean something. Use the fucking date stickers. Thaw food properly.


  It's not rocket science. It's shit you should know and do before you ever flip your first burger. To NOT know how to thaw food is to NOT be qualified to work in a kitchen as anything besides a dishwasher.


  Unreal.


3) Stop hiring back dancers that got fired. This has never worked out in the glorified history of titty bars. They're still drunks, they're still junkies and they will still rip off customers and steal shit every chance they get because a whore doesn't change her thong even after the crust starts chafing her inner thighs.


  It'll be Deja Poo every time. We know this. We've seen it a million times.No one changes for the better in this industry and if they do, it never lasts more than 90 days. If I could think of one opposing example, I'd be writing about it right now. Once a Hyde, always a Hyde.






  That's about all I have to say at the moment. Check back in the next 10 days or so for something completely fictional, yet still centered on the theme of strippers. It'll be satisfying as fuck.



  Until then, use the forks.




Your favorite Piece of Shit Uncle,
Das Herden Stripein












*1 I'm actually NOT going to tell you any more about this because all you need to know is that the motherfucker scratched my truck by dragging the side of his truck against it. Story over.





*2 Which are much rarer that erotic literature would have you believe.




*3 We've recently gone "green". By that I mean we're supposed to separate our garbage into recyclables and nasty organic shit. We even have special garbage cans for the purpose. So now, instead one one big dumpster, we have two smaller ones. One is for glass, aluminum and cardboard and the other is for much less savory things.


  That being said everyone knows that a dumpster can hold MANY more cardboard boxes if they've been broken down flat rather than being left is a 'box' shape. But are our cooks or barbacks required to break down their own cardboard, such as in every other kitchen I've ever worked at?


  Nope. The Floor Twats do it all now. And it's becoming really goddamn irritating.

Meet The New January, Same As The Old January And Recent Developments On Some Beloved Former Coworkers. Or, I Am Jack's Complete Lack Of Empathy.

  Every goddamn year I forget how much January sucks. I remember that they suck, but always forget just how bad they are until I have to live through one again.


  Like now.


  The days of $200-300 shifts seem very far away, like an island receding slowly into the distance as you cling to your flotation device and watch the fuselage of the aircraft you were just riding in sink beneath the surface of the ocean you recently crashed into.


  Then, just when it seems like all hope is gone, the first shark fin appears....


  That's what Janu-fuck-you-ary is like in the service industry. A profound sense of hopelessness that only deepens as the month crawls by on a trail of overdue bill notices. And what's worse is that January gives way to February, which is just as bad. February is like a pod of orcas showing up to fight the sharks over who's going to get to drag you to a horrible death.


   Assuming you survive Jan and Feb and haven't become homeless or chosen to dine on a .45, eventually March will show up and with it, flickers of life. With the speed of income tax returns nowadays, generally March will breathe a bit of money back into the place as folks scuttle from their winter dens and spend ill advised money on something with tits.


  That's where I'm at, esteemed readers. I'm treading water but something keeps brushing my feet and I don't like it very much.

                                  "Back off, dickhead. I'm gonna eat that Floor Host."







Recent studies indicate that some strippers are in fact, shitty sociopathic people. 

Story at eleven.

                                             "Don't let my pretty face fool you. I'm certifiably batshit."



  It turns out that I've worked with some real gems in my career. Oh I could tell you about the girls I've worked with who are lawyers, doctors and physicists*1 now, but that wouldn't make as good a story as those who've ended up like most people picture a stripper ending up, i.e. in a crime scene photo or a mugshot. The industry, as a whole, isn't known for attracting well adjusted, socially responsible people.


  It actually, believe it or not, tends to attract druggies, drunks, the lazy, those incapable of holding down a real job, crazies, victimizers, petty criminals, arch villains and miscreants of every spot and stripe.


  I should know, I'm one of them.


  The thought of having to get a real job again terrifies the living shit out of me. I wake up in cold sweats thinking about time clocks, limited days off and someone caring about when people show up for their shifts. I've been a night person so long, daylight, and the heavy responsibility it brings, is scary.



  So, getting back to the topic at hand, here's some crap some of my former charges have gotten up to since they've left the club.



1) Stabby: I'm sure I referred to her by some other name when I wrote about her before, but I can't remember exactly what it was and I don't feel like going through my archives to figure out what it was, so I'll call her Stabby because it seems even more appropriate now in light of some recent revelations.


  Apparently Stabby was involved in some sort of kidnap/attempted murder shit in good ole Methizona, USA. Not sure of the details, but someone almost died and Stabby and her buddy, Heroin, had a fairly significant role in it. From the rumor mill I've picked up that she's looking at around 30 years or so locked up. Thankfully the State had already taken her wee babby from her, or it would probably be a junkie prostitute by now as well. I'm sure she'll roll on anyone she can to cut a deal, but I sincerely hope that she goes away for as long as possible because I've seldom had the misfortune to work with a crappier souled human being.


2)  Gladys, Miriam and Chloe Mk VII: All three of these gals have received a shiny, brand new DUI in the last 3 months. They join a massive and frequently revised list of other strippers from our club who also lost their driving privileges this year. One of them killed a dog before flipping her SUV in a ditch, but I'm not gonna say which one it was to protect her dignity.

                                     "We're not allowed to drive because we keep killing people."




3) Chloe Mk IV and Aliyah: Both of your boyfriends were coke dealers? And BOTH of them were taken down at the culmination of a year long drug ring investigation? Golly. And to think that one of you only lost their Mercedes and Wave Runner while the other one lost a child they probably weren't all that invested in anyway. You both got off lucky.


4) Starscream: How anyone couldn't see that you were a 20 foot tall jet-robot-killing machine thingy I'll never know. Kudos to your plastic surgeon for the outrageous tata's. But I knew you were going to be trouble from day one and I was right. Now, unsurprisingly enough, you're wanted for the murder of Ironhide.


  I hope you fry for it.

                                 "HE OWES ME TWENTY DOLLAAAAAAAAHHHSSSSS!




5) Git and Whorsley: Again, I had other names for these two silly cunts but I don't feel like going through the two hundred some posts to discover what they were. Suffice to say that Git and Whorsley are two good looking chicks around 24-25 years of age. When I say they were good looking, I mean to say that Whorsley was decent to look at but her body showed the evidence of a recent war with a baby that she had clearly lost. While Git on the other hand, Git was stunningly beautiful. Not my ideal mind you, but a gorgeous girl is a gorgeous girl. Had a body to cry for.


  So what the hell happened to them you ask? Well I'm not sure about Whorsley, I've only seen her once or twice in the less that two years since she got fired and well, she's still alive and appears to still be making poor decisions.


  Git on the other hand is like one of those internet pictures you see of someone side by side with a picture of them after a decade of crack abuse. It hasn't even been two years since her and Whorsley got shitcanned and it's fucking shocking I tell you. I saw her the other night and she looked like a haggard, pioneer-style thirty-five year old, all edges and canyons shaded with a dull grey palette.

  Apparently she's discovered a way to burn the candle at three ends.


6) Foot Disease: Had a babby with a Floor Guy from a rival club she used to work at and is currently busy destroying his life. We get the details through the titty bar grapevine and they're grim. I feel like he has a large measure of blame coming his way for his failure to pick up on her obvious instability and for jizzing in her as well. Seems poorly thought out to me. She has bucketloads of crazy just laying around her apartment for anyone to see and yet I understand that sometimes you can't see them buckets because a pussy is in the way.


  It's called Twat-Blindness and it's a real thing.

                                            "Floor guys' souls taste like cheesesteak."




7) Vodzilla: Her only recent development is that she is still alive. Somehow.





  And in closing....




  I'd like to do one of my incredibly famous Lists about stuff I have absolutely no empathy about. It goes something like this:



1) "I'm Freezing To Death Because I'm Too Domesticated To Even Consider Wearing A Coat When It's Six Degrees Out":


  It's six degrees outside, you fucking invertebrate. Wear a coat. A sweater. A goddamn hoodie. Wear something besides a $75 tee shirt or a mesh halter top. Either that, or don't complain to me about how cold it is outside as I shove you out the door so the Manager can count the tills. I know how cold it is outside because I've been escorting strippers to their cars for the past 45 minutes but had the common fucking sense to put a coat on because it's six degrees out.


  You fucking harbor monkeys. I love to watch packs of you scurry from bar to bar as I drive by in my warm, angry limo bus. Leering out steamed up windows at a bunch of hypothermic suburban cunts scuttling about like some hairless rats darting from sewer grate to sewer grate. Your cheese is a $7 Bud Light, you fucking rat fuck.


  If, at the end of the night you choose, of your own free will, to wait 30 minutes for your fucking Uber rather than to get in that nice warm cab that will do the same goddamn thing for you, then that's your own problem, douche. Shoulda worn a coat.


2) "I lost my phone. This is a crisis that you need to be concerned about."


   That's where you're wrong, valued customer and I'll tell you why.

                                    "OH MY GOD, THEY'LL FIND MY KIDDIE PORN!"



  There has yet to be even a moderately busy night when I have not had some misbegotten helmet-muncher come up to me and launch into a story about how and where it lost its phone. By company policy I'm not allowed to scream "I DON'T CARE!" in its face, therefore I tell it to check with the DJ and thus the problem goes away for the time being. This is literally the only advantage I see in working the door, I'm stuck there so I can't help dribbling morons search for whatever stupid thing they lost.


  It's amazing to me that I've had the same phone for for almost six years now and have yet to lose it a single time. Perhaps this is because I'm not constantly on it, able to ignore my surroundings due to the fascinating world contained in my goddamn phone.


  Continuing on this theme, here is a short list of other things I've never lost at a bar:


1) My coat

2) My wallet

3) My sunglasses

4) A hat

5) Any article of clothing whatsoever


  It's really not that hard to keep track of your stuff. If you've ever lost things in a club more than once, you might be a complete lipdragger and should stop going out. Find a book with some pretty pictures in it and stare at it for a while instead.

3) "Your dumb ATM won't give me any money!"

                           "Dude. If I can't buy three more dances tonight, the prophecy will fail!"





  Sigh. It's ridiculous how often the ATM comes up in this blog, isn't it? Such a simple machine. It's only goal in life is to give you money if you just ask it in the right way. So tranquil.


  But not at our club, nope. Our malevolent ATM machine, clearly powered by the souls of executed child killers, lacks the basic human emotions to see that your drunk ass just needs to buy a few more dances. You just need a few more bucks and you're certain to nail that dancer. It doesn't care if you're hammered, in fact it has no way of knowing if you are or not other than 16 failed attempts to withdraw cash from your own account.


  It doesn't ask any arcane questions or prompt you to solve a complex mathematical equation to receive your dough, merely complete a simple set of tasks that you've successfully performed hundreds if not thousands of times before. The fact that you're too sauced to do them doesn't befront the machine at all, it just don't care.


  And neither do I.




  So with all that being said, I sign off for now.  Come back next time when I make a convincing case for something-something because of yada yada.




Gluten Nacht,
-The StripperHerder*1













*1 OK, the plural part was an exaggeration. I only know of one former stripper who is a doctor, one who is a lawyer and one who, I shit you not, holds a Master's in Physics. Whether she uses it for anything or not is unknown to me, but I saw the fancy paper and heard her talk some baffling talk.