Floor Guy Emergency Codes. Or, Random Vignettes Of Suck From An Occupation That's Slowly Making Me Evil. Or Maybe Even: Something Positive Just For The Novelty Of It.

  Us Floor Guys have developed various codes we use in communication with each other just in case there's an open radio somewhere and we don't want the patrons to know what we're talking about. You know, to preserve the illusion of fantasy and non criminality we strive so hard to promote.


  But there are recurring situations that have happened so often we needed a covert way of saying it over the radio. They're like the numerical codes police department use, but more blatant and frankly, kinda fun.


  And now I'm going to share some of these with you, beloved reader, because you deserve to know.


 
  I hope you're ready for this.

                                                     "You're not ready for this."


 




  OK?


 

  Excellent.





 


  FLOOR GUY EMERGENCY CODES, VOL 1.

                      Two Amber Alerts in progress captured mere shots away from Hydeing. 
                                                                              Rare pic.






1) AMBER ALERT: This code means a dancer is violently drunk and is preparing to start Armageddon if we don't do something to prevent it. The stripper that inspired this code was named Amber and was the sweetest, meekest girl you can imagine. Until she hit her fifth vodka, at which point she went from a cuddly, attractive Jekyll, to a ravening, foaming-at-the-mouth Hyde, determined to destroy anything that got in her way or offered her help.


  Amber Alerts are a Floor Wolf's least favorite calls for help. Personally I'd much rather respond to a gunfight and take my chances than to deal with yet another tedious, hostile wasted stripper, spewing hatred and cuntiness in the megawatt range.


  This being said, a drunk and belligerent dancer isn't necessarily a 'Hyde'. Drinking, in this industry, is encouraged and frequently rewarded, a 'Hyde' label is only slapped on when it becomes apparent that a certain level of inebriation triggers a Hulk-like transformation into a raging twat-weiler that happens every fucking time.


  Some girls get hammered once or twice a year and become unreasonable to deal with, a HYDE however becomes unreasonable to deal with every goddamn time she drinks, which is everynight. Until our sluggish and under-balled management team can be inconvenienced and put out enough to finally fucking fire her booze fueled ass.





2) CONTAINMENT BREACH: This means some fuckwit customer has taken out his dick in a champagne room. This is utterly and 100% wrong. Unless you've tipped us accordingly and we selected the whore dancer for you.


  Pulling out your primitive man in a VIP room is neither tolerated nor legal and we won't stand for it. For less than a $200 tip.

                                              "Get on it, wench. I paid my five in silver."








3) SCARFACE: Some douche is caught doing blow in the club. We throw them out immediately. If we're allowed to.


  I say that because it often takes our ruling class months upon months to make the decision to ban coke dealers from the club. It doesn't make much difference if they're overt or discreet, anyone with half a clue can figure out what their game is and they don't attract the kind of business we want. So it should be easy for our alpha-males to make that call, but I guess it ain't.


  Do you know how humiliating it is to toss a customer out because I caught him blowing down a line off our filthy toilet paper dispenser and then have my boss tell me he's OK ten minutes later? I can't possibly describe the feeling of shititude it induces without using the words infected, cock, pus and jogging all in the same sentence. And I'm not gonna do that to you.

                                          It annoys me that people just ignore a sign. 
                              They're there for a reason and my Grandma worked hard on it.






4) BAGHDAD BILLS AND BOBS : I'm not a racist in that I don't believe race, skin color or ethnicity have anything to do with what kind of human being you turn out to be. Like dogs, humans are products of their environments and upbringing, not their racial components. We are taught hate, ambivalence, intolerance, shittiness and rudeness. We're not BORN with attributes, we LEARN them from our parents, peers and life experiences.


  So when Middle Eastern guys come into our club, especially in numbers, which always makes dudes act crappier than they would if alone, we're always on guard. This is a form of racial profiling and we'e all good with that because in many Arabic countries, women are considered property that has orifices you can fuck in between making them keep house and raising an insane amount of children.


  When you come to America though, females are legally considered humans and have to be afforded the basic civil rights considered inalienable by our Constitution. This doesn't include an obligation to suckle your weird brown turtlenecked dick, you motherless heathen. It means they can choose to do so for an agreeable fee and not be stoned to death for failing to suck. Put that in your hookah and smoke it, you perfumed camel-loving 3rd century thinker.*1


  And Indians, don't get me started. I guess when you hail from the rape capitol of the world, the entire planet becomes your jizz depository, or so you think.


  People with this attitude should really be much bigger and far more formidable than your average Indian man.





5) SEVEN-MARY-THREE: This means we're onto some (frequently) junkie strippers preparing to run some sort of scam on a customer and we have to intervene to make sure some clit-brained dullard doesn't get skinned by one or more of our predatory heroin addicts. It's always super fun and never unrewarding.


  No seriously.





 

      Stripper Wars Episode 4: A New Whore



  So now that Vodzilla and Bellatina are gone, the universe sensed that there was a bitch shaped hole in our reality and like the fucking dependable universe that it is, rushed to fill that void. So let me introduce Grody. Despite her name, Grody is WAY fucking hot to look at. When you have to interact with her however (unless you're a gutless, irrational vag-slave) you find yourself quietly hoping she bursts into flames and that you may or may not have a shot of 151 in your hand.


  Just sayin. Hold the hate mail and misogyny labels, folks. You'd just have to meet her and then you'll get it. I promise you that.


  Let me run it down for you.


  Grody is stunningly pretty, twenty years old and already has life completely figured out. She's aware that the all powerful Owner is keen on her and she uses this like Dirty Harry used his fucking Magnum, frequently and without thought to possible consequences.


  So being that she's only twenty, legally she's not allowed in the building unless she's on the clock. I know that sounds all kinds of wrong, and it is. But it's reality and a great illustration of how utterly fucked up this country is when you can work a job at 18 that permits you to be in an alcohol serving environment, or serve in a poorly thought out war where you may get blown to bits by a guy who shook your hand yesterday and offered you some hummus.


  But you're not allowed to drink booze. Or be in a bar that serves it.


  Seems all cockeyed to me.


  But back to Grody.


  Grody lies constantly. She's been caught in so many lies that we know she's lying when she's still breathing. If her lips are moving, you can be sure there's bullshit flying out of them. Whomever raised her did an astonishingly horrible job and I'd like to offer my eternal enmity to them- thanks for the breathtakingly self centered little lying cunt you've unleashed upon the world. Now she's my problem four days a week.


  Assholes.


  Let me give you a prime example. You'll love this.


  So I'm on the shuttle as usual tonight and had made a pit stop at the club to walk the lizard and grab some water. As I'm sitting in the bus preparing to drive off again, I see Grody and Sticker leap out of an Uber and scamper towards the front door.


  Sticker if you'll recall is the dancer I mentioned a few posts ago who walked off stage when the DJ played "Dragula" by Rob Zombie because it was "devil music."


  She's very nice.


  I got on the radio and informed my manager, Sir Joyous Paroxysm III that a daffy, under aged bilge rat was headed to the door with her amazingly stupid friend. Then I drove off and tried to calculate the odds of Sir Joyous doing fuck all about it. I came up with 15:1 odds that the girl would get away whatever the hell she wanted to, up to and including beating a patron to death with a fashionable clutch.


  I wouldn't have wagered a dime.


 

  And I would've lost if I had because when I finally managed to get back to the club an hour and a half later, Grody was still there, getting bought drinks by her would be lothario's. Several of our staff informed Sir Joyous of the situation and he replied "she's just waiting for her food order and then she'll be gone."


  Likely fucking story. Mr. Paroxysm is so downtrodden by the Owner that he dare not lay down the law with Grody, for fear of being shouted at and demeaned. Meanwhile this gorgeous fuckwit runs rampant throughout the club like a vindictive Celtic War-Queen in a chariot made of cunt.


  But I digress, let's continue the tale.


  So later on I'm escorting a girl to her car when I get a Call that another Floor Guy is needed on the patio. Well I haul ass, much to the amusement of anyone fortunate to see me at full steam. I bull my way through small humans until I reach the patio and what do mine eyes perceive?


  

        Just because I like them, let's make it a multiple choice:


 

                                                         "PICK ME!"
 











  When I had run over enough normal sized people to reach the patio, what did I see?




A) Kareem Abdul-Jabbar


B) The Easter Bunny using a smurf as a pocket pussy


C) A pile of money so big I disappeared into it when I couldn't stop my momentum


D) 20 year old Grody at the center of some sort of strife that requires extra security staff to come running.


 
 



  I've never seen a smurf fucked like that. I think it was Angry Smurf, but they all look alike to me because I'm a Smurfist.



  Ha. That was clever.


 


  Here's what really happened.


  Grody alerted Floor Guy No Codename that a patron had pulled her and Sticker's hair. Like it was the playground she was only five years removed from playing on and Bad Billy Hamilton had yanked her pigtails. No Codename had to intervene between the very aggressive Grody, and a retreating customer and thus called for backup.


  What a bunch of horseshit. I'm not even going to go into more detail about it because its biblical-level fiction.


  What undoubtedly REALLY happened was that a shitty drunk customer, which he was, said something Grody didn't like at which point she got all indignant because he failed to recognize her specialness. She threw him all kinds of mouth-shit which inevitably ended up with "Oh yeah? Watch how fast I can get you thrown out of this club."


  This is exactly what occurred, Grody's fish story notwithstanding. But us Floor Cocks had no choice in the matter, dude had to go. I had the privilege of informing him and escorting him to the door. He was resigned about the matter even though that didn't stop him from a generalized running of the mouth on the way out. He never directed his rage or insults at me however, because he knew for a fact that I would've made him look like a child, and more importantly, he had come to terms with it.


 No Codename might've had a bit more chin from him, but he's half my size and my voice is much deeper...


  This is the kind of shit we have to put up with. Lately there's been a ban on off duty staffers coming into the club because they always act like idiots or bring people who do it for them. But this only applies if the Manager On Duty isn't afraid of said idiot. If he is, all bets are off and drama's gonna happen.




  In closing, and because my lawyers have recommended that I write something positive every now and then to avoid possible future suicide liability, I give you...




          

              A Great Night On The Bus, 
                  By A. StripperHerder

 

 

                               "What? No. I haul people to a titty bar. Have a good night."

 




  Great nights on the bus don't happen very often. Most people are either inconsiderate or so self absorbed that they don't appreciate the service I give them by scooting them from place to place in the douche-mobile.


  I've picked up random parties of people struggling through harsh weather; bitter cold and driving rain. I've done this out of the kindness of my heart and a strong secondary desire for them to do the decent motherfucking thing and toss a lad some cash for being a solid bro.


  I've saved groups of slavering drunks $200 dollars at the door with the understanding that 'I'll take care of you if you take care of me', the service industry creedo. And they tipped me $5. This is more or less typical of my experience on the shuttle anymore.


  But not tonight. Tonight I got to drive some very generous people around, and the best part was, I never saw them coming.


  I'm gonna be brief because my drinking/writing window is closing and I don't wanna get caught with my arse hanging out.


-The first group I got called to pick up looked very, I don't know, white hip hop I guess. I was skeptical because my previous experiences with similarly attired gentlemen hadn't been encouraging. Much to my surprise the group of 8 ended up tipping me $80, the entire amount I saved them at the door.


  They went into the club and bought 2 $600 bottles of booze and by all reports were completely cool and generous tippers.


  When I brought them to a feed-hole at the end of the night, they gave me another $50.


  They blew my preconceived notions out of the water,


  That's how you do it, folks.


  And on my end of things, I dropped them off with 100 free passes.*2 They certainly merited it.



  The other noteworthy ride of the night was for a "Butchelorette" party for a lesbian girl and a mixed group of her friends. They were awesome, and in my nigh 20 years in the industry, I've never heard the term 'butchelorette' before.


  Turns out half of them had worked as bouncers before, and mostly in strip clubs. There were only 5 of them and the butchelorette tipped me $60.


  Class fucking act.


  Bus-wise, I loved tonight. All the construction closures made my arcane knowledge of the Town's™ shortcuts and backways invaluable as I navigated a rat maze with no cheese payoff on offer.







  I'm gonna try to do some pics without getting sued. Only because I like youse guys and know how you love the pictures. Other than that I'm done. Seek further entertainment elsewhere.



Your Humble Titillation Ambassador
-The StripperHerder



 


 



















*1 The term 'perfumed, camel-loving 3rd century thinker' could, to a person of a certain perspective, be construed as racist. And while I can see their point and may even agree with it to one degree or another, I can't bring myself to edit it. Or care.


  In my defense, I'm perfectly OK with being thought of as a 'cheeseburger loving, god hating infidel who is unwilling to kill/die for the Magical Sky-Beard-Thing.'**



  ** And by extrapolation earn himself a shitload of virgins who all nevertheless suck in bed. Only those interested in hurting and dominating others would find this appealing. I for one would rather be promised, in exchange for blowing myself up, seventy-two 25-50 year old hot sex demons who knew exactly what they were doing and were excruciatingly good at it.


  Sounds like a better deal to me.






*2 That's worth $1000.

Standards Are Slipping At The Nipple Hut, News At Eleven. Or, How I Can Tell Your Band Sucks Balls Just By Looking At You. Or Even: Bellatina, Satan With A Vagina.

  There are some creatures prowling our stage these days that wouldn't have even been allowed to audition back in the good ole days. Gals that a year or two ago would've only been allowed to work during daylight hours, lest they frighten any real customers away. Apparently the pressure from the owner to have more and more dancers has finally broken the Uber-Manager and now he just hires anything that can climb unto the stage under its own power and doesn't pass out halfway through her second song.


  That's what it's come to these days, goblins and gorgons. Strippers so chunky they should be in a soup commercial, not spread in a thong with their unruly titties all akimbo on my goddamn stage. It's fucking embarrassing, people.

                 

                                                "My stage name is A-Man-Duh."

 


  We used to be able to claim some sort of twisted strip club superiority over our rival clubs because overall, our stable of beauties was hands down the best in town. It wasn't even arguable.


  Now however, we just wallow around in the same mediocre puddle all the other clubs play in, splashing our patrons with entertainers that appeal to the lowest common denominator. Sure, we still have quite a few A List ass shakers, but the bar has been lowered significantly to satisfy the owner's obsessive hunger for numbers.

                    Despite their obvious drawbacks, the McClellan Sisters still draw a decent crowd.


 


  As a result I've been forced to look at some really depressing titties lately, and it's been getting me down, I'm not gonna lie. Sometimes I feel like I'm in a nature documentary about the social lives of lower primates, where all breasts have evolved to point downward and hug the body, thereby allowing the primate to more efficiently cling to tree trunks.


  Titties should be happy and perky, always looking at the bright side of life and striving to stare you in the eye. They shouldn't be beaten, drained and forlorn, swaying from a stripper's chest like two diabetes socks filled with a joyless and bland custard, brown brat-gnawed nipples tracing obtuse patterns on the stage while she twerks on her hands and knees.*1

                                                                           "YAY!"
                                                     

                 

                                                             "BOO!"



  There've gotta be standards. Letting every gross junkie that wants a job work here is not going to end well or ultimately be good for business. But if that's what it takes to satisfy the owner, then we're all going to just have to deal with it. Everyone gets a slice of the shit pie, and some of us will undoubtedly end up with an entire pie all to ourselves.


  I hope mine has some kind of berries mixed in with the steaming fecal matter because I like berries.




 




 But enough about hideous, shambling strippers for now, let me reveal some ways I can tell your band sucks without even hearing your "artistry".

                                                      It's easy to tell.





A) You all had "cool" hair. The Johnny Depp circa Dead Man Walking, two man-buns and a vintage Kurt Cobain.


B) A bowler hat. One of you was wearing a bowler hat over his Johnny Depp hair.


C) Your expansive, "We've made this place cooler by our mere presence" vibe which you oozed like a 90's Persian exudes Drakkar Noir.

  Pervasively. One might even consider using the term 'oppressively', although I probably wouldn't.


D) No one had the slightest idea who you were. Even when you told them.


E) None of you could fight. We found that out when one of you idiots (I'd bet he was the singer, possibly a bassist) wouldn't pay a dancer what he owed her because she wouldn't let him grope the fuck out of her while licking her neck and face like she was an animated Jolly Rancher.

  In retrospect, maybe he was the drummer...



  Anyway, this pack of hair ranchers came in early tonight and bought a few dances here and there, causing me at one point to go back to the dance room and warn to guy to tone down his groping. Then I went away on the shuttle and they ceased to be a problem for me.


  Yay, shuttle!


 
  But when I came back in an hour later to take a leak I heard shouting and when I got to the front door, one of my fellow Floor Bastards had the bowler hat guy in a full nelson and was throwing him through the door onto the pavement.


  I had chosen a fortuitous time to make pee pee it appeared.


  I wish I could say that the bowler hat guy sprang up and tried to charge my Floor Compadre and that I swept him up in a death clutch, the likes of which he couldn't escape from until his buddy paid the fucking dancer, but that didn't happen.


  He chose, of his own free will, not to pursue further hostilities. Without even being aware that I was standing right behind him, waiting to stoop on him like a Lummox Raptor and carry him away from the fight like an osprey with an unwise salmon.


  These are the reasons I know their band sucked. I'm not going to explain myself further because I've become bored with the topic. I know I'm right, fuck off. They're some brand of douche-rock, trust me.







 Bellatina has made her presence known once again. I hereby shit you not folks, I have never been closer to murdering another human than I came tonight. I can't possibly convey what a cheap, shitty, delusional cunt this girl is without you actually experiencing it yourselves. Words don't cut it. They paint a vague picture at best, but that's not going to stop me from trying, BECAUSE I CARE.


  Gimme a minute here, I'm rolling up my sleeves, taking off my pants and fixing myself another vodka and something.


  There, I'm back. Let's dig in, shall we?


  Bellatina, if you'll recall, is the white trash, conniving bitch that scammed some poor schmuck in an incident I detailed in this installment:


http://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-complicated-relationships-between.html


 
  She is an adherent to the ghetto school of thought where the first one to stop running their mouth is the loser and her ability to acknowledge reality is nonexistent. Argh, I'm being consumed by hate right now and am having a hard time focusing on the story rather than smashing stuff and screaming my rage to the skies.


  Let me get another vodka. That should help.


  Fuck, much better. Let me continue.


  This girl has become my new arch nemesis, stepping neatly into the void left by Vodzilla. But dear sweet weeping Jesus she makes me miss Vodzilla. In retrospect Vodzilla was like on old friend, I just didn't see it that way at the time. If I happened to be a cartoon dog, she would've been the amusing cat next door that gave my life some kind of meaning as we chased each other around, getting into overly complicated situations where one of us triumphed temporarily over the other. Admittedly it was usually me, but that was one of her charms; she'd just walk away when she was beat.


  Not Bellatina though...


  If I were to dip my balls in a vat of radioactive chemical sludge, she would be the mutant offspring of the glowing isotopes and the naturally occurring critters that live on my tater sack. But she would hyper-evolve into some sort of Gigeresque monstrosity that ravaged whole planets, consuming all life with her ghetto mouthed horridness and utter lack of moral feng shui.


  If the Manager doesn't fire her this time, which I suspect he won't, I will take matters into my own hands. All the pieces are already in place, all I need is for her to show up again and for said Manager to allow her to work. It'll be her last day for a while because if you can't drive your car to work, then generally speaking, you can't get to work.


  And that's all I'm gonna say about that.



         
                             


                            FUCK THAT BITCH.


 




  That's where I'm gonna end, humans. I cherish my small but loyal readership and hope you never have to meet Bellatina.



  If I had more money, I'd put a contract out on that cunt.



 Nubs you!
-The StripperHerder.
 


























*1 I can't believe I just wrote that sentence. I feel sick.

Dear StripperHerder, How Can I Avoid Getting Scammed By A Morally Bankrupt Dancer? Or, If You Feed The Animals, They'll Keep Coming Around, Ruining The Flowerbeds.

 I know, probably as well as anyone, that strippers can be devious, shady gremlins bent on ripping off anything with money. I get it. They can certainly be malevolent cunts who use the Floor Staff like armored vassals, at their beck and call for war and money related shenanigans.


  That's why I'm here for you, venerated reader*1. Offering helpful tips and sage advice that you can use to avoid being taken advantage of by a conniving tit-witch. Most of these truisms would seem to be self evident to the average fan of this blog, but always bear in mind that the standard strip club patron is at best a drooling helmet-wearer and that the combined presence of hot women and booze conspire to make them even droolier.


  So, because I'm contractually obligated to do the occasional public service post, here's a nice itemized list of things you can do to deflect a potential fleecing by an unscrupulous entertainer.








1) Don't Be Drunk.


  Sounds easy, right? Just don't be a wasted victim with 'mark' written all over him. Every school of strippers comes equipped with savage barracudas as well as succulent tuna. So try to be just sober enough to realize when there's a set of wallet-shredding teeth approaching, you witless fuck.




2) Tipping Isn't Mandatory Unless It's Posted On The Wall.


  If a tip is mandatory on top of what a dance costs, legally a titty bar has to post it in multiple places throughout the whole club. They will endeavor to do this as subtly as possible, so look for tiny placards that say things such as "DANCES $20, plus tip" Or,

Private Dance=$15.
                   Plus Compulsory $10 Tip





3) When In Doubt, Ask A Floor Guy.


  Believe it or not, a stripper may have lied to you. I know it seems unbelievable, but it happens and the only way to avoid being grifted in that case is to be knowledgeable about the club's rates. Most Floor Guys will tell you honestly what each and everything costs unless they are in cahoots with said dancers in which case you're fucked.




4) If You've Been Ripped Off At A Club Before, DON'T GO BACK.


  I realize this may also sound like common sense, but it's amazing how often the same desperate lickspittles let themselves be taken by various operators at the same goddamn clam shacks that they've been ripped off at before.


   The fact of the matter is, at any strip club in the world there are entertainers who will scam the living shit out of you if they think they can get away with it. The reason most of them think they can get away with it is because they've always gotten away with it in the past and this points to a very definitive business model on the part of the club in question. The ownership of said club is condoning the predatory nature of some of its work force as long as the club gets it's cut. It expects the Floor Staff to blindly accept the dancers version of any tale, no matter how fantastical or chronologically impossible.


  When I worked at Wendy's Waffle Gulag, most of my Floor Guy energy was used to shake down customers for money they most certainly didn't owe a conniving bitch. But my job depended on toeing the company line which was "Fuck that customer, make him pay. There's plenty more where he came from."



  Chances are, unless you live in remote Sasquatch country, that there is more than one strip club within a reasonable radius of your home. Find one where you don't get bimboozled.




5) Tip Your Floor Host/Bouncer.


  If there's one thing all strip club security staff hates, no matter what they call themselves, it's a dancer ripping off a guy who is a generous tipper. I can't tell you how many times I've lost a big tipper to either scamming, pushiness, or just plain fucking outside of the club.


  A true Floor Host doesn't have a lot of use for prostitutes. Those that do have formally moved on to Pimp status, even if they won't admit it to themselves or others. Might as well sell crack and smack in my opinion. I won't have any part of it.*2


  When you walk in to a titty bar, if you're not greeted at the door by one of the Floor Staff, go find one. Ask them to seat you at a table and when they do, throw them at least a twenty. Ask them about stuff. How much are dances? Who are some of the top entertainers? What will if cost to get you and your people into a VIP room. Even if you haven't the slightest intention on blowing a bunch of money in a champagne room, it gives you the opportunity to get a Floor Beast on your side and it puts you on their radar, in a good way. If you remembered to tip. 

  If you didn't, don't ask them anything.





6) Always Remember, You're The Boss.


  Unless of course you have no balls, then you're fucked again.

  When you go to a strip club, YOU decide if you want to spend some money on a dancer, YOU decide how much and when and YOU decide when enough is enough. By allowing a stripper to decide ANY of these things for you, you're setting yourself up for a wallet-rape the likes of which you will never forget.

  A dancer doesn't decide anything for you unless you tacitly allow her to do so. In which case you're unbelievably stupid. If you don't want any dances from her, it's best to let her know as soon as possible after she starts haunting your table. By allowing her to sit there you're running the risk of having some boozewitted bottle shark deciding that you owe her money for her time regardless of whether she did squat for you or not.

  Wise up, fucko. From the moment you walk into a titty bar, you're in charge. If a bitch is super pushy, rather than letting yourself get strong armed into doing something you really don't want to do, tell her you have no money and if this doesn't make her go away, find a Floor Host and give him some money and watch your problem go away.




7) There Is No Such Thing As A FREE DANCE.


  In almost 20 years in this industry, I've never heard of a stripper giving a free dance. I've never heard a dancer offer a freebie, nor give one. It simply doesn't happen. Free dances don't exist, you're much more likely to stumble across a leprechaun blowing a unicorn in a field somewhere than you are to be offered, much less receive, a free dance.

  So to use this as an excuse as to why you shouldn't have to pay for a dance is the depths of both shittiness and idiocy. Even if a girl says she'll do the dance for free, at some point a bullshit circuit should get tripped somewhere in your primitive brain that tells you to file this under "Too Good To Be True."




8) The Bachelor Isn't Supposed To Pay For ANYTHING. 


  Can't tell you how many times I've seen some poor bastard bachelor shelling out for his own entertainments during his own party. Dude, that's your "friends" job. They're supposed to pay for your poor decisions, not you. So if you've got a group of 5 or more of your buddies with you and they still can't come up with the $50 you need to cover some dances, get new friends.

  I had this guy the other night, wasted as fuck and clearly shouldn't have been allowed to roam around unsupervised. But his support system were a bunch broke, retarded clapstains who between the 12 of them, couldn't (or wouldn't) cough up the $125 their special moron managed to rack up with a gross dancer. We ended up having to call the police, at the customer's insistence and how do you think that went?

  He talked himself into jail, which is pretty typical for drunk twats to do. Also fun to watch.





9) Have Some Notion Of How A Strip Club Works.


  Most of them function pretty much the same and it doesn't take a Mensa membership to figure out the basics. You want something-you pay for it. The air is free but that's only because they haven't figured out an efficient system for charging you for it yet. Anything=money. Very fucking simple.


  AND YET it's simply mind boggling how many scrote-scratchers use the excuse that they've never been to a strip club before and they don't know how it works. You know what? I've never been to a baseball game, but I know how it works. Everything costs a lot of money. Easy.






10) Don't Believe Everything You Hear.


  Some gals are going to tell you whatever it is they think will get you to spend money on them. They will promise you anything, no matter how unlikely, how unsavory or how ill advised it is. Believe them at your peril unless you have ungodly amounts of money and a reckless attitude toward spending it.


  Like Crackwhore, a dancer whose shady practices I highlighted late last year in this installment:


http://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2016/12/the-stripperherder-2016-year-end.html


 On one night alone she told four different guys that she'd bang them after work if they coughed up a couple hundred bucks "retainer". Needless to say she didn't meet any of them after work, and while I applaud her lack of whoring, I'm generally the guy who has to clear out the lot of her would be johns while they loiter around waiting for her chubby ass.


  It's not really a fun task. Most of the guys are timid, vaguely ashamed and are beginning to realize that they've been had. Some are more persistent than others, the kind that doesn't take a hint very well and can't quite come to terms with the fact that he's been scammed. And one day one of them is going to pull a gun on me, or follow the girl until he has a chance to do something horrific.


  Only a matter of time in my opinion.



  Which leads me neatly to




11) Never Pay For 'Extras' In Advance Without A Prior Reference From A Trusted Friend.


  So you met a lovely dancer who says that for a reasonable fee, she'll suckle your member somewhere outside of the club and that she can't do it in the club because they watch the cameras. Sounds great, yes?


  But if you pay her the cash right there in the club, like a moron, your wang's chances of being gulped just dropped dramatically. You see, contrary to what most men want to believe, a prostitute will happily not gargle your stinkhammer if she's already made an acceptable amount of money from the promise of sucking you later.


  Crazy, but true. Despite what Porn would have you think, some women just don't like a frenzied throat fuck, much less having to deal with a high velocity blast of yam yogurt.


  My advice would be to tip her modestly in the club (just to show you're for real) with the promise of more dough in exchange for sucky-sucky or maybe even just a hanjo to break the ice, and thus put the ball in her court. When you do, invariably one of three things will happen:


A) She'll decline to meet you because you called her bluff; she's no hooker, merely a scam artist.


B) She'll meet with you at a hotel where as soon as your pants are around your ankles and your attention is compromised, her pimp/boyfriend will enter the room and rob the fuck out of you.


C) The unlikeliest possibility. You actually get your waldo milked by a spirited amateur for a competitive price. You've done well, Grasshopper.






  There ya go. Hope this helps someone, somewhere dodge an encounter with a medusa.


  Keep Yer Chin Up,
-The StripperHerder



















*1 Relax, oh semi-literate one, this means 'respected' not disease-ridden. Sheesh.






*2 Unless it's really profitable and all parties are amenable. Then it's OK.**


  **We're all adults here.