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Floor Guys: We Always Got Each Other's Back! Or, Sometimes You Gotta Take A Stand And Teach A Lesson To Someone Who Doesn't Care And Isn't Even Paying Attention.






  I'm the type of guy who believes firmly in the "I Scratch Your Back And You Scratch Mine" philosophy of life. It's a simple equation that has been fundamental to the development of mankind since we looked at the ground and thought 'hey, maybe if we worked together we can live down there instead of in these damn trees. I mean that's where the fruit falls when it's ripe, right?'


  People helping people with the expectation of being helped in return some day when one needs it is an integral part of society. It's like the barter system for services rather than goods and the fact is that without cooperation, human civilization would've never progressed beyond one monkey hurling bananas down to his buddies.


  So it's with that in mind that I kinda look at my job as a split society. The A team looks out for each other and no one else and thusly the B team is forced to rely on other B teamer's for their only source of support.


  This is in terms of covering a shift or switching start times for a fellow Floor Monkey. I've kept tabs on every time I've covered another Floor Hosts's shift or come in early for them. Currently I'm fairly equal with the B teamers because we help each other out. With the A teamer's however, I'm working out of what I'll refer to as a fucking deficit.


  In my time at this club I've covered 8 shifts for one A-Whole or another, and in return they have combined for a total of one shift covered for me out of of maybe ten times I've asked. They always have an excuse as to why they can't do it and sometimes the excuses are just plain weak as shit.


-"My Aunt is coming into town and even though she'll be here a week and I won't be seeing her on the night you asked me to cover, I can't do it for reasons I am unable to articulate at this time."


-"My dog seemed especially unhappy today and I am concerned for his well being. He recently lost his favorite toy to a chewing accident and has been glum ever since"


-"I can't tonight because I'm planning on getting my dick sucked by a stripper from another club and even though this will only take 5 minutes, I'll find other shit to do because it's more important to me than paying you back for your past help."


-"Man. I just don't feel like it."




  I get it. Coming in on a night you're scheduled off sucks. I don't like it either. But if I owe someone a shift, I fucking well do it because it's the right thing to do. You have to take care of those who taken care of you, if you don't then you're a piece of shit and should throw yourself off something high into some jagged rocks. Do everyone a favor.




  So here's what brought on this latest disappointment for me:


  I just wanted to switch start times with another Floor Grog so that later tonight I could come in at 9 instead of 7. I figured with the positive shift-karma that I had accumulated with the three other Floor Beasts working tonight that it shouldn't be a problem.


  But in this, like in so many other things in life, I was wrong.


  I started with McQuim, our half Irish, half Samoan bouncer. I've covered 3 shifts for McQuim in addition to coming in early for him another 4 times and staying late for him uncounted times to make sure the Manager isn't killed after everyone else has left, because McQuim lives an insane distance from work and "has a long drive, dude" when his work week is over.*1


  I don't care if you live 6 hours away. Move fucking closer, man. All I know is that I fully expected McQuim to say 'yeah, I got you covered, bro', but this is not what he said. He said he has to "have lunch with the wife's grandparents" and this is why he can't possibly make it into work by 7 PM to help pay back his karmic debt to me.


  I almost shat myself with anger. This is the same Floor Guy who just last week when we worked together, completely fucked me on the after-work cleaning duties. We agreed he was going to do trash and the dressing room and that I would handle all the other crap we have to do. Well first off, I did half the trash myself in addition to everything else. Then when the Manager, Sir Grumpalong De'Holdaylong VII comes down at then end of the night he says "why isn't the dressing room done?", I had to do that too.


  Mcquim was very apologetic about the whole thing. Apparently we'd had a miscommunication. What he meant to say was "do everything yourself, I'm fucking leaving now even though I'm the late guy."


  So bearing this in mind I figured it was a slam dunk to get McQuim to cover a measly two hours for me.


  And I already told you how that worked out for me.


  So I turn to Seamus and Lo-Jaq, hoping one of them might remember the five shifts I've covered for the pair of them and be prepared to scratch my mudderfekkin back in return.


  Insert sound effect of the 'wrong' buzzer from Family Feud....here.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5X8qDDMC-o&list=PLx_7IGj6a8FwD78SmRnUF3ThVShNu1m2F



  You guessed it fair reader, both of them declined to help a brutha out.


  And that being the final strike, this dumb Floor Squatch will no longer help an A teamer. I will only look out for my fellow B teamer's and I admit it took me too long to come to this conclusion. I always try to hope for the best in people and am seldom rewarded for it.


  Done with all that.







                        **************************





  Let me clear about something, I am not a subtle guy. I don't just blend in to a crowd, I stand out. Not much of a choice in the matter unless I'm sitting down.


  I'm big. I'm opinionated. And I'm not shy about voicing those opinions if I feel the situation merits it or I stand to gain something by speaking up. I have a very deep voice and I've been a vocalist in two metal bands in my day and therefore..


  If I yell at you you'll know it. There won't be the slightest doubt in your mind that you're being yelled at, you'll be crystal clear on the matter. I very seldom yell at someone, but when I do, rest assured that it's a roar.


  That being said, I had a Latetress*2 ask me tonight if all the customers were out of the building so she could smoke*3. I said yes they are. The she asks me "so can I smoke or not?", obviously having not heard me.

 
  I said, slightly louder, "YES YOU CAN SMOKE."


  She gets all serious and looks me in the eye and says....I shit you not.....


  "Don't ever yell at me. You don't get to yell at me, pal. I don't have to take that from you."


  I'm sure some sort of blankness rolled across my face for a moment while my brain processed her utterly wrongful premise and misplaced audacity. When I did respond all I had to say was:


  "I didn't yell at you. If I had yelled at you, you'd fucking well know it. Smoke your cigarette."


  Among the numerous things I didn't yell at her may be included the following:


1) "How can you suck so much at such an easy job?"


2) "When a large measure of your job success as a cocktail waitress can be directly tied to how attractive your are, why is it that on you, your outfit looks like an inexplicably large mesh cheesecloth that your body is slowly oozing from?"


3) "WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"



  Considering my mood after being burned by three Floor Grubs, I felt that I exercised great restraint in my reply to her cuntish remark.





  When I yell at people their fucking hair moves, like in cartoons.







  And finally,


  I had to cover the kitchen for two hours tonight because the cook was late. I should've just said no, it ain't in my job description. This club certainly hasn't done me any favors lately and I'm not feeling all that anxious to go out of my way to help them even more.


  What I ended up saying of course was "OK".


  The thing I especially liked about the whole deal was when Manager De'Holdaylong came up to me and the other early guy*4 and asks "So does one of you want to cover the kitchen until the cook gets here" full well knowing that I'm the only one of the two of us who's worked in a kitchen before.



  I'm assuming he thought he was being clever and managerial, but in reality we both knew how it was going to play out. He just got to go home feeling good about himself for not ordering me to do it, which I could have refused because I'm not a fucking cook, nor is it my job to do so.


  I should've never let anyone know that I knew which end of a potato masher you point at the spuds.


  Fuck me.




  That's all you get. I don't care about the pictures, I really don't.



Gratin Gluten,
-The StripperHerder












*1 Traditionally speaking, the "early" guy gets to leave when everything is done while the "late" guy stays after until the Manager is done with all his stuff. It's annoying because if we're unarmed, what the hell are we supposed to do other than get killed with the Manager? And if we're armed, why the fuck can't the Manager just buy his own damn gun and get a permit for it?





*2 Latetress: A server of food and drinks who is never on time for her shifts and sucks at it even when she is there.




*3 Club employees aren't allowed to smoke in the building when there are customers still inside it.




*4 My fellow B teamer and all around good guy who I'll call Tektroll because he's good at techy stuff and is a large mammal to boot.

I Think About Stupid Shit And Ask Myself Questions I Already Know The Answers To. Or, Perhaps It's Time You Considered Retiring From Stripping.



  Sometime I realize that I lack perspective. My hatred and loathing of the drunk masses blinds me to some very basic truths from time to time and it takes a great effort of will to see beyond them to the underlying reality of the bigger picture.


  Which is the primary reason I write this blog-I allow myself to be blinded by trivialities into feeling like I have a shitty job, which I most certainly don't.


  The truth is I would hate ANY job I had within a few weeks and that it's probably not the job's fault, it's mine. I'm just plain sick and tired of working for a living. I've had a job almost constantly for nearly 34 years and it grates on me that I haven't used my meager talents to create something better for myself. Instead I've merely lived a life of low standards, happy that I have it better than so many people in the world and allowing myself to be a slave to the instant gratification that Amurrika is so adept at providing.


  I wallow in mediocrity, self indulgence and a lack of responsibility, all at the cost of having to work for a living doing something I mostly fucking despise.


  In short. I'm Murrikan as fuck.


 

  Now with that being said I often wonder about stuff that I encounter very regularly in the line of my job duties. My innate but somewhat withered sense of curiosity still pokes me in the brain every now and then and I find myself thinking about what's going on in other people's skulls that make them do the things they do.


  For instance:


1) How can you not know that your breath is so pungent and malodorous that it stinks up the entirety of a 28' limo bus with seven rows of seating? What the fuck did you eat? How can you not tell? This happened to me twice tonight and I only picked up two groups of people and one lone passenger.


  The first time was just one single guy who sat in the very back of the bus. Within a minute I could smell the dumpster-in-Jamaica reek of his breath wafting from the back of the bus, some twenty feet away. In another minute or two the whole interior of the giant vehicle was awash in his stale. rotten mouth fumes and I seriously had to roll a window down and gulp the precious night air. His maw was like a leper colony that lacked even the most basic sanitation in the middle of a god forsaken jungle.


 
                  "I know it smells like I at 30 decomposing rat dicks, but they were were actually meerkats.




  The second time was a group of fuckwit twats and it only took 20 seconds for the hot, fetid breath of one of those dildos to overrun the bus. It smelled like someone had shoved a greasy, day old cheeseburger into a corpse's asshole and then crammed the whole thing into a microwave for 60 seconds before tossing it in ranch dressing.

  The stench from the second guy lingered on in the bus for almost twenty minutes after I dropped him at the club, even though I had the windows down. Eventually I stopped at a ghetto gas station and bought one of those green pine tree air fresheners, which I freebased until my sense of smell was gone.


  Good fucking Lord people. Eat a goddamn mint every now and then you beer swilling cunts.



2) Why would you go to what is essentially an after hours club and not be willing to pay an outrageous cover charge? If it's the only game in town, it can charge whatever the hell it wants and you either pay it or go home. If money is that much of an issue for you, why are you even fucking out at all, spending it? Why not choose to stay at home and value drink? Or, even better, save the money and do something smart with it. Paying anything more then $3 for a beer is dumb as fuck anyway, so don't bitch about cover charges if all evidence points to the fact that you shouldn't even be out in the first place, you miserable shitcicle.




                                                      "We don't have $20."




3) Why do people insist on dropping names at the door? It never works. Only money works and it works every time. On any given Saturday night at least 30% of our post 2 AM crowd will try to drop a name at the door, hoping/expecting that the person will get them in for free. Or they feel that they are clearly important enough to not have to pay a cover.


  I don't care who you know and I don't care who you are, pay the cover or walk out the door and back into whatever broke ass life you were leading before you graced my lobby with your presence.


  On a personal note, since it's relevant to the topic, I never pay a cover charge, which absolutely makes me a hypocrite. On the incredibly rare occasions I venture out from my lair, I always go to a venue where I know the people who run it and the majority of the staff as well. I do this because I feel comfortable at these establishments and because they never charge me at the door because I won't charge them at my door. Scratch my back sorta thing.


  Also I never pay a cover because I NEVER GO TO A PLACE WHERE I GET CHARGED AT THE DOOR FOR THE PRIVILEGE OF PAYING TOO MUCH FOR EVERYTHING. Not saying I've never done it before, but it's not something I relish, even before the service industry ruined going out for me.


  I for one resent being gouged for drinks. I know what they cost a bar to make/buy and I know what they pay their bartenders to get it for me. Seeing as how I ALWAYS tip*1, the cost of paying anything over $3 for a drink galls the fuck out of me. I have better things to do with my money.





  The answer to all these musings is of course alcohol. Alcohol makes people do insanely stupid things and be able to perfectly justify them in their own heads.


  Eat a basket of fried raccoon assholes? Sure.


  Pay $20 just to get into a club? OK.


  Shell out $6 for bottled water? Why not? Yeah, you just paid for the entire case of water and the owner's third Porsche, but what the hell? You're drunk and thirsty, I get it.


  Luckily for me, I've moved past all that. I don't enjoy any part of going out to a bar or restaurant. I end up spending most of my time thinking about what I should be doing with my dough rather than spending it there.



  Such is life for the Service-Poisoned among us...












  Maybe it's time to hang up the pasties, darlin.







 You'r body's still OK to look at but you're face is like clown porn and not in a good way. Or maybe your face is still getting you business, but the body has become a liability. I know strippers who fall into both these categories and they all have one thing in common-it's time to retire, hon or make some serious lifestyle changes.


 

                                                               "What? I'm only 35..."




  I got the shit-business from one of our "senior" dancers tonight because I let a guy walk out the door who she says owed her more money. She is one of the more common dancers that this happens with because she stacks stupid amounts of dances on a drunk retard and expects him to understand and honor his debt to her. And if he doesn't then she relies on the Floor Squids to retrieve her money for her but doesn't tip accordingly.


  Before I go any further I'd like to point out that on the many occasions I've had the misfortune to be the nearest Floor Pig when she was having a dispute with a customer, I got her money, or most of her money, about 90% of the time. I can be very convincing when I want to be.


  She had stacked 15 fucking dances on a guy who was barely operating at a 3rd grade level because of his drunkenness. This amounted to $375 and she received $300 of it without me having to lift a finger. All the time I was overhearing her talking to the guy she kept mentioning the 'agreement' they had, and 'didn't he remember their agreement'.



  Your agreement doesn't mean fuck all to me, you slack tittied bird-frightener. He could've agreed to sign over ownership of Google for all I give a shit. What matters to me is how many dances you actually did versus how much money he actually gave you. These crazy bitches act like any drunken promise they secure from a wasted guy is a legally binding contract or something and as a Floor Peon, I'm legally obligated to obtain it for them. Virtually pro bono in most cases.


  So I let the guy walk. I'm sick of her 'he owes me for 15 dances' BS and she had already made $300 for 40 minutes of her time. If that's how you have to make a living in this industry, it's time to cash it in baby. Most dudes will fall all over themselves to hand money over to a super hot girl, when you have to start fighting over every dollar, your time is done. Move along. Maybe someone needs a "before" model for a cosmetics line.


  She screeched and moaned at me for a few minutes before shuffling off to the dressing room, all beef-curtain hurt at being shorted $75 for her dick-kneading time.


  Go die on a cock somewhere you wretched hag.


  Old gals can be either very tedious or very good at their jobs, just like younger ones. They tend to be more reliant on scams as their looks fade and their voices start sounding like gravel stuck in a food disposal. They've learned a large number of hustles to fleece the unwary and as their assets wane they're more likely perpetrate them than if they were still a young butterfly rather than an dried up old potato bug past its Sell By date.



 

  And on a final note, we've already hired a new Floor Guy to replace the 2 we've lost and the one additional one we're gonna lose when his new job kicks in. Management told at least one of the Floor Staff that we weren't going to be hiring ANY new hosts, but apparently that turned out to not be true.


  Supposedly the new guys is going to be 'one night a week and for fill-ins', but I'd bet good money that within 6 weeks he'll have a better schedule than me.


 


                                                          Faster that a speeding stripper......





   But then again I'm a pessimist.





Yours Truly,
-The StripperHerder




 


































*1 Unless the service is super shitty. The trick to this is to tip fat right up front and let the bartender know there's more where that came from if they can just be bothered to remember your face and serve you before some other cheapskates. It's worth it in the end if you happen to be at a busy place.

When I Asked The Magic Eight Ball About My Future It Said 'ANSWER UNCERTAIN, ASK AGAIN LATER'. Or, The Saga Of Lout: Botulism's Hired Gun.






  Christ.


  You ever get that fed up feeling after a particularly hard stretch at your job? The feeling that you would cheerfully watch most if not all of your coworkers slowly burn to death while a churning metal song plays at deafening levels so you don't have to be annoyed by their screams?


  No?


  Well golly. It must be nice to be less fucked up than me.


  I'm about up to here (picture me holding my hand at about forehead level) with my workplace. The job itself isn't that bad, the stuff that's actually in my job description that is; you know, crazy strippers, drunk twats, drugged out people, assholes, puke, belligerent thong pirates, etc etc. It's the stuff that isn't or shouldn't be in my job description that's driving me all apefuck.




                         "My goal is to fingerblast bitches until my digits are wrinkled and musky."




   I've had a fair amount of occupations in my life, I haven't always worked at a strip club like I would sometimes have you believe. For a sample, here's some of the jobs I have used to pay my bills over the years:


  Paperboy, Burger King, garage janitor, industrial maintenance, busboy, cook at 15 or so restaurants, delivery/collections/repo for a Rent A Center knockoff, warehouse, club security, more cooking, house painter, car salesman. I'm sure I missed a couple here or there, but you get the idea, I've labored in a lot of varied work environments before.


  And I have to say I've never worked at any sort of job before where it is commonplace for me to do other people's duties for them. Or where the rules of my employment change enormously depending on what mood my manager is in.


  For those of you who work in a stable, relatively sane line of work and may not understand what I'm talking about, let me illustrate it for you.




                                      "Hey Jim, Here's that report on systems analysis. 
                                                 Note that at no point does it refer to a drunk stripper
                                                  attacking a patron with a rocks glass. Odd, huh?" 




Bear in mind as you read the following that is has all occurred since my last post which was only nine fucking days ago.



1) "YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO DO THAT! I'M GONNA SCREAM AT YOU, MAKE YOU LOOK LIKE AN ASSHOLE IN FRONT OF A BUNCH OF PEOPLE AND THEN LIE RIGHT TO YOUR FACE REPEATEDLY BECAUSE I AM A BADGER-STYLE MANAGER!"


  This one got me so pissed I just went quiet and calm. I passed right over the stormy waters of Rage and landed in Fragile Serenity, which is where I go for souvenirs right before I snap and do something barbaric and regrettable.


  Here's the tale:


  I was working the door last Saturday just after 2 AM, when it seemed like 5 buses had pulled up and disgorged 200 drunk people who had no cash on them into our club. And since it was cold out and most clubgoers are far too cool to wear coats or even a long sleeved T shirt, everyone was trying to crowd into the lobby at the same time and the doors were wide open which quickly made the entire lobby as cold as it was outside.



  I'd say easily 80% of these insidious morons had to pay the cover with a credit card, which makes the line move really fucking slow. The pressure in the lobby was building to critical mass and I was about to get overrun in the ensuing jackalanche.



                                                    "Next stop: TITTIES!!!"




  So I called for another Floor Creep to help me with crowd control and I made a separate line for cash paying people to alleviate the weight of bodies keen to get out of the cold. I've done this many times before, frequently at the behest of the very same Manager who ripped me a new one for doing exactly that this time.





                            "INCONSISTENCY! LOTS OF GUESSWORK! YOU'RE ALWAYS WRONG!"




  He screamed and raged at me in front of everyone, denied he'd ever let me, much less told me to do it before. "That's how people get fired!" he screamed, foaming at the mouth in indignant fury.



  And to frost his shit cake for good measure he made the last group of seven people whose ID's I'd checked and who had paid their cover go back into the line and pay the Doorgirl, 'like they were supposed to'.


  As if this were somehow their fault, like they had done something wrong, not me.


  Total and complete shit show. Degrading for everyone involved.



  Dynamic Management Team Alpha: Forward Without Foresight!





 2) I am a bartender, yet somehow it's not my responsibility to clean my own workspace after my shift on night when there's no Barback scheduled. I'm not sure why this is but I like it because I am a lazy wretch. I used to tip them for their trouble, but since the Floor Guys aren't allowed to say "I'm not doing that", I recently made the decision to stop tipping. It's like finding $10 on the floor every shift!"




                                "Slave for me, Floor Goat. Your labor is sweet to behold."*1
  


  I don't understand this. Surely if there is somewhere that needs to be cleaned after a night at the bar, it's the floor behind the bar. All kinds of crap all over and everything's sticky. THAT'S how you get ants.


  But at our club, even on a night when there's no Barback working, a Bartender need not worry about sullying her fine drink-serving hands by having to pull up her own mats and sweep and mop her own work-hole. Nope. The Floor Drools do it all! Now free of charge I guess.


  You see a strip club is the epitome of a Tip Based Economy, perhaps no other industry outside of casinos rely so heavily on tipping as a way of keeping the dough circulating. Everyone tips everyone else for everything.


  A waitress punches up a food order for me when one of our non-nauseating cooks is working, I tip her a buck or two. Sure all she had to do was punch four or five boxes on a screen, but I'm not allowed to put in my own orders and I appreciate her taking a few seconds from her day to order my grub. The I'll make my way into the kitchen and let the cook know that the order is mine and flip him a few bucks too.


  Yes it's their jobs, but I appreciate their effort. A couple of bucks ain't gonna buy much but it at least let's them know that I understand how the system works and I'm goddamn well on board with it.


  So, to me, when someone does something for you that's supposed to be your fucking job, you need to tip that magnificent bastard. This Bartender, until very recently, used to do that. But for one reason or another, she no longer does. Yet I still have to pull her mats up then sweep and mop HER floor every time I work with her.


3) "Since a certain security incident at the club, us Cooks are no longer allowed to to take the trash out on their own. So now we can't even be bothered to drag our trash cans towards the door or break down our cardboard boxes for the poor shitstains who are forced to do this part of our jobs for us. And by shitstains I mean the Floor Staff."


  This is one of the many things you encounter in your life that don't bother you the first time, nor maybe even the tenth. Like Abe's asspaper that I used to have to brush into the toilet every day I worked. But this has been going on for over a year and now...


  This motherfucking infuriates me. Never, in all the kitchens I've slaved in have I ever worked in one where the cooks could just leave their trash laying around for other people to clean up and it's OK. Management here can't be bothered to apply even the most minimalist notion of standards to our cook staff. As long as you show up for your shifts, all other failings are overlooked and ignored.


  Let me cite you the prime example. For the sake of protecting his identity in case he ever wants to run for political office, I'll refer to him as Lout.




                                                "It thawed right? It awful squirmy..."




  Lout had zero kitchen experience but could navigate the public transportation system, which was good enough for us! He wastes more water than the Ford Motor Company and has probably killed more people with his culinary weaponry than Mao. He just doesn't have a clue about anything food related, safety being right at the top of the list.


  To give you an idea about how bad Lout is at his job, here's a few gems from my experience with him:


-Lout doesn't know what venison is


-Lout isn't familiar with the concept of cross contamination.


-Lout don't like sanitizing stuff.


-Lout not know how to thaw food properly, him like ranching bacteria!


-He doesn't use date stickers.


-Him no like to clean out the screen on the dishwasher, derefore the whole back of the club smells like leftover food that been allowed to boil for a day or so. It smells much less pleasant than it sounds, I can assure you.


-I watched him make a buffalo chicken salad today. Saddest thing I ever saw. The order called for chicken breast rather than tenders and Lout dutifully cooked a six ounce chicken breast and fixed the salad. Then, when the chicken is done, he pulls it off the grill and proceeds to dice it. He then takes the cubed bird and throws it into a bowl of buffalo sauce, stirs it around a bit and starts plucking individual cubes of chicken out of the sauce and painstakingly placing them onto the bed of salad.




                                    Lout does not acknowledge this dish's saladness.      




  Again, for those of you who've never worked in a kitchen before and maybe aren't so good at the art of cooking yourself, let me list all of the things that Lout did wrong just one this one salad.


1) He used the same tongs he had turned the half cooked chicken breast on the grill with to fish the meat cubes of of the sauce he had drown them in. Now not only was the chicken itself contaminated, so was the wing sauce and therefore everything that went into the wing sauce for the rest of the night.


2) He cut the breast before he dunked it in the sauce. Wrong, bad Lout. You dunk the whole cooked breast in the sauce and then you slice it, not cube it, and place it on the salad. By doing this Lout's way, the chicken gets cold swimming around in the room temperature sauce, the dish looks far less appetizing than if the chicken was thinly sliced AND it makes a puddle of wing sauce from where all the excess sauce in the tongs drips down into the salad. On top of all that, it's fucking slow as hell.


3) LOUT NO LIKE WIPING KNIVES OFF AFTER USE. RUINS FLAVOR.


  He has the filthiest knives I've ever witnessed. Fucking crusted with dried bits of whatever culinary nightmares he's Krugered that shift. He also knows absolutely zero about knife handling and care. He and the other cooks regularly use their knives to cut meat on the surface of the grill. This will ruin not only your knife, but your grill as well. And Lout not understand why knife no cut anything anymore....


  Utterly appalling.


4) He placed the completed salad under the heat line. Because intense heat is good for every facet of the salad experience.


5) After placing the salad under the salad destroying lamps, he sat his fat ass back down and went back to watching Superbowl commercials on his phone, completely indifferent to the fate of the unfortunate mess he'd just created.




                                 ***Subject Update***



  This is new since I wrote the above content:


  Lout has now mastered putting food into containers, ones without holes in them, when he thaws food products out. It only took twelve or so times and my Manager, Sir Whompalot Frenzymuff O'Smegmakin screaming at him for it to take.


  Now if he could just learn to put thawed foods into the walk in instead of letting them sit in water for the entirety of his shift, we'd be making real progress against bowel distress.






             Floor Team Logistics: A New Hope




  The whole Floor Staff situation at the club is changing dramatically. First Strider got fired, then over the past week, Keen Kenny Dean quit and another unnamed Floor Guy landed a job with the gubbamint that starts in the Spring. This level of change is unprecedented at this particular club, which is fairly hard to get fired from and is attractive enough money-wise to keep most Floor Squatches around.


  It'll be interesting to see how Dynamic Management Team: Blackbird handles the crisis. Do they hire a new guy? Spread the shifts around to some hungry B-Teamers? Make everyone work five shifts a week? Hire five new guys to replace three?


  Anything is possible with their quantum management style. I have no idea what to expect.


  The best solution of course would be to hire one new guy and move everyone to four shifts a week, us lowly bench team members included. That way, everyone wins and management comes our looking reasonably competent.


  Personally I'm just hoping that it all ends up equaling a few more shifts for this good 'ole stripperherder. I know my attitude can be really crappy sometimes and that I lack the will to change it for the better, but I can still work a mean door and sometimes, when I'm in the mood, I can be a charming motherfucker.





  That's it folks. Go to work.

-The StripperHerder
















*1 No matter how many times I tried, this website would not let me change the color of this caption's font back to black. Just wanted you to know that. It's not an editing error.