-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.
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.
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.
