Thank You For Making Me $600, Here's Your Reward. Or, Devil Music, Some Strippers Won't Dance To It.

  So as I may have hinted around about in this blog lately, I rarely do any "floor hosting" any more. I'm primarily just a shuttle driver with a bouncing problem for the club these days. I'm OK with this, in fact I more or less made it happen because I got sick of setting up $3000 worth of bottle service and champagne room and getting tipped nothing for my efforts. If I'm gonna get cheapskated, I'd rather it be over a five minute shuttle ride than over a transaction that would pay my rent for six months.


  That being said, tonight I got to Floor Host. I had a gentleman come into the club with three clients and he wanted them to have some fun. He asked about out VIP rooms and I gave him the grand tour and quoted some prices for him. He asked if we could comp some bottles and after having run it past my Manager, told him I'd throw in two complimentary bottle of our house swill and toss in an extra 15 minutes or so.


  "Golly that'd be swell." He says and we all mosey on over to the room. The total tab comes up to a bit over $2000 and he tipped me $100. By that time the late shift Floor Golems had finally arrived at work so I appraised them of the situation and left to go drive the Whore Wagon.


  When I dropped by the club later on to urinate, I inquired about the room and it turned out the guy had re-upped when his room was done for another hour. This time he'd tipped $200, which didn't surprise me, I've always suspected people don't like to tip me because I'm taller than them.


  To me, this proved the theory.


  Anyway, these guys had come in very early on an otherwise SLOW night and we didn't really have a lot of dancers to choose from. Of the four charming entertainers that spent the next two hours in the VIP room with them were two girls I had handpicked for them. One of whom I'd had to pluck away from a deadbeat customer on the patio, and another who really didn't want to be bothered with the whole thing because she had come to work to stare at her phone, not make money.


  When all was said and done all four gals had made about $600-650 on a night where they would've been lucky to earn $200 based on our customer numbers and demographics. Many of our strippers left tonight having made jack and shit, so a $600 night might've seemed, to a rational fucking person, a reason to be thankful, which in our ecosystem means ponying up some goddamn dough.


  Bear in mind that I'm an easygoing Floor Douche, I don't expect some sort of grand tribute as a recognition of the money I just earned you. I'm not a "10% minimum" kinda guy. I just would like some sort of sign of gratitude if I personally chose you over all other available choices to make some easy money.


   So what, dear reader, do you think us Floor Beasts made from those very same four dancers who'd grossed somewhere around $2500 tonight?



  A) $200


  B) $160


  C) $100


  D) $60



  If you guessed any of the above choices, you'd be wrong, you optimistic fuck.
,

  We made a total of $10 off those four dancers. Those wasted fucking dancers.


  This is the fiscal equivalent of shitting in someone's mouth and slapping their kid off the monkey bars.





                     

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









  This is where this installment gets really amusing for me. I wasn't there when this happened, and if I hadn't heard it from two other employees, I don't think I would've believed it. It goes a little bit like this:


  We have this dancer, her name is Sticker and she is what is classified as a "Dust Bunny", or a dumber than average stripper. Seeing as how strippers in general set the bar really low as far as cognitive abilities go, to say that a particular girl is dumber than average is seriously making a statement.


  With her intellectual capacities suitably described, I would like to say that she is also a very nice girl and that I never have to deal with any drama or fallout over her presence in the club. This may be because she just doesn't have the imagination to be more malevolent and shifty, but she flies way under the radar and is cute as anything you can think of that is super fluffy and cute.


  So apparently the other night she walked off the stage after one song, which is wrong because every dancer does two songs in their set. One is less than two, in case you were confused on the matter.


  Before I go further, let me explain how strip club stages work to you, my potentially ignorant reader. In the vast majority of strip clubs there is a main stage and usually some sort of subsidiary stage(s). When things are slow, there is generally one dancer on stage at a time and this is known as single rotation. On busier nights or when the crowd merits it, a club will go to double rotation, or two girls on stage at all times. And on nights like your average Saturday, a club will be running all available stages.


  The night in question was a double rotation sorta thang. The way this works is that on a girl's first dance the DJ will select a song from her musical choices, and on the second when a new girl comes on stage, the song will come from that girl's playlist. So every dancer has to dance to something that may or may not be her preferred form of music on her second song.


  Normally there isn't much need for concern as 90% of our Dancer Corps likes the same garbage, i.e. R&B, rap, hip hop, techno, dubstep of whatever that music is called that sounds like two fax machines raping each other.


  With me so far?


  Excellent.


  So Sticker had her Rihanna song or whatever and following her on stage was Red Death, one of our very few hard rock/metal chicks. Red had been given 'Dragula' by Rob Zombie from her playlist and soon after it started, Sticker just walked off stage, baffling everyone who could be bothered to pay attention, such as our Manager, Sir Pulsing Headvein Thrombisich IX, who promptly flipped the fuck out.


  Sticker, gods bless her heart, walks to the DJ cage and tells him she wouldn't dance to 'devil music'.


  Thinking Rob Zombie songs are evil is a sure sign of Dust Bunni-ness if there ever was one. He is a caricature of evil at worst and a mediocre hard rock musician at best. I know for certain that Red Death has some Cannibal Corpse songs on her playlist and gods forbid poor Sticker ever had to be exposed to one of them.


  I find it comical that a woman who shows off her naughty bits for money has a problem with a song about a car.


  Fucking comical I say.






  And in closing, here's a brief tale of seven thankless fuckwits who were in the Big City looking to show their bachelor a good time. I don't know what their names were, they were white dudes and all wore baseball hats in the approved manner. As shitglobs*1 go, they were well behaved, i.e. no chanting of "TITTIES, TITTIES, TITTIES!", no unnecessary screaming and absolutely zero amateur wrestling on the limo bus, which I appreciated.


  Then Ass-Croft*2 asks me about free passes. In my normal noncommital manner I tell him I'll take care of you if you take care of me, thinking to myself "there's seven of them, I'll be saving them $70 at the door, not to mention the cab fare to the club. I'm thinking $40..."


  What I should have been thinking was $6, because that would've been far more accurate. This was 'taking care of me' in their native language and if I'd stopped caring about my employment, I'd have taken out my nondescript wang and meticulously wiped the five dollar bill and the one dollar bill all over it before tossing it in the general direction of the septet of cuntery who'd spilled from my fucking shuttle bus.


  Epic twattishness. And I don't use the word 'epic' lightly.




  I think I'm done. I wanted to get one more post up before April, and here it is.


  Maybe I'll do pictures in an editing move I can post as a whole new installment. Yeah, that sounds progressive. I'm gonna do that.





Eat the Bee,
-The StripperHerder














*1 Shitglobs: Bachelor Parties, see also Brit: Stag Parties, Cock Nights or something suitably gay sounding.




*2 Ass-Croft, my given name to the spokesdude for the group. The one who besmirched the Covenant.

Wot I did ON my slo nite, by A. Strpperhirder. Or, Your Beliefs Are Like A Steamy Pile Of Dog Squeezins To Me, I Don't Care For Them And Don't Want To Have To Step On Them Because They'll Be Squishy And Will Smell Of Shit.

  Slow nights suck. Time goes really slow, you know you aren't gonna make any money and anything you have to deal with that normally only happens on a busy night just seems doubly aggravating.


  This was my night tonight. I had barely punched in when I had to deal with a customer that refused to pay a dancer the full amount of money he owed her. I told him as he made a spirited attempt to flee the club that he was short a few bucks and would he mind paying the girl what he owed her.


  He revealed to me a couple of interesting yet irrelevant facets of his belief system, they went something like this:


A) He believed that dances were only X amount of dollars when they are in fact Y amount of money.


B) He also believed that Missy's Mump House was a better strip club and that "everything is better there".


  I told him I it didn't matter to me what he 'believed' our dances cost, it's posted on the walls of the dance room for all to behold. They're called signs and they often convey valuable information, such as how much dances cost.


  I also asked him why, if Missy's is so much better, was he here trying to cheat my dancers? which he didn't like very much. For some reason a lot of people don't like it when I infer that they may be a broke piece of fecal cheese. So he again refused to pay a measly $20 and I let him walk out the door and told him don't come back.


  Fast forward 10 minutes and there he is again, holding out $20 to me. We conversed a bit further but I'm not going to bother you with the details. Suffice to say he used the phrase "don't try to play me" and other things I don't really understand because I'm about as ghetto as a Scandinavian mountain range.

                   "I know what 'trap' and 'stack' mean, but you seem to be using them incorrectly."





  I'd like to think that when all was said and done, that he left the club slightly more educated about out price scales and that I walked away still mystified about certain urban expressions. Therefore I call it a win for both of us.


  Why some people think I will care about how much dances cost at other clubs is beyond me. If you were at that club then it would be relevant, but you're not, you're in this club and dances cost more here. It's like going into a shoe store and complaining that a certain pair of shoes cost more there than at another shoe store on the other side of town.


  Guess what? No one gives a fuck but they aren't allowed to say it. If you want the cheaper priced shoes, go to where they sell them, you broke, soulless genital cyst.

                                         "I am apathetic and filled with stinky mustard."

 But that's not all that was annoying about tonight. I had another "A" team/"B" team moment this evening. It went something like this:


  I was, as usual, driving the shuttle around, desperately seeking customers for our starving strippers to feed on, but had to make a pit stop back at the club to take a leak.


  I had just opened the door to the place when this little drunk guy who was trying to leave the club ran into my chest. He looked up at me and I looked down at him and then the bartender came around the corner and said that he was trying to leave the club without paying his tab and held up his driver's license.

                                "On second thought I DID forget to pay my tab. Oops."





  I smiled my most disarming smile and said "well you need your license back, right? Let's go take care of that tab and we'll get you all squared away, OK?" I was patronizing the living quim out of this dude, but he didn't notice, so wasted was he.


  The little imp merely nodded and headed off uncertainly toward the bar. "That's right, you're doing great" I encouraged him, grinning at the Door Girl.


  He refused again at the bar, not seeming to comprehend the whole 'money for booze' concept and I gently loomed over him, being all kinds of helpful. It was only $30 for chrissakes.


  He got all ballsy again and said "I'm not gonna tip her" to which I replied, "that's up to you sir, but the $30 is your bar tab and that's all we need." He would end up paying and leaving quietly and I was just going to walk to lizard when I noticed my fellow B teamer, Joker, waving frantically at me from the Counter station.*1


  So I wander over and he asks me if I could watch the Counter while he took care of something, no more than 5 minutes. I said sure because I like Joker and us B teamers have to stick together. But as I did so, I suddenly thought to myself, "hey self, aren't there two other Floor Sloths working tonight? "Yes self" I thought back to myself, "I wonder what they're doing since they are clearly too busy to walk forty feet and help a fellow Floor Stiff out."


  So I glance over to where the A teamers hang out when they're doing nothing, which is 90% of the time, and there they were, Seamus and Lo-Jaq, faces buried in their phones, doing fuck all.


  It was at this point when I realized how wide the whole "A team/B team" schism is here. The other B team Floor Guy was more comfortable asking me, who was actually doing something for the club and had to piss so bad my belt was getting tight, than the A teamers who were both doing absolutely nothing, forty feet away.


  Nice, eh?

                                          "Huh? No, sorry bro. Super busy here."




  In a related side note, when I called off recently due to a bad case of I Don't Wanna Work, I texted the M.O.D. and told him I couldn't make it in and that I had already tried all the B-teamers, two of which were already scheduled and the third I hadn't heard back from and that I wasn't going to waste my time asking A-teamers to cover my shift because we all knew how that was going to work out for me.


  Since they haven't managed it in almost five years, I feel like they certainly aren't going to start now.






  And you might be thinking at this point, well crap, that's gotta be it, right? What else could've possibly happened on such a miserably slow Thursday?


  Well there's one more shit-cherry on the cupcake, dear reader and it's something that normally only happens on a busy night.




  

  SO we have this one dancer, I'll call her Saber since she's named herself after a weapon of all things. Saber is what I refer to as a World Class Stripper, i.e. she could walk into any strip club on the face of the planet and instantly be hired. She's insanely good at her job and I'll admit she's one of the most trouble free dancers I've ever worked with. She doesn't get hammered every night and on the rare occasions she does, the girl can handle herself. She also doesn't dabble in the sordid world of intra-club politics/bullshit and thusly I've never had to pry her apart from whatever other entertainer she's currently trying to maim.

                             "Your wallet is so huge and veiny. I will pretend now to want it."





  She appears Asian, but is actually Merznakistanian if I remember correctly. She speaks with a heavy Russian accent, like a Bond Villain, and has all the naughty bits you can handle, muchacho.


  If this chick makes less than $150K a year, I'll eat a small child of the readers' choice while riding a a polar bear down Wall Street wearing only clownface and a chainlink jockstrap.


  But I won't have to do that no matter how much I want to because Saber hauls in money like sardines in a net. Men fall all over themselves to give her money.


 The reason I bring her up is because tonight, like many nights, she's lingering around after hours because some dumb prick with more money that sense is doing a seemingly endless chain of dances with her after we've closed. At $25 a pop.


  On a busy night I don't begrudge her this because we're going to be there longer anyway, cleaning up the destruction drunks leave in their wake and waiting for the manager to do all the esoteric money stuff that always takes him forever. Plus she can be a generous tipper from time to time, recognizing that every now and then she can be a lovable pain in the ass.


  But on a night where we could've been home very soon after club close, it sucked. And then she added a couple more coats of suck-gloss to the finished product, namely:


  Just sitting down right in front of us with this apathetic cumbubble, chatting gaily about stuff that doesn't mean anything, while the entire staff of the club sat abjectly fifteen feet away from them, clearly wishing they could go home after a disastrous shift, yet trapped until this fucking customer was out of the building and this fucking dancer was in her goddamn street clothes and also ready to GO HOME.

                        "What? Oh them? No, they love sitting around for free. As all my Minions do."





  Next part of the saga is that the customer had to pay with a credit card, which makes it so easy to tip someone, such as someone you've kept from their bed for an extra hour or more for example. Yeah, that kind of person.


  But Mr. Bubble wasn't that kind of guy. Zero fucking situational awareness in this one. He gladly signed a receipt for over $700 and didn't tip a miserly dime.


  What a cunt.


  Then Saber broke the tension with this question, "Does one of you (referring to us Floor Guys) want to run him to his hotel in the shuttle?"


  Insert chirping cricket sound effect...here.



  Did she seriously just ask that? Best call him a ride and leave it at that. So she did.


  Finally the panty-whiffer's uber arrived and he left the club. That's when Saber unleashed her final suck-salvo. She sat down at the bar in her thong and bra and proceeded to light up a smoke and start talking about more inane crap with the bartenders, instead of, and I stress this, going to the fucking dressing room and fucking getting ready to fucking go the fuck home, where we'd all like to have been an hour ago.


  I don't care if she tipped a hundred, which I seriously doubt and am checking up on right now.*2 After the split it would've only been $25 each and I would've gladly paid $25 to just to go home at that point.


  Another $25 wouldn't have even put us over $100 tonight, it was like January bad. Utterly bereft of hope.


 It galled me. Both Saber's and Ass-Tonguer's total obliviousness to their inconveniencing of a bunch of already exasperated service industry folk, pre-beaten by a slow, unrewarding grind of a night and now forced to wait until she felt she had squeezed the last cent from him and he felt all avenues to Coitusville had been explored and found to be dead ends.


  Had it been me who was loitering in a business that had closed an hour ago*3, I would've acknowledged the unhappiness of the employees whether they had made it obvious or not, and let me be clear about this: I would've tipped them generously.


  Because I hate working for free and I'd expect every other human does as well and am sympathetic enough to understand this.


 


  In closing I'd like to say that if I'm ever put in charge of stuff, then by law, everyone would have to work a minimum of six months in the service industry. It would make the world (or at least 'Murrika) a better place to live in and if it didn't I'd execute a few more people, just for the hell of it.



  Meh. I'm done. I'm gonna go back through and reread this post for a final edit sorta thing, so if I feel like doing pictures, you'll know because you'll have already seen them by this point. If there are no pictures, it means that after rereading the post, I decided not to do any.


  Just wanted to give you a head's up about it because time travel can be very confusing.




Asmodeus is the wings benath my wind,
-The StripperHerder
















*1 The Counter Station is the most static position in the club. Whatever poor, misbegotten wretch is saddled with this job has to mark the sheet for each song any given dancer does so that the club can take a goodly portion of the money from those dances. He can't leave his post unattended without risking a serious word-fucking by our manager, Sir Ominous Thunderblam VII.


  Experiments in trusting dancers to be honest about how many dances they performed have proven to be wildly unsuccessful. One might even use the term 'catastrophic failure'.





*2 Hey, this is Future StripperHerder coming to from Sunday morning. I DID check up on what Saber tipped that night and it turns out it was $25. So considering there were 4 of us Floor Grunts working, the extra money for over an hour of bullshit was $6.25.


Spectacular.














*3 This is complete hypothesis because I would never do this unless I was friends with the owner and had been specifically invited to stay.**



   **I won't even go to a restaurant within a half hour of closing because I've worked in enough kitchens to know that it's a dick move and you'll be lucky if your food doesn't have some 'special ingredients' added.

St Fat Prick's Day: A Postscript. Or, Some Day My Rage Will Consume As Many Uber Drivers As I Can Get To Before The Cops Kill Me.

  Before I get into the sordid details of my beloved Irish holiday, I thought I'd throw some facts and figures at you from other nights this week. You know, to build up the anticipation for some creative uses of the word fuck that will inevitably happen later on.


  Since it's fresh in my mind, let's begin with Thursday night, bullet point style.


⤏I walked 18 dancers out last night. Walking out a girl at the end of the night doesn't just mean watching her from the doorway to make sure she stays rape-free. No sir, we walk all of our entertainers right to their car door, frequently carrying their inexplicably heavy stripper bags for them.*1


  Often we have to deter lingerers in our parking lot from trying to talk up the girls. Usually a gruff, "she's off the clock, jizzsop. Come back tomorrow and talk to her when she's working and maybe bring some money this time" will do the job, but every now and then people force us to be more direct.


  Of the 18 (I counted) gals I walked to their cars, 3 tipped me. This is what's known in the industry as 'fucking shitty' which is a technical term I don't expect everyone to understand.


  I realize it wasn't the best of nights, but for fuck's sake, would a fiver kill ya? Who would you be more apt to tip, the guy who made you an extra hundred bucks, or the guy who blew the brains out of an armed mugger who had robbery as the most gallant of his intentions that night?


  This job can be dangerous. Security people are attacked, injured and killed all the time, but you never really hear about it because no one gives a crap. Bouncers are dicks, remember?


⤏Speaking of tips...


  America is the tipping capitol of the world. Tipping all sorts of professions is ingrained in our culture like no where else on the planet. (I'm excluding really corrupt, third world nations in this statement because bribes aren't the same as tips.) We're the polar opposite of most Asian cultures where tipping is seen as rude or unnecessary and just isn't done.


  Us Murrikans tip everyone: waitresses, bartenders, taxi/uber drivers, hair dressers, valets, Subway sandwich makers, limo drivers, strippers, door people and everyone and anyone who puts a tip jar out. Since I am dependent on tips to make over $6 an hour, I tend to tip generously and in a wide swath.



  Therefore when I go above and beyond my duties to make customers happy, I don't feel like it's too much to expect for them to show their gratitude in a munificent fashion. Fork over some goddamn cash you cheap, classless twat.


  What happened was this. I received a text from the club to go pick up Shitmouth or whatever his name was and a party of 10. The bar they were at was literally a mile away, so it's not like it was a major inconvenience or anything, all very routine.


  At least that's what it should of been, but Shitmouth was a real piece of work. When I pulled up to the bar he was at, he runs out and leaps onto the bus and starts yelling at me. Literally fucking yelling. "HEY MAN CAN WE STOP AT THE INSERT HOTEL NAME HERE AND PICK UP A COUPLE MORE OF MY WHOLESOME AND VERY QUIET PARTY?" IT'LL ONLY TAKE 3 MINUTES!"


  "SURE!"  I replied, getting into the spirit of the thing.


  So he and his people climbed onto the bus and proceeded to yell and scream at each other for the two minutes it took to get to the hotel. Once there, Shitmouth staggered inside with a couple of his cronies while the rest of the party stayed on the bus, where they annoyed me with their full volume zoo shrieks.


  Twenty three fucking minutes later, (I timed it.) Shitmouth comes shambling back to the bus, soaked in milky beads of semen.*2 I shit you not, venerable reader. Twenty three agonizing minutes I waited for this soulless prick, the innane cackling of his friends driving me slowly and inexorably towards horrific acts of violence.


  SO finally he's back on the bus and then we wait for another 4 or 5 minutes for the final three members of the group to grace us with their presence. I was thankful it was only a 60 second ride back to the club because I was developing an acute case of murderection*3 with the whole situation.


  In closing, the entire group shuffled off the bus, tossing me a "Thanks, buddy!" or a "Good job, man!" on the way out. What they didn't toss me at all was any form of currency whatsoever. Not a dollar, not a dime, not a peso, not a pretty seashell. One guy even had the notion that patting me on my head like well behaved Irish Setter was a fine idea.


  What I said to him was "Don't ever touch my head like that again."


  What I should have said to him was, "If you ever pat my head again like I'm some kind of service animal deserving of praise, you'll never jack your buddy off with that hand again you plaid shirted fuck."


  This half hour ordeal would've taken three minutes if they'd just all been in one place, filed efficiently onto the goddamn bus and let me drive them the 5,000 feet to the club.


  Not even exaggerating in the slightest, three minutes.



⤏A lot of people just suck. I realize that this is common knowledge, or at least it is if you're a realist, or have been pummeled into human hate pudding by the service industry, but I feel it bears mentioning again.


  I have revealed in this blog before that we Floor Scum have to clean the club every night, the least pleasant job of which is doing the Dressing Room. The strippers are a catastrophe in a glitter bra. The heinous acts of hygiene, eating and fucking about they commit in that poor room are too numerous and vile to print in this upstanding blog. I'm here to inform and entertain, not revolt and disgust my beloved readers...


   That being said here's a crude diagram of the bathroom in the Dressing Doom:

  Notice how the trash is strategically located a mere five feet from the sinks? Even for a tiny stripper it couldn't be more than 3 steps. Three. Fucking. Steps.


  Yet every night I'm blessed with the task of cleaning up this badger pen, there are always at least a dozen balled up wads of paper towel thrown onto the counter top and even more strewn across the floor all willy-nilly.


  How much of a shitball do you have to be to just throw your nasty wads of who-knows-what stained paper towels wherever you happen to be standing when a trashcan is literally five feet away from you?


  The answer is you have to be a big shitball to do stuff like this, and big shitballs come in all sizes.






  All right, enough about all that. You want to hear how my favorite irrational holiday went, no?


  That was the whole cunting point of this post, right?




  Well, satisfying your abnormal hunger for tales from the oily, tawdry industry I work in is my specialty folks. It's what I do. So here's the grim details:








  Tonight wasn't bad. 





  I realize that it's a bit anticlimactic after all the crying I did about the Douchepacalypse and whatnot, but it just wasn't anything at all like I was expecting. Nothing whatsoever like last year, which sucked huge amounts of flying custard.


  This Fat Prick's Day was pretty mellow and we made almost $300. So really, I have nothing to complain about outside of a couple a normal stupid things that may well have happened without the aid of a poorly conceived homage to the Earth's favorite drunks.


  This surprising tameness can be attributed to two factors:



1) The weather sucked and people didn't like it because they are pussies. Either that or they'd rather be dead than be caught wearing coat outside in winter.


2) Much more important to the chillness of the evening was the substantial amount of vodka I drank while driving the shuttle around streets littered with assholes and half digested reubans. Yes. I did that. I stopped at the only place in town I enjoy going to and had between three and five double vodka tonics. I wasn't really counting.



  This isn't typical behavior for me, but I figured what's the worst that could happen as I piloted my land whale through a minefield of human rectalness. Death, I suppose. But it probably wouldn't be mine and chances were, even with a few belts in me, that it wouldn't be my fault anyway, so I got all "Irish" and shit.



  Well on that disappointment, I'm done. I have other things to do. Important, meaningful things that will enbettermify the whole world and shitforth.



  So fuck off.





Call Me Maybe,
-The StripperHerder





















*1 Seriously. Why do they bring cinder blocks to work? Your average stripper outfit's weight is measurable in fucking grams and their shoes aren't much heavier. If you're to the point where you need 35 lbs of makeup, it's time to retire. I'm constantly baffled by the weight of some girls bags.




*2 OK, I may have embellished a bit about the spuzz, but I'm pretty sure he was doing blow and sucking cock while he was up there.




*3 Murderection: Lit Murder-Erection, also known popularly as a Kill-Boner, Stab-Stiffy, Death Helmet, Battle Rooster, Chaos Cock, War Bulge

In Two Days, Hell Comes To HospitalityTown. Or, I Enjoy The Sound Of Your Spine Splintering In My Wheel Wells. Please Stagger In Front Of My Bus.

-SUNDAY



  Five days from today it will be St. Fat Prick's Day and this year the travesty will land on a Friday. This is as close to an Apocalypse as the service industry gets. It doesn't matter if you make slightly better than average money due to sheer volume, the amount of cockery you'll have to endure will more than make the extra money seem pointless and unrewarding.


  This debacle masquerading as a holiday is the single worst day most hospitality folk will have to face the entire year. Ask anyone who slaves in the drinky-feedy portion of the labor market and they will almost unanimously tell you that St Patrick can go fuck himself with a handful of serpents and that drunk people in general can choke on a bag of dick-shaped snakes and die already.


  I for one am not looking forward to this abomination of a national tradition, especially on a weekend. It's bad enough when it falls midweek, but a weekend Irish-Cunt-O'Fest is truly something to be dreaded. When I think about it I get butterflies in my stomach. Butterflies with razors taped to their wings that feast on my mucal lining.


  I'm gonna have to score some valium to get through this. I'll have no choice.






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



-MONDAY
 


  It's kinda sad to say that last Monday was my best night of the year so far. 2017 hasn't been a benevolent master to us Floor Jokes to this point. We managed to make $330 tonight because of some monied button down shirt wearer who blew $8000 at our establishment, 5K of which went to a single stripper who vaguely resembles ET, but in a hot way.


  Sorta.


  As a result we broke the $300 mark for only the 5th or 6th time this year. If you take Button-Down out of the equation, or if it had been a night where we staffed four Floor Turds instead of only two, we would've made maybe $120 or so. This is what I like about the titty-shack industry, like Knight Rider, one man can make a difference.

                                "Here's $50, Floor Scum. Look away as I get pleasured."





  And if he had chosen one of our more....saavy dancers, we could've made a whole bunch more. Let me tell you why.


  Mr. Button Shirt was what we Floor Animals refer to as a "Rich Pussy". This means he enjoys expending cash if a suitably dominant stripper/female tells him to do it. I've seen it many times in my career and it always feels good spending a rich man's money on a new firearm or something even more frivolous.


  A Rich Pussy will tip the Floor Cunts whatever the stripper tells him to. This is a way of symbolically offering his wallet-vag to her. Therefore if a more aggressive/adept entertainer had got her hooks into him, say like a Dallas or an Alanna, us Floor Guys would've made a fuck ton more money because a wise stripper knows when she can financially smack a dude's balls, whereas a green stripper thinks $20 is a good hustle and doesn't understand symbiosis, or, and let me clear about this, certainly can't spell it.




-FRIDAY


  Typical twat convention. All the usual suspects were present and accounted for: Vomit, Belligerent Dudes, Wasted Strippers, Angry Managers, Self Important Fuckstains, Professional Matffletes*1, Reluctant Female Patrons, Puke, Cheapskate Dickholes, A Bachelor Party (Shitglob), Clueless Drunks and even a Rampaging Transsexual.*2




-SATURDAY

   I got gurge on me from helping to carry an unconscious girl out of the club who'd been hurling into a trash can for the past ten minutes with mixed success. I enlisted her male companion to help me carry her bodily out of the club and he kept dropping her head onto the floor because he was a weak cunt, so any ensuing brain damage is totally on him.


  The security team had to subdue and eventually pepper spray an unruly tough guy/pussy. I wasn't there for it, but apparently he grabbed my Manager, Sir Osprey O'Lottalip III and the assembled floor team put him on the ground. He laughed at their efforts but agreed to leave peacefully if they let him up. So they did.


  And guess what? He became a tough guy again when given his freedom, running his mouth like a sled dog and squaring up to anyone near him. Needless to say the floor staff put him on the ground again where he continued to be a complete jizzstream. This was where Sir Osprey stepped in and tried to taze the guy with his legal flashlight/tazer. The guy literally laughed at him as as he was doing it, saying "it don't hurt" whereupon Mr. O'Lottalip sprayed his fucking face with pepper spray.


  This changed his tune dramatically. One of our Floor Guys has video of him crying, seriously crying, like a toddler, all 6'5" of him. He became very apologetic and remorseful. Had I been there I would've been sorely tempted to get in his face and ask him where that tough guy went? You know, that shit talking buttplug who'd just caused a disturbance on our patio when he verbally abused a 5'0" timid dancer.


  Where the fuck did that guy disappear to?


  I miss all the good stuff when I drive the shuttle...





-Wednesday


  Second best night of the year thanks to some overgrown frat boys who've made a lot of money in the boutique rehab center racket. You know, those places where wealthy folk go when they need a break from their drugs and booze. Costs a lot of money, is super luxurious and isn't designed to rid you of your addiction but merely postpone it long enough for you to go to rehab eleven times before you O.D.


  Their ringleader offered me $500 to bring him back horny, slutty girls from the club. Gals who'd slaver his knob and presumably look favorably on anal sex, provided there was a couple of franklin's in it for her.


  I told him it probably wasn't gonna happen but I would give it the ole college try. In reality I didn't even try because, and I feel a list coming on here...


1) I make it a point to not even work the floor enough to know who the whores are anymore at my club. And let me make this perfectly clear, in any club that has more than 3 dancers, some of them are always going to be open to the offer of cash for jizz. It's just the lay of the land. Some places are more ho-infested than others, but you can't stop it so you may as well accept it and choose whether or not to profit from it.


2) A fucking tip up front would've told me you were serious and would've had me making some inquiries. A promise of a tip is a big mythical sasquatch-unicorn which I have no interest in attempting to hunt down.


3) I'm not a pimp. A time or two in the past I have facilitated the congress of two consensual humans in a fiscal/sexual context, but it's not like I run a stable of bitches and choke prostitutes for not having my money.


4) I kinda find the whole situation distasteful. My moral compass isn't all that accurate, but there are some territories I don't feel comfortable dabbling in. When it comes to pimping girls out, I'd rather not. Call me old fashioned, but it's not my thing even if I could make free, easy money from it.






  And finally...


 
  I'm gonna have to drive the bus on St. Patty's day. This is my chosen path. My blessing. My curse.


  You see, driving the shuttle on slow, boring nights allows me to fuck around, something which I enjoy. But driving the behemoth around when there's carefree idiots shambling through intersections, challenging me to cripple them, is another story.


  I remember when I was maybe five or so, my Mom showing me how to cross a street. Stop. Look both ways. Cross quickly and efficiently.


  But when you're on the green beer, fuck all that shit, yo.


  Cross inappropriately and at unpredictable times. Linger in the middle of a busy street full of drunk drivers to make an obscure point about Star Wars that no one cares about. Hold a hand up imperiously as if that will stop a speeding automobile, much less a pitiless limo bus. Stop to shout and gesticulate at the strip club bus, because it's awesome, NOT because you want a ride to the club.


  That's what makes me happy. People gesturing and screaming at the bus not because they want to go to see titties, but because they saw a strip club limo bus driving on a city street.


  Take a fucking picture, you miserable quim-malady. Share it on SnatchChat.




  Fuck all this. I'm done. Shove your pictures up your ass.





I meant that,
-The StripperHerder














*1 Professional athletes, usually NBA players.**


** Quick side story about one of our quality encounters with a professional mafflete: one sparkly night a few of our local pro B-ball players came into the club and went back into a VIP room. They ordered a bunch of booze and a bunch of wings. During the course of the room, one particular player is just throwing his wing bones on the floor along with his dirty napkins and eventually his half empty cup of ranch dressing. There are dollar bills littering the floor and he takes great delight in rubbing as many bills as possible in the remains of his wing-feast, getting a fair portion of the bills on the floor covered in buffalo sauce and ranch.

  This was big fun for him, being an asshole.





*2 I'm just kidding. The closest we got to a Rampaging Trannsexual on Saturday was when or Biggest Clitted dancer got angry with a customer.**


** The thing is huge.

Little Red Riding Ho, A StripperHerder Fairy Tale. Or, Like A Majestic Dinosaur I Looked Up And Wondered Briefly About The Firery Streak Arcing Across The Skies, Then I Went Back To Doing Dinosaur Stuff.

  
 Because I know that my readers like simple things, liberally salted with profanity and a dash of pessimism, I give you another StripperHerder Fairy Tale. A modern take on a classic story, BASED ON REAL LIFE EVENTS.


  And as you'll discover, all's well that ends well in the Magical Titty Forest...

                     The fabled entrance to the Magical Titty Forest on an unseasonably cool day.



  
 Once upon a time there lived a spirited girl named Red. Red had become a Stripper but didn't want her Granny to find out because it would break her old fucking heart to know that her only granddaughter whipped out her ta-ta's for dollar bills.


  Red was raised by her Granny because her mother was a crackhead and couldn't be bothered to do motherly things, such as feeding her child and not whoring her out for some rock. Her kindly Grandma lived on the other side of town and took Red there to live with her when the future stripper was very young.


  Over the years and with her Granny's nurturing support, Red grew into a strong, independent young lady who was ever so keen to see the big, giant world that awaited her. When she came of age, Red boldly strode forth into said world, confident and self assured that she would make something of herself.

                              "I'm good at other stuff besides sex, you fucking troglodytes."




  But the world turned out to be far more difficult and unfair than she had ever imagined. Jobs, it turned out, sucked for enthusiastic but uneducated young women like herself. Sure she was pretty, intelligent and capable, but it seemed like her looks only led people to believe she was merely pretty and therefore couldn't possibly be any good at anything other than being bonkable and photogenic.


  Red despaired. She quickly grew disenchanted with the working world and the stagnant, dead end jobs that marked her trail through it. How would she ever be able to afford to take care of her beloved Granny in her twilight years and maybe stick her Ma into some kind of rehab when she could barely afford to feed herself and keep a roof over their heads? Life, it seemed, was a motherfucker.


  Then one day a friend of hers told her about "dancing". Apparently some men would pay stupid amounts of money to watch beautiful, nubile young women take off their clothes, gyrate around on stage and climb shiny metal poles. Her friend Goldi had only been doing it for a couple of months and had made so much money that she no longer had to break into various forest creatures' homes and steal their porridge and furniture.

                            Goldi showcasing her tree skills shortly before her untimely death.


  
 And this is how Red became a stripper and was able to care for her aging grandmother, pay some de-programmers to try to wean her mom off crack and finally afford a place of her own closer to the club so she didn't have to drive across town drunk every night, challenging an eager and rapey local police force.





  So Red moved out of her Granny's house into a place of her very own, but she always visited her aged Grandma at least once a week, never failing to bring her a basket of goodies each time. Goodies like insulin and cookies and percocets and rat traps, for Granny's house was infested by vermin and would be condemned by the Health Department shortly after her unfortunate passing.

                        Granny's cookies smelled funny and attracted unusually aggressive deer.


  


  But I get ahead of myself....




  Her Granny had warned her not to talk to strangers and now she had a job where her income depended on doing just that. And then grinding on their members through their pants in a private dance room. It wasn't ideal, but it sure beat the shitty money she had earned being a file clerk with a sadistic, perverted manager raining misery on her all day, every day.


  So she went about her new life, nip slippin and gash flashin, making the hazardous journey across town once a week to keep her cherished Granny drugged up, fed and undevoured by rats.



  Then one day when she was crossing town, a Big Bad Wolf approached her and tipped his wide brimmed, purple and white zebra print hat at her.


  "Mornin little lady, how you doin on this fine day?" He asked amicably.


  "I'm just swell" said Red, "I'm taking this basket of much needed pharmacology, sustenance and rodent countermeasures to my dear Grandma who lives on the other side of town."


  "Well I'll be damned" said the BB Wolf. "That's some noble-ass shit your doin there, bitch. I respect that. Ever consider working in the Escort trade? Make a lot of money a precious wee cookie like you."


  "I already show my hooters and occasionally my gnazzle*1 for spare bills" replied Red matter of factly. "I'm not blowing creepy old men for any amount of money, thank you very much." And with that, Red set off again on her sojourn to her Grand Mam-Mam's hovel.

                             Granny's house. Smells like cat semen and the rats who perv on it.




   "OK then, darlin. You have youself a safe journey!" The BB Wolf called after her. Then, under his breath he muttered, "Oh you gonna choke on some crank for me, little Red. You gone be my breadwinner...."


  And with that he dashed off through the town' side streets, taking a short cut that Red, being new to the town, knew nothing about. He arrived at Granny's hovel a considerable time before Red, because she was stuck in crosstown traffic caused mainly by Uber drivers.


  BB Wolf knocked at Granny's door and was just preparing to try out his best Little Red Riding Hood impersonation when her heard a surprising hale voice call out to him, "It's open, big boy, get that veiny stinkhammer in here!"


  "What up, Granny?" Said the Big Bad Wolf, "you be needin some dick?"


  "The sight of your hairy wang is blowtorching the cobwebs from my dilapidated brat-hatch" Granny replied, "use me sexually before my innocent Granddaughter gets here with my dope and cookies."


 "I'm gone savage that bat-haunted cave like a brown bear with a sockeye salmon plucked from midstream. Gonna chow you back and forth and smack yer head off the furniture like dey goalposts; real ungentleman-like.


  I'm gone eat you Granny."


  "MASTICATE MY NETHERS YOU SOULLESS COCK-ORC!" Screamed Granny, shucking her bloomers like a snake sheds its skin, but faster and with markedly less sensuousness. "CHEW MY INNIES LIKE A WAD OF GRAPE BUBBLE GUM YOU SHAGGY, GIANT DICKED ABOMINATION!"


  Granny was a horny old gal from a long line of sexually adventurous women. Her mouth was filthier than a prison ship's slop buckets.


  Sorta hot if you were blindfolded...

  So Granny and BB Wolf started to get it on, streamers of saliva and less wholesome juices flying about the room like silly string that didn't smell right. Pungent is a word that comes to mind. Granny was screaming and hollering like a devil caught at Mass, begging Mr. Wolf to mount her and pummel her flap-shack like something that owed him money. The lupine ravager was only too happy to comply and was shagging nine kinds of shit out of Granny's wrinkled crawlspace when Red walked through the door.


  "Oh Granny" Red Called out, "I brought your goodies and......" Red trailed off as she saw a hairy predator ass and balls pumping away between her dear ole Grand Dam's wide spread, stockinged legs. "Goddamnit" she sighed, letting her long scarlet cloak drop to the floor.


  She climbed into bed with the Wolf and her Granny, burying her face in the old woman's slimed-over love tunnel while BB Wolf rammed his engorged member into her delicate chick-flower. As they fucked and slurped their way into sexual history, they were unaware of the woodsman watching them through the window as he feverishly beat his primitive man into uttering clam juice.

                                  "You on the Pill, right? Ha-ha. Just kiddin. I don't care."






  No one died, but Red did give birth to a fine litter of puppies nine months later. Mr. Wolf disappeared when he found out Red was pregnant and the woodcutter became Granny's new dick puppet. Red was able to get on federal assistance while still stripping on the side and her friend Goldi was shot dead while attempting to steal a medium sized bed from a respectable family of bears.


  All's well that ends well in the Magical Titty Forest.

                                        "Are you coming to their soccer game or not? 







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






  I've been questioning my future in the stripperherding field lately. I don't want to end up being the world's oldest Floor Host, shuffling around aimlessly, hoping someone takes pity on me and tips me a twomp for finding a table for them. Useless in a fight and likely to die quietly in my apartment if I were to get fired from my job or was forced into retirement by the dynamic management team who grew weary of my constant bathroom breaks.


  I lead that sort of life already where if I were to die in my sleep some night, no one would ever know until my neighbors called the landlord complaining about the stench. I almost never go out, no one ever comes over and if I just stopped showing up at work one day, everyone would just assume I quit because all I do is gripe about the job.


  The big, glaring problem with leaving the industry is of course my complete lack of qualifications/willingness to do anything else. Except maybe writing, but that is very much open for debate depending on your viewpoint. In my own mind I'm merely a drunken hack who in his literaricable venting, manages to turn an amusing phrase every now and then and has managed to write a funny caption or two for frequently disturbing pictures.


  So I've been thinking about my future is what I'm trying to say. If I were to lose my job, exactly how long could I continue to exist on $1050, which is the entirety of my life savings to this point? What patch of woods would best suit my homeless needs? Are forest highwaymen still a thing?


  My best bet is getting a sitcom script written which is based on my blog. Media is hungry for content nowadays and a show about a strip club has never been done. This blog is the motherlode of source material for said sitcom and yet....outside of a bunch of character development notes and plot thread ideas, I haven't started writing the damn thing yet. Can't be that hard, right?


  But I have an innate fear of failure which has so far proven to be utterly crippling to any endeavor I've set my hand to outside of this here blog. I always defeat myself before the battle begins. Add in the fact that writing the script is the easy part, you then have to sell it. This will involve lawyers and contract jargon that I won't really comprehend and I'm quite likely to get royally fucked on any deal I manage to land.


  And yet this is pretty much my only hope. All other roads lead to despair, homeless shelters and possible suicide scenarios.


  So we'll see what happens. Check out my webcam at www.whenwillthatgiantfuckerdie?.com. It's suspenseful.






  So that's it then. Go away to somewhere quiet and think about whether or not you'd pay an small gratuity to this humble author in order to continue reading his tasty posts, delivering that hit of wretchedness and depravity that you so sorely crave.


  Because I am thinking of doing this.


  Squatch gotta eat.....





Viva Currencia!
-The StripperHerder























*1 Gnazzle: Vulva. Or, external secondary sexual structures shrouding/enhancing vaginal entrance, as case may be