Every Little Thing She Does Is Tragic. Or, Bachelor Party Season Is Upon Us. Make Sure You Get Your License, I Hear They're Gonna Let Us Bag 3 Each This Year.

  The down-force exuded by the Owner is slowly crushing the will to live from his hapless management team. It's sad and frustrating to watch because you have this Deja-Poo feeling that the Mismanagers will turn their anxiety and venom loose on the Lower Classes, namely everyone else in the club. Floor Hosts being particularly attractive prey.


  You see the Owner wants lots of girls working here. All Owners, everywhere want lots of girls working at their place, even if there's not enough money in the club to sustain them. Strippers, while often not the shiniest coins in a purse, nevertheless understand about making money. And conversely, not making money.


  Why in the hell would you expect a stripper to come in day after day if she's not making any real money? You can't force them to come in, they're independent contractors. They can just plain go somewhere else, even if that somewhere is a far off state.


  This is a problem we're having right now. Several of our hottest dancers, girls that can get a job anywhere, are doing just that. Atlanta, Miami, Dallas, Vegas. These high end entertainers can go to one of these cities and make thousands in a single weekend. Cheap flights and cleverly constructed stripper support network can pare the cost down so that it becomes quite profitable to jet somewhere else for a few days, leaving our club with a few less gems in its crown.


  This enrages my Manager, Sir Lancer Hellquim Von Bitchinschnauzer, to no end. He has a club denuded of it's stars and an Owner ladling scorn and belittlement on him like scalding hot Chili Con Misery. I don't envy him one bit, which is why when Sleazy's Slug Den suggested I try out for a management position, it took me a minute to laugh because I couldn't believe they were fucking serious.


  I'd rather try to bang a bull walrus in rut season while slathered in fish guts and with a small anchor lashed to my yam-bag to limit my dexterity and hope for survival.



  Management? No fucking thank you.






  Speaking of management, how about backing up your Floor Staff with some sort of regularity? I mean you want us to be proactive in filtering the wasted and hopeless from our club but when we try to do just that, you often cornhole us, making what little bit of autonomy you trust us with absolutely fucking meaningless.


  Like tonight for example. I made a stop at the club to drop off some people from the shuttle and there was an Uber-cunt in front of the bus, disgorging a group of hammered spunk doublets who could barely manage to exit the vehicle without falling down and injuring themselves. I got out of the bus and told them that they were too fucked up to come into the club and that they might want to consider calling it a night.


  Sorry, but I have Liquor Control up my ass and a bar/wait staff who are incapable of saying 'no' to someone who shouldn't be served anymore, I'm not interested in another potential lawsuit endangering my livelihood.


  I explained the matter to the MOD and another Floor Schlub and then got back into the shuttle to drop off some patrons at their hotel, erroneously optimistic that the Mgr would back up my decision, especially seeing as one of these idiots couldn't stand on his own.


  But despite my optimism, after I drove off the mgr let them in anyway.



  Fuck you, StripperHerder, shut up and drive the goddamn bus.





  I don't know why I keep trying to do the right thing. It's certainly doesn't seem to be encouraged in this industry and most definitely is never appreciated. Whatever. Anyone can come in when I work the door from now on. Even if they have to be carried. And if I'm called out on my decision, I'm gonna get uppity fast.




  Speaking of working the door, I have no problem letting people in for free if I know there's a good chance they're going to spend a fair amount of dough. I'm not always right about this, but my track record ain't bad.


  On the other side of this coin is the common, garden variety 'worthless regular'. They're here virtually every weekend and they just show up to talk to other worthless regulars, staff they know but have never tipped a dime, to savor the one costly drink they're willing to pay for and hopefully glom a free drink off someone/anyone and to bum smokes from any other human possible.


  Let me give you one shining example of the classic worthless regular. I'll call him Clapstain because I'm sure he's had the drippy dick before. And let me take this opportunity to say that Clapstain has actually been my boss, back when I worked at Shelly's Shank Shack*2, when he was a manager for about ten minutes. He was a good guy to work for, but utterly spineless.


  That being said there are certain worthless regulars that I hassle all the time because I know they're not going to spend any money and because it gives me a great amount of pleasure to remind them that I'm not their friend just because we know each other's names.


  Clapstain is one of these. I've picked this broke ass twat up and dropped him off at the club no less than eight times in the past year or so. He shitting well knows about tipping because he works in the service industry, albeit in a mismanagement capacity. That being said ole Clappy has tipped me a total of $4 over this course of time, but usually bums smokes off me, thus negating any benefit I received from his $4.


  In addition to this, he always wants in the club for free. Getting into a club for free is a privilege, not a right and I fucking well decide who gets in for free*1 and those who get this benediction have earned it. Clapstain has most certainly not earned fuck all.


  The reason I chose to mention Clapstain as my stereotypical example of a worthless regular is because he got knocked the fuck out in front of our club the other night for reasons not entirely apparent. This minor fact didn't stop me from enjoying the thought of his coconut bouncing off the pavement like a petrified volleyball. I would enjoy hitting him also, although I at least have the grace to admit that I'd feel bad about it later.


  According to fellow Floor Snipe Grimsby, who witnessed the whole affair, Clapstain got "worldstarred" as soon as he exited a car and the sound of his assailant's fist striking his ear region was like a "Rocky Hitting The Side Of Beef" sound effect and Clappy went down as if a chainsawed cedar.


  Where he remained unconscious for the next minute or so. Which can't be good for you.*3


  My theory is that Clappy had bummed one too many smokes off of a guy, or had failed to pay him for some weed, but in honesty I don't care. I don't really like Clapstain. I feel sorry for him that he has an obsessive need to be around other people, none of which like him, and that he obviously doesn't enjoy spending time at home, savoring its lack of other-peopleness.


  By contrast I was just off for three days straight and only left my hovel 3 times. Twice for a store and once to watch a movie with a buddy. Perfectly happy on my own for extended periods of time. The only reason I'm not a recluse is because I can't afford to be one.


  But there is a whole tribe of Worthless Regulars and they come to the club every single weekend. If they spent a lot of money they'd be well known. respected and recognized. They'd be scene people. Players, Heavy Hitters. But instead they'll be unremembered as 'that guy I see everywhere sitting by two other guys I see everywhere but never anywhere expensive or exclusive.'


  A whole subculture of dudes who don't have $40 to their name, but are just familiar enough with the right people to make $30 of those dollars last them through eleven clubs. Every fucking Saturday.


  It just goes to show that working in a "social" industry can make one either antisocial with reclusive tendencies, or render them virtually incapable of enjoying a quiet night at home. Either way it maims its servants irreparably, marking them for life; carpet-bombing whole areas of life's pleasures.


  On the plus side, I've made, with my paltry hourly included, roughly $2000 in my last 5 shifts or 45 hours and a bit. This equals out to $44.44 an hour which I earned, for the most part, by not running someone over with the bus. That's my main contribution to the whole endeavor. That and occasionally carrying a struggling human out of the club.


  I do my ancestors proud.







  I realize, in closing, that the title to this installment has fuck all to do with its content and for that I can only remind my readers that coherency in this blog was never promised nor even alluded to. I choose to write mostly drunk and as a Murrikan, it is my constitutionally guaranteed right to defile myself by any means I find convenient and affordable. Vodka is affordable and user friendly and therefore an obvious choice. Russians are wise in this.


  My hangovers have become little more than being tired the next day. Obvious things my hangovers lack these days are: constant and often ambushy shits, headaches, feeling like absolute shite for the following 48 hours or more.


  I like being beer free.


  I do pictures now, drop the farm implements.




Nubs yinz real good,
-The StripperHerder

















*1 I decide until my Manager screams at me in front of everyone and makes me look like a drooling fuckwit, that is.





*2 The same club as Sleazy's Slug Den, but I like making up new names for it. It's fun.





*3 An interesting side note to this story is that while I was arriving at work tonight, a man had wandered out into traffic causing a Cadillac to have to swerve to avoid creaming him. A Cadillac I therefore had to swerve to avoid crushing. That man who wandered out into traffic was none other than Clapstain.

 I shit you not.**


  **Someone should put him in the concussion protocol. 

Great Moments In Stripperherding History, Vol I. Or, When In Doubt, Penalize A Floor Guy. We're Used To It.

  There really aren't any great moments in Stripperherding history, I was being deliberately misleading. There are the occasional small victories, medium wins and a lot of draws, but nothing earth shattering or of historical importance.


  Therefore everything I'm about to write regarding these so called 'great moments in stripperherding history' are complete and utter fiction. Like Superman, everything in the Bible, or the notion that humans and dinosaurs coexisted because the Earth is only 4,000 years old. Total goat drippings, folks.


  Before I start making shit up, I'd just like to take a moment to say that despite being fiction, some of the following material may be found objectionable by some readers and the views and opinions expressed herein may not reflect the corporate attitude of the StripperHerder's parent company, S.U.I.C.I.D.E ™.*1 and that reader discretion is advised.









  GREAT MOMENTS IN STRIPPERHERDING HISTORY






1) Arnolf Beornsson: a member of the Varangian Guard during the later years of Basil II's reign, he frequently worked in one of Constantinople's top strip clubs, Pale Nights, on his days off from guarding the Emperor. One evening he procured a blond stripper for an influential member of the Fatimid Caliphate Ambassador's entourage and was subsequently tipped one gold Solidus for his efforts, making him the first white guy to be tipped by a black man in recorded history.*2


  We know this because of a runestone he left behind when he returned to his homeland, it began "No shit, there I was..."

                          Arnolf Beornsson and the Saturday night security staff at Pale Nights.

2) Big Jim Crowbar: Big ole Jim was an old school bouncer in a backwoods titty shack in rural Alabama called Josie's Place. This was a black owned and black staffed strip club/brothel in post Civil War America, and despite the legal rights bestowed upon these good people by the gubbamint of the US of A, the reality, especially in the Deep South, was a whole nother story altogether.


  The owner, Josie Freeman, was a canny ole gal who knew if the word got out about her little establishment, then sooner or later a pack of drunk white illiterate scumbags would find their way there and make no end of trouble for her.


  And she was right. They did. Luckily for all involved*3, her bouncer staff, which consisted of Big Jim, all 6'9" and 327 lbs of him, was there that night. When nine drunk bigots showed up with bad intent oozing from their fat, stupid faces, Big Jim informed them that the place was closed and that they should move along.


  Not surprisingly the hill-slobs didn't care for that very much and moved in on Big Jim with ax handles and hickory sticks, determined to show this uppity giant the error of his ways. So Jim, who was about as easy to intimidate as your average oak tree, unsheathed the four foot long iron crowbar he kept lashed across his broad back.

                                         "I reckon it's time I called on Miss Betty."




  It came out with a whistling sound. Do you know how fucking hard it is to make a four foot hunk of iron whistle as it cuts through the air? Try it sometime. Big Jim made it look easy. Then he took the fight to the ridge-runners, several of whom were just thinking to themselves that they shoulda brought a few more fellas and maybe a shotgun or two. Possibly a change of shorts.


  The otherwise gentle giant laid into the would be troublemakers with a fury that was both wondrous and terrifying to behold, depending on where you were standing at the time. He felled them by ones and twos, killing none of them and not even doing any permanent damage so skilled was he with his crowbar, affectionately named Miss Betty after a kindly white cook he had worked for.


  To this day Big Jim Crowbar still holds the Floor Guy record for Most White Assholes Knocked Shitless But Not Killed Nor Maimed In A Single Ruckus. In certain Floor Host religions he's venerated as the patron Saint of Mindful Violence.





3) Jean Luc La'Douche: It's pronounced Doo-Shay, by the way. Jean was the senior Floor Host in Port Royal's ritziest titty bar, The Gilded Clam, during the greatest years of piracy and as such, made enough money to retire in under two years.

   Famous sculpture of La Douche contemplating which member of a bachelor party he was going to cut first.




  The Gilded Clam was renowned among all seagoing men, probably the most revered brothel*4 in Western sea lore. Being as it was located in Port Royal, it's clientele frequently included pirates. Proper Golden Age pirates, with hooks, peg-legs, parrots, eyepatches and whatnot. Lotsa guns too. *5


  The point is that La'Douche was able to rake in so much side money off wasted pirates with loot to burn that it only took him nineteen months to go from pauper to retired, landowning man of leisure. He died of advanced syphilis three years later, but that fact doesn't diminish the brilliance of his accomplishment.


  He holds the all time Floor Host record for Quickest Retirement in a Non-Suck Category.






4) Private Erasmus Bentley III: Pvt Bentley was a Confederate soldier who achieved Floor Host fame during America's Civil War. Ultimately he didn't do his side any favors and in actuality may be at least partly responsible for instigating Sherman's March to the Sea. Which, if you remember your history, was real bad for the Confederacy. But in Floor Hosts' eyes, he was a fucking hero.


  His story goes a little something like this...

                                    "I'm gonna need you to put your cock away, General."



  It was early November, 1864 when Sherman and the Union forces he commanded made camp roughly eight miles outside of Atlanta in preparation to assault the city on the morrow. As was his wont, Sherman took his senior staff and some troopers out to a few local taverns on the eve of the campaign, to get really hammered and make fun of the locals, some of whom they would shoot the next day.*6


  Towards the end of the night, the group lands at Mabel's, the only strip club for miles around. Pvt Erasmus Bentley was on shift that night as the head Floor Guy. He set up a champagne room for Sherman's entourage while the General himself opted for a private room with Lilly, one of the club's top performers.


  The important thing to note here folks is that while Sherman paid for everything out of his own pocket, he didn't tip any of the staff one red cent, which rankled their humors. So when Sherman popped his wang out in the private room, Erasmus was on point. He barged in and told Sherman to put that thing away and that this was "No damn Yankee whorehouse!"


  Even though Lilly herself wasn't opposed to the odd blowjob if the money was right, Erasmus stuck to the unwritten Floor Host rule of, He Didn't Tip Me, Ergo The Cheapskate Clapstain Gets No Head-and repeatedly warned the General to put his little soldier away.


  This infuriated Sherman to no end. He'd been under a lot of pressure lately and needed some release, preferably a humjob, but denied that he reckoned that a ten mile wide swath of bloodshed, immolation and destruction would be a fair substitute.


  A scuffle ensued between Union officers and Mabel's security team and local supporters. The senior Northern staff made a wise choice to beat a tactical retreat, dragging a frothing Sherman with them who was screaming that he would have Erasmus's job because he knew the owner and that if he couldn't do that then he would carve a path through Georgia all the way to the fucking sea.


 Which he did, burning, looting, raping and not tipping a dime all along the way.


  To this day, Private Erasmus Bentley III holds the Floor Host record for Being A Team Player, putting he and his fellow Floor Guy's interests above that of his own country in the waning months of a losing war.








  All right, enough with that nonsense, as plausible as it all seems.





  Let's do a quick Q&A session before I sign off and find something better to do.




  Right.





Q. Who's your current Arch-Nemesis since Vodzilla got fired.



A. That's easy. It's Ratty. She's a walking bag of shittiness and scam that stains our club and everything she comes into contact with like a particularly vicious chancre stains some reasonably innocent underwear. Ratty is a text book Hyde, although she doesn't let that stop her from being garbage even when sober.




Q. How many miles are on your vehicle?



A. 55,623. Or maybe a sixth of it's lifespan.




Q. How high can you jump?



A. I don't know for sure, but at least 5-6 inches. Maybe as many as eight.




Q. What's your favorite song ever?



A. Hungry Like a Wolf by Duran Duran




Q. Where were you born?



A. My Mom always claimed that I crawled from under a rock, and although there is credible evidence to disprove that, I choose to believe her.







  I was going to write a bit more, but then suddenly decided not to. My unpredictability is part of my charm. What I'm really going to do now is change the Header and throw in some pictures so people don't get all bitchy and send disappointed emails.



  Hoping all your tomorrows are full of candy and unicorns and dead murderers,

-The StripperHerder















*1 StripperHerder Unlimited Industries Corporation International: Diversified Entertainment®








*2 A feat fewer than 100 Floor Guys have repeated since.**



**This is also fiction, relax.♥



♥ Although statistically you are far likelier to be tipped by a drunk white dude than any other race you care to name. Based upon my 20+ years of experience in the service industry, this is fact, not fiction.








*3 Except the white guys of course







*4 The brothel is the dirty, immortal ancestor of the strip club. Sorta. I mean ideally speaking. So anything before say 1950 or so mentioned in this post can be considered a brothel, but will be referred to as a strip club because it fits my narrative better.






*5 It takes a fair amount of balls to be a security guy at a place where no one is supposed to have a weapon. It takes groaning ox carts full of balls to be a bouncer where every last person is armed to the teeth.







*6 Although this may sound absurd to you modern readers, the practice was commonplace throughout much of history. Hostilities were considered to be postponed with the coming of dark until the world conveniently made it possible again to see who you were killing. Therefore it was not uncommon for the opposing sides to mingle, gambling and trading among themselves until the sunlight made them hate each other again. Similarly, high ranking officials from both armies frequently met for drinks at local establishments, whiling away the hours with war stories and debates about ancient battles strategies until it was time to go prepare their forces to slaughter the others.

The StripperHerder Presents: Another Post. Or, Everyone Wants To Be A Floor Guy.

  If I had to give our non-stripper staff a grade, it would be a D. Maybe a C- on a good day. Our wait staff is awful with a couple of gems, our kitchen staff is appalling with the exception of one cook, or barbacks are a fucking joke and our Doorgirls are next to worthless with the occasional flash of competence just to keep you guessing.


  Us Floor Grunts are fairly professional as hosts, but seriously lacking in both cohesion and tactical security mindset and mark my words-one day it's going to cost us dearly.


  Management waffles between totalitarian and completely ineffective which wreaks havoc with the whole "what am I supposed/allowed to do?" paradigm. Some days what was OK last week is now unacceptable and what is OK now was anathema last week.


  It's maddening.


  As I've stated before, the industry itself doesn't exactly attract Ivy League applicants, or people driven to work insanely hard to achieve a stated goal. It attracts the lazy, demented, alcoholic, and the delusional. Its ranks are filled with folks who are morally questionable at best and outright criminal at worst, with every stripe and species inbetween the two.


  This industry is either a stepping stone to a better career, or the rut in which you will someday die. There's very little middle ground. The occupation inherently fuck's with your moral compass, making True North seem a bit vague and every other direction more lucrative.


  It's a bitch and you're never, ever going to feel good about it. Unless you're a scumbag.






  With all that being said, allow me to go into some detail about what brought this subject on, or, as I like to call it:





                       I WANNA BE A FLOOR GUY.





  The barback position is probably the easiest job available at out club for the sheer fact that at least nominally, a barback doesn't have to interact with the teeming, swill-breathed masses lurching about the club. This alone is worth a substantial value because drunk humans are remorseless cunt-mollusks who taint everything they come in contact with, like a particularly virulent sea urchin. or the club's food.


  The mere thought of having a job that doesn't ever require me to interact with a fellow human gives me a giant hardon. The thought of being a lighthouse keeper to me is almost erotic in it's lack of having to deal with another homo sapien. So long as I had internet or a sufficiently large pile of books and provided they catapulted some fresh meat onto the island every now and then, I could stay there indefinitely, most likely writing about how much it sucked to be a lighthouse keeper and about how great it would be to work in a strip club.


  But that's just me. What I want to know is what are our barback's excuses? And how can they possibly think that anyone in their right mind would deem them fit for a job with much greater responsibility and trust when they can't even perform their meager duties with any skill, dedication or foresight?


  Seriously, what's the job description for a barback? Simple. Keep the bar stocked. Wash the glasses. Fetch the ice. Cut the citrus. Empty the trashcans. Clean shit when the shift's done. Occasionally mop vomit.


  Easier than beating a four year old in a fistfight.


  I'm not saying the job can't be hectic and assbusting, it can, especially if you're good at it. I've worked with barbacks who were the absolute backbone of a bar, it simply couldn't have functioned without them, period. They are so good at their job that in a small place like The Town™, bars literally compete to get their employment. Not even kidding about that.


  And then you have our barbacks, Gwinny the Dewlap and Lay-Z. Each with their own strengths and weaknesses. Mostly weaknesses. Like the shared inability to tie a garbage bag closed for instance. In an old fashioned way, I still sorta believe that a garbage bag should be tied closed by the person who harvested it for the dumpster God. Seems like a reasonable approach to an anti-spilled garbage philosophy, right?


  I think we can all agree on that. Except for Gwinny and Lay-Z. They can't be compelled to do it. Or I should say that they have yet to be compelled to do it. That's gonna change very soon as I have now had garbage dump all over me from an open bag as I did the barback's job for them twice in the past two weeks.


  The are now scheduled for a talking to. It will be unpleasant for them, but theoretically nonviolent provided they don't get too mouthy. If they do, things will rapidly deteriorate for them as we will be having this conversation in one of the two rooms in the building which is camera-free. To preserve the anonymity of the club, I'll refer to the room as The Box Of Pain and we'll say no more about it.


 Comparative Strengths:


  -Gwinny can recognize any major Sports celebrity and is totally up for blowing them although he'd deny it.


  -Lay-Z can rap along softly with any song played in the club that features no real musical instruments in it.


  -Gwinny......Shit. I got nothing else. I've been sitting here, completely stalled, trying to think of another credit or virtue I can attribute to Gwinny, and I'm kerfuckled. I can't come up with anything positive and I can't waste any more time trying for fear of saying 'fuck it' for the night and turning to video games or a halfhearted fap session.


  -Lay-Z at least has a friendly countenance and seems happy to meet and greet people, which is good for a Floor Host, but unnecessary for a barback. Doesn't make up for his utter lack of competence in every other aspect of his job, but I was struggling for positives and thought I'd mention it as it is the last thing I could think of.



  The common denominator among these two rats are that they've both asked to be promoted to Floor Host, the most venerated of the non-vagged*1 positions in the club. "Ha!" My Manager, Sir Hawkgaze Mecha-WarBrow XIII laughed, "Thine twaren't worthile to suckle the inner flanks o' mine swine, yet seek to tongueblast the coo I snaffled from the McCarthy's? Verily ye jest!"*2


  This is not an uncommon sentiment among the male non-Floor workers. They see the money we make and they want to make it too. Perfectly understandable. When I was the cook at a club, even though I made good money, I wanted to be a Floor Host as well. They made more, plain and simple. Got more head too.


  Considering we pay our cooks dick and they have to put up with stroke-inducing amounts of horseshit from our greedy, lackwitted wait staff, I can't blame any of them for wanting to be a Floor Douche. Anything to escape the thralldom of the kitchen...




  This is as good point as any to segue into comments on our wait staff. They ain't gonna be glowing.


  But I suspect you'd already guessed this.


  Let me fix another drink and I'll tell you all about it.




  So, we have had this waitress named......something. I know I gave her a name of some sort in a previous installment, but I can't remember what it was and since I have no archival database, whoopsy-fuck. Can't recall. Suffice to say she inspired the term 'latetress' because she was never on time and even when she did show up you still had to alert her whenever something falling within her job description reared its ugly face. Like someone wanting a drink.


  I'll call her Cindy Curdbutt for purposes of this post. "CC" to her friends.


  Apparently CC, who's all of 21, is the significant other of a convicted felon who is currently incarcerated. Why? Search me. Maybe because she's 21. We were all idiots at 21, even if we thought we had everything figured out. Admit it, you were an idiot. So was I.


  Anywho, CC ended up attacking a former entertainer of ours who'd been fired a long time ago, but who had magically showed up in our parking lot right at closing time. It was like two playground rivals meeting at the swings at three o'clock. Winner gets the slides.


  In this case the feud was over a Facebook picture of the inmate on the intruding bitch's homepage. This was ever a cause for war. Total warfare. Like try to ruin a bitch's ovaries warfare, end her ability to potentially breed wit yo man type of warfare. No skullduggery or showboating, just fistblasts to the cocksucker and tons of hair abuse. Like enraged weasels battling over nesting grounds, all twisty and savage, estrogenic-kill-rival-womb hormones overriding all common sense and dignity.


  The whole thing happened in sort of I don't really care that much about it induced haze. First thing I knew a bunch of regular malingerers started shouting, "they're fighting, they're fighting" (praise Allah), gesturing wildly at this car parked in the middle of the street, one of them filming on his phone. I looked over at the car and what I saw was the passenger side door open and what I can only describe as a cartoon-dustcloud-fight kinda thing where you just see a random fist or foot poke out of the doorway.

                                         Like this, but out of the side of a weathered Kia.

  So I didn't even know who was fighting and since it was in the middle of the street and not on club property, it fell neatly into the 'not my fucking problem' category. I told the malingerers, and I quote, "I don't give a fuck." And I continued walking my little stripper herd safely to their cars.


  When I got back the fight had spilled out of the car and the girl on top was making a spirited attempt to maim or kill the girl on the bottom. "Still not my problem", I thought to myself, then realized I can't watch a murder take place that I had the power to prevent, even if it might make the world a slightly better place.


  The cook of all people got there just before me and dragged the assailant off the assailee, while I stepped in and kept the assailee from chasing after her attacker when she got back up.


  At this point in time I literally had no idea who the combatants were. The bloody, angry thing I was holding back looked vaguely familiar, but then again I've worked with an astounding number of skanks in my career and it could've just been that she had a common skankine appearance.


  Long story short, since I've been typing for an unreasonable amount of time, the attacker turned out to be CC, furious with the aforementioned skank for posting a picture of CC's imprisoned soulmate on her ratched-ass social media page.


  Cheeky whore.





  And the result is CC got fired, thank the Hospitality Gods. she was as worthless as a scrotum on a supermodel.





  All right. I just noticed that I've typed a gigantic amount of words this morning, by my standards anyway, and so I'm going to close with this, half of which I'd done while bored on the shuttle last night and half which I'll have to come up with right now in order to complete the list.


  So, I offer to you, kind reader, a list of the Top Ten Reasons To Become An Uber Driver.






10) I get so lonely.


9) I like pretending my life matters somehow.


8) I enjoy golf and that says a lot about me.


7) It's a great cover for selling drugs.


6) I get horny from the traffic shaming I'm forced to endure. Can't cum without a car horn anymore.


5) I don't know how to drive but have always wanted to learn.


4) I revel in the Godlike power of traffic laws somehow not applying to me.


3) It's a great way to meet a rape-date.


2) I enjoy annoying people.


1) I fantasize about being curb-stomped by an huge, enraged shuttle bus driver who's seen one lack of hazard lights too many.




  Be a courteous driver. Road rage is a real thing and I am an advocate.




Drive Pissed,
-The StripperHerder










*1 Pronounced Va-Jed, meaning female.








*2 He hangs out at RennFaires.