Never Go Fishing In The Pond You Harvest Money From. Or, Sometimes I Forget I'm Not 25 And Attractive Anymore.

  I may have mentioned recently that since the beginning of the year I have lost 60 something pounds. And while this is great and comes with a whole plethora of health and psyche benefits, it has also reinvigorated my sex drive, which quite frankly, I could do without.


  I was content with my utter lack of a sex life, it just didn't matter to me. Maybe I had low testosterone levels and my weight loss bumped them back up, I don't know. I DO know that it's really a fucking inconvenience at best and a curse at worst. I feel like I was more productive and happier with my lot in life when I wasn't craving pussy all day.


  It's goddamn distracting, I tells ya.


  So, like the absolutely moronic, glutton-for-punishment twat-groveler I am, I decided my job was the answer to my intercourse needs. And like the dichotomy that my occupation is, it is both the potential answer and definitely NOT THE ANSWER to my dilemma.


  Let me explain, for in my shame and embarrassment I find humor and hope you will also.


  I'll start by saying there are at least four girls at the club I could undoubtedly bang at will. Two out of four are junkies which takes them out of contention immediately. Of those two, one is actually still hot but the other junkie and the third chick are just gross to look at. And while I may be horny again, I still have some measure of pride, decency and common sense, at least enough not to stick my dick in a scatterbrained beehive full of needles.


  So far...


  The fourth gal is pretty and literally offered herself to me a couple of weeks back. The problem with this scenario is that I've watched her offer herself to a dozen other guys and these are just the ones I know about. Half the Floor Staff has banged her and I don't find dick-as-a-hobby girl's appealing, just not my thing. In addition to that she's really bony with ridiculous fake ta-ta's and has 4 children ranging in ages from 7-16, none of who's Fathers are around.


  This smells like horrible judgement, the neighbor of crazy, and I just don't want to get involved. Fortunately a lifetime of experience has enabled me to exercise some sort of veto power over my spuzz-musket and for that I'm thankful. If I was still saddled with the slavery my penis held over me in my twenties, I could really fuck my life up even worse than it is now.


  Small victories, people. Small victories...




  Therefore in my infinite wisdom, I decided to break the Golden Rule. Rule Numero Uno if you will. I.e. dating strippers. Guess how that all worked out for me?


  Let me preface this all by saying that my persona at the club is standoffish, not interested with idle chitchat or getting to know anyone at more than a superficial level. I'm the "mean" Floor Dude and since I'm the shuttle guy whenever I'm on the clock, I'm not around as much as the other Floor Bro's. I'm an angry mystery.


  So many of the dancers I work with, unlike the other Floor Gripes, have never spoken more than a word or two with me. A lot of them don't even know my name and I don't remember theirs unless they've been around a while or they're good tippers. Other than that, I can't be bothered. My job description has narrowed down to keeping them safe on their way to their cars and that's frequently done without small talk. Or tips for that matter.


  Now that I've covered that, there are a few strippers who like my gruff demeanor and who I've become friendly with over my time here. Most of them are half my age and I keep forgetting that there are only two reasons a young-twenties girl would date a mid forties guy who looks like me,


A) He has lots of money. Which I don't.



B) She has Daddy issues, which is a whole ball of wax I don't intend to stick my wick into.




  Ergo, it was with misplaced enthusiasm and blatant delusion that I asked a couple of dancers I work with out. As in "Obviously I want to screw, but I'm gentleman enough to try to get a date or two in before I attempt to bump uglies with you."


  My first mistake was the age gap, 22 and 24 were the respective ages of the girls in question, making me roughly twice their age. Oops. My only defense is that they're both tall, like me, and I find tall girls irresistible.


  Also take into account that both of them made (what I mistakenly took to be) advances toward me. I'm not the sharpest guy at reading chick-speak, I'm really not. I prefer the direct approach, like dancer #4 from above, not coy and deceiving gestures that may or may not be construed as flirting with purpose.


  The one girl came up behind me one day and grabbed my as and said, "Nice ass" in a very suggestive way. I've had innumerable strippers grab my ass and other bits over the years, but usually it's in an' annoy-the-big-guy' sorta way, not the 'I'm open to the possibility of boning' sorta style.


  I thought I knew the difference, but like so many other things in life, I was wrong.


  Long story short it was like being in Junior High again, I picked the right moment, gathered up my gumption and asked her out, like it was Prom or something. Fucking humiliating as anything. She said she was flattered but that she was seeing someone else. I wish I could covey what a total cunt I felt like at the time, but words don't really cut it. It was like being a crushed seventh grader who'd just been rejected for his first time, but with all the experience and mindset of a middle aged man to make everything that much worse.


  What the fuck was I thinking?



  The second one was even worser in my opinion and clearly illustrates the differing world views that my generation has compared to millennials.


  It goes something like this:



   I saw girl two outside of work one time. This clearly was NOT a date and both of us knew it. No sweat. Another day we're talking and I tell her about this annual camping trip I make with a bunch of my friends. She gets all excited because it sounds like a good time and she enjoys camping. So I invite her to it and she asks me if she can stay in my tent.


  It was at this point that I made a generational error. I assumed she meant by 'staying in my tent' that she was maybe interested in some adult pokey-pokey time. My bad.


  Allow me to justify my chauvinist standpoint before you rain SJW scorn down upon me.


  Back in my day, and by that I mean when I was in my twenties and was even then attending the same camping trip, there was so much fucking going on that people tended to be more open about it, clearer in their intent, so to speak.


  'Staying in your tent' meant you were gonna do naughty stuff with your dirty bits, unless otherwise stated in an unambiguous fashion. This became common practice, if you needed somewhere to crash for whatever reason, but didn't want to have sex, you asked to "Co-Somunate", or literally, sleep-together.


  Not fuck. The term was very clear about that.


  That being said, I don't expect someone who's never been to this thing to know the lingo, but again this illustrates the difference between two generations.


  In my generation if you ask to sleep in someone's tent, there's a reasonable expectation of hanky-panky and if that's not your intent, it's on you to make it clear.


  With the millennials, however, it's all different I guess. Which in my opinion, invites confusion and misunderstandings. Twenty-somethings today have the opposite mindset about the whole,situation. If they ask to crash in your tent than it means platonically, unless stated otherwise. I know this because I ran the situation by several other girls I'm friendly with, all of whom are the same generation.


  Their opinions were ironclad. I was wrong it appeared.


  I belong to a different people, of a different way of thinking. I failed to remember that.





  And that, Dear Readers, ends my ill advised foray into attempting to date strippers from work. It didn't go well the first time, 16 years ago, and it utterly failed again, but in a much more emasculating fashion this time around.


  Didn't even kiss one of them. What a fucking loser.



  My degradation is your elation,
-The StripperHerder

On Top Of The Mountain One Day, Smashed In The Valley The Next. Or, Speaking Of Smashed......

  One thing I can say about this occupation, it can certainly be a roller coaster of hatred and emotions. Mostly the hot, angry kind of emotions. But every now and then God removes His Cock from your ass long enough for you to be thankful you have the job, until Saturday rolls around that is.


  Yes Saturdays. When the majority of Murrika is out and about, having fun, getting drunk, fucking, doing stupid things. Except for us lowly service industry folk. Every Saturday night we're transformed into peasants, peons and plebeians, ready and waiting to be looked down at, shit on and walked all over, hopefully for some money!


  The job can be like a hamster wheel half submerged in liquid feces. You ain't going anywhere buddy, and the faster you run, the more shit you're going to get on you.


  Tonight was like that. I was pissed going in and I'm not that great at letting go of my cuntiness when riled up. It's ironic that this comes on the heels of the best two days I've had all year, that's where the roller coaster allusion comes into play. Highs to lows, unexpected like. I'd have liked to make an out of state trip to say goodbye to an old friend if I just could've got the okay to do so, but as you'll read below, that didn't happen. God put His Dick back in.








 Super Dynamic Management Team Laser-Falcon, Deploy!



  Special mention must go out to our primary management pair, Sir Osgood TempleVein V and Sir Whimsy-Whamsey Shufflekins III. Between the two of them, Saturdays are less fun than wrestling a jaguar right after you've had a full body massage with Fancy Feast and catnip.

                           "Grease me up. I'm gonna fight a giant cat that's gonna maul me horribly."




  I had texted Sir Osgood earlier in the day requesting the night off and letting him know I have another Floor Guy ready, willing and able to cover my shift for me. I just needed him to answer me back because the other guy has been sent home twice when filling in for me because he "wasn't needed" and he's sick and fucking tired of making the trip for nothing. Can't blame him.


  Well, almost 10 hours go by after I texted Sir Osgood twice and I get nothing. Nada. Eventually time to go into work rolls around and my options run out. Off to hospitality paradise I go, pre-basted with anger and bearing hate levels already at 2 AM altitudes.


  The fact that Mr. Templevein couldn't even be bothered to text me back at all, irritated the shit out of me. He could've sent me a simple "no" and I would've been a lot less poked-bear about the whole thing. I'm not even worthy of a response, it seems.




  And things went downhill from there.




  The Town™ is like a rat maze of closed street and detours, all crammed with idiots in cars and Uber-twats, except there's no hunk of cheese anywhere. If there was I would've found it by now. So getting anywhere took half an hour. Two minute trip? I'll be there in half an hour. Round the block? Better make it forty minutes....



  NO! DON'T TIP ME. I'D RATHER BE PAT ON THE SHOULDER LIKE A LOYAL HOUND.


  I always foam at the mouth with rage bordering on despair as I contemplate various harrowing scenarios and struggle with every fiber of my being to not say what I feel or act upon the urgings of the hostile rancor-monkey riding on my shoulder, shrieking condemnation and stealing Ray-Bans.


  I LOVE being stuck in traffic and forced to listen to you and your friends childish, drunken gibbered conversations, carried out at full volume and with minimal class.


  I MAKE $5.75 AN HOUR. I DON'T NEED YOUR TIPS.


  Seriously, keep all that money I just saved you in cab/Uber fares. You deserve it because you're all wearing dude-approved headgear.




  Add into this that the civic planners decided having four large events at the four cardinal points of the city which all ended at the same time, was a terrific idea. 'Hey, traffic is shitty after even one of these events, so why don't we plan four of them that all end together, strategically placed around the town to cause almost complete traffic paralysis? We can watch from the 40th floor while we beat off with caviar and pretend to enjoy scotch."



  That's what I picture a city planner meeting being like. Fish eggs, bad ideas, sheep liquor and jizz.



  Seems about right for the productivity level they achieve....







   

  Fuck you, you motherfuckers. I hope you're all raped to death by some sort of livestock and your seed dies off, thus negating the possibility of any legacy-fuckheadedness.







  Hmm. That seemed a bit harsh, even by my broad standards. Wishing death on children and such.


  Still, it's not like I haven't written worse things, so let's all get past it and move forward.




          Super Dynamic Management Team Laser-Falcon, Pt 2




  The other half of this dynamic duo is Sir Whimsy-Whamsey Shufflekins III, scion to a failed British sugar fortune, part time alcoholic and full time avoider of conflict and confrontation. Unfortunately for us Floor Apes, conflict resolution is part and parcel of a MANAGER's job description. There are very direct and forceful managers, and then there are managers like Sir Whimsy, total Ostrich-Style leaders.

                                              "WHERE'S MY BUCKET OF SAND?"




  Sir Whimsy is the specialist responsible for our ultra modern 'guess if you're working today?' school of scheduling that seems to be in vogue right now. Frequently you have to call work to find out if you're supposed to be there that day. While I embrace the cutting edge nature of this style of organization, I nevertheless often get the impulse to pick Sir Whimsy up bodily and throw him through some drywall. Perhaps while screaming at him, "Am I Working Monday? Am I Working Monday?"



  This is one of my many, many faults, daydreaming of throwing various managers, strippers and customers through cheap wallboard while bellowing something clever or at least memorable. Thank Gods it's a fault I'm aware of and am able to keep a lid on, no matter how many pry bars are thrown my way in the execution of my job description.


  Tonight was a close call. Brought home some realities to me, ergo it's time to get busy. So don't let this early Summer blast of productivity get your hopes up. I HAVE to work on another project from now on, forgive me.


  I'm sure you'll still get your Herder fix, but don't expect 6 posts a month, it's unlikely at best and science fiction at worst.





All the best,
-The StripperHerder
  

Best Night Of The Year So Far. Or Cursed Stripper Names, Be Wary.

  I believe I've alluded to the fact that most of my great nights in this industry, money-wise, were all slow nights where some high rolling generous tipper comes into the club and spends stupid amounts of money. Not where we're slammed and packed and everyone's a cunt.


  Tonight was such a treasured slow night.


  And thank fucking God.


  Us Floor Scum walked with almost $1400 each tonight, on a night where I projected my earnings at maybe $100-150, based on the room and its inhabitants. This makes my Top Ten list of best nights ever, and as usual, it came out of left field.


  One man. One man can make a difference..

  One guy made our night, as is the formula for all the best nights in my career. This guy bought 4 one hour rooms back to back and tipped $1000 on each room. We started the night with four Floor Grunts, but Joker went home early due to illness, which mean that we only had to split all that money three ways instead of four. Had Joker been there we still would've still made over a grand each, but since he left, we fucking BANKED.


  As a result, I made about $169 an hour tonight. Couldn't be happier.


  And to think I was considering calling off tonight....


  I suppose this means that the dark cloud of fuckiness that used to hang over my head is now gone and that I can confidently call off a shift and not be worried that if I would've stayed I'd a made $1000.


  That particular torch has been passed it would seem to Floor Guy Codename:Strider.


  And that is an enormous weight off my shoulders: I hope the curse has been lifted......










                      CURSED STRIPPER NAMES


  Of the 62 approved stripper names in the titty dancer lexicon, several bear a heavy curse. This can be the only conclusion when every single one of the dancers I've worked with who has chosen one of these names turns out to be a giant pat of staggering thong-butter.

 
  Nothing else makes sense.


  That being said, there are stripper stage-names so common that it's impossible to draw a conclusion because I've worked with so goddamn many of them that there were bound, by simple math, to be good ones and bad ones. These stripper names include: Bitttney, Amber, Tiffany, Alexis, Crystal, Angel, and Paradox.


  But some gals choose names that carry a curse it would seem. Maybe they're decent strippers before they opt to take one of these accursed handles, but afterwards, they're garbage.


  So you can be aware, respected reader, here's a list of CURSED STRIPPER NAMES. Never get a dance from one of them or somehow you'll owe them two hundred dollars for virtually nothing.



1) Brooklyn- In my experience that has never been a dancer named "Brooklyn" that was anything other than an animated piece of trash with tits. If a stripper by this name ever approaches you for a dance, just tell her that you're a broke, meth-head who has AIDS but would like to talk to her about Jesus and see how fast she goes away.


2) Jetta- You named yourself after a Volkswagen. Nice job. I've worked with three twats in my career named 'Jetta' and they were all conniving thieves with a nasty drug habit.


3) McKenzie- Says 'I'm slightly more imaginative than you standard gutter-dwelling thong-snipe, yet I still live in a world of delusion and imminent regret.' Every chick I've worked with named McKenzie has been a dull, haggard and alcoholic white bitch living in a world of fantasy.


  Except one. She's cool.


4) Lexus- Fluff. Innane. Meaningless. Attractive only through cosmetics and plastic surgery. ALWAYS has fake tits, if that's your thing.


5) Kat- Every single stripper named "Kat" or "Cat" or "Kayatt" or any other spelling that is pronounced c-a-t, is a junkie. They would pimp their own offspring for an armful of junk and won't even remember doing it. They're not bad people, they're just junkies. It's not their fault.


  Nothing is ever anyone's fault anymore. Remember that.


6) Girls named after Texas towns: Dallas, Houston, Austin, Amarillo, Pecos. Nine times out of ten they're a bad night waiting to happen. Stick with dancers named after trees or random flora. Generally much easier to deal with and way less likely to scam you.






Tanks for reedin,
-Da StripperHerder

Don't Know f You Noticed, But I've Already Surpassed My 2016 Post Total, You're Welcome. Or, A Fuck Off Post About Nothing Much At All

  I have a lot to say but unfortunately have already consumed too much vodka to really dig into it. So instead, I'm just going to do some poetry because it's insanely easy.



READY?



Let's go!




Limericks:



There once was a gal name Rox
Who had a very stinky box
She wiped and wiped
And grumped and griped
Still smelled like week old lox




Sapphire is an average dancer
Only drunks would ever chance her
She looks kinda clownish
Her O-Ring is brownish
And appears to be riddled with cancer




Amber is a drunken Hyde
If her lips move she has lied
But she flails her hips
And on stage is skipped
Many times in the shower she has cried




Poor Floor guy Steve is peeved
Patrons are too dunk to be believed
He's patient and bland
Doesn't raise a hand
Non-violence is achieved






Haikus




Samantha is hit
Droopy tits make no men hard
Unless they're weird







Need the ATM?
Fees charged are usury
Deal with it fuckhat




Where does this bus go?
Can you NOT read silly fuck?
You are a moron




Dances cost how much?
Are you fucking kidding me?
Nope. Stop being broke.





  Not even kidding you, that's it. That's all I feel like doing. Be thankful because there's never been better limericks or haikus.



  Take what you get.


Glutus Nocturne,
-The StripperHerder

Greetings From The StripperHerder, Master Of Broom Technology And The World's 3rd Oldest Floor Guy. Or, Camouflage Strippers: Able To Mask The Trashiness Just Long Enough To Make A Few Bucks And Not Tip Any Of It.

                                                  "What the FUCK is that?"







  It's really great being the only Floor Twat at my club that understands the elusive and complex nature of brooms and all the related nuances of sweeping stuff up. It enhances my job security and makes me a valuable asset to the club. If it weren't for me, the front door would've long ago become inaccessible due to the massive drifts of cigarette butts, candy wrappers, discarded booze bottles and street food wrappers that had accumulated there.


  I am the portal keeper. I am the wayfinder. I can sweep at a Chuck Norris level, even at my advanced age.

                             "Even I wouldn't fuck with The StripperHerder if he was armed with a broom."









  So listen, because my unpublished (read:unfinished) draft pile is mounting like an unkempt horse stall, I have to do one of two things at this point:


A) Buckle down, improve my work ethic and finish all these drafts, or


B) Put out substandard, disappointing posts that nevertheless make my numbers look better, sorta relieve my rage (albeit temporarily), and make me feel like I've accomplished something, however vapid and disgraceful.


  So, savvy reader, which option do you think I'm gonna run with? A or B?



 Not even going to dignify that with an answer...





  True things I've said to strippers recently:

                           If there's a StripperHerder movie, Danny McBride should portray me.







  So we're not allowed to pressure dancers for tips anymore, doesn't matter what we've done for them, they are by law considered 'private contractors' and there are notices from our legal team posted all over the buildings that no one is permitted, by law, to imply, infer, suggest, hint at or outright state that a bitch needs to pony up some dough. And if someone does, here's a convenient number to call so you can join a class action lawsuit that's waiting to happen.


  Apparently it's illegal to tell a cheap cunt that she needs to tip us for our efforts in making her money. They are independent CONTRACTORS*1 (which minimizes the club's legal liability when they do something horrific) and as such, we Floor Mollusks are no longer allowed to tell them "hey girl, I just made you a grand, pay up."

                                             "Hey! Fuck off! I'm contracting here!"



  I had this girl tonight who asked me some insidiously stupid question at the end of the night, when my tolerance quotient was at zero. I sighed and my shoulders drooped in resignation. I looked down at her and I said quietly and clearly,




  "Every day I come into this club I fight a war with myself not to murder another human being. Some day I'm gonna to lose that war. Try not to be here that day."


  And I went back to cleaning up after her ass, because that's one of the many splinters of the cross I bear, cleaning up after two-legged garbage.



  Another gem I told a girl the other day was, "I know you're 20 and already have life figured out. You're blonde, stunningly beautiful and a lot men will bend over to make your life easier in hopes of doing something, ANYTHING to your naughties. Probably even just sniffing your thong because a lot of men are pathetic fucking losers with more income than pride.

  "That being said a weekend in Cozumel with a moneyed asshole still makes you a whore, sex worker plain and simple. If a "Luxury Handbag" is worth that to you, when a garbage bag could do the same job, then god bless ya honey, set that muffin to Auto-Butter."*2


  She didn't like that very much and I didn't care at all. It's her snizz and she can do with it as she pleases, but don't expect me to have any respect for you unless you give me money, which in the industry context is all I care about.





  And finally, one more tale of my favorite bombshell bitch, Ivana Poutvainly, our gremlin-hearted Ruskie bartender thingy.



   
       

                                        "So werry interesting. Tell me more."





  If you'll remember, honored reader, Ivana totaled her ridiculously expensive BMW a couple of weeks back, driving hammered, and didn't even get into any trouble for it because she fled the scene. Now she has an even more expensive car, yet still bitches about money and people being cheap.


  She was having this conversation with one of her former Soviet Bloc cronies, when I just had to interject.


  "Maybe if you weren't so obsessed with insanely expensive luxury items and vehicles there's a chance you'd have more money in your pocket."


  And these were her exact words, I'm not even going to alter them to make them more sensational:


  "I'm not going to dress like a commoner." She said with a sneer.


  I just laughed. "Well if you're broke, regardless of what you're wearing and what you're driving, doesn't that make you by definition a "commoner?"


  People like her make me sick. If your sense of self worth is so inextricably tied to what kind of overpriced shit you wrap your body with and drive yourself around in, then you're probably an egotistical, petty, self absorbed waste of oxygen.


  ANYONE and I mean anyone who's willing to pay $3K for a fucking purse when a perfectly functional one could be had for $25-50 or less, is someone probably not worth knowing. EVEN if buying it doesn't represent a financial hardship for them whatsoever. Two of the traits in humans I hate the most are arrogance and avarice and paying stupid amounts of money for designer crap is the height of both.



  For example, even if I had F-U money, I wouldn't run out and buy Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Aston Martins or some other super pretty hunk of shit, I'd buy something like these:

                                                      Pretty and functional.

                                            The angriest car ever built in Murrika.

                               Rarer, cheaper and better looking than a similar year Mustang

                                            Traffic problems are a thing of the past






  That's what I'd buy. Probably some guns too. Maybe a house.









   Camouflage Strippers: Masking their horrid nature since whenever.





 I don't have anything to write about this because my Anti-Butthurt team has assured me there's no way to cover this without someone, somewhere, finding offense with it. My legal Armada has informed me that I'm on thin ice, socially, and that in today's climate, it's okay to do horrible things, as long as you know you're right.


  Must be a great feeling, KNOWING you're right and that any atrocity or ugliness you can commit is condoned and sanctioned by an imaginary Cloud-Dude, who totally approves of your fuckery.


  It saddens me that otherwise rational people can think along these lines.


  Fucking saddens me, I say.



Your Mammary Guidance Specialist,
-The StripperHerder






















*1 Forever cheapening the term "Contractor".







*2 These weren't my literal words of course, otherwise she probably would've called the Owner and he may or may not have had me terminated with this O.T.T.O.** But it's the gist of what I meant, whether or not she was clever enough to read between the lines remains a mystery to us both.


**O.T.T.O. I don't remember exactly what this stands for and because I couldn't find the post I mentioned it in, I'm just gonna take a stab at it. Orbiting Tactical Termination Orb. If you feel like doing the research, feel free to enlighten me.




*3 "The Arrangement" is the agreement with alcohol that I made years ago. It goes something like this: Alcohol agrees to be here for me unconditionally and I in turn agree to never stop drinking or get to the point where I can't stop drinking even if I wanted to.**




** So far it's been working out extremely well for both sides. We're happy together.

Requiem For A Graceless Snizz Or Two. Or, Creating Misanthropes 101: The Service Industry.

  Let me kick this one off by saying that I had written the original couple of paragraphs a few months ago then, like most things in my life, I never finished it. Unluckily for me, life has seen fit to grant me with new inspiration that coincides with the general topic matter at hand.


  So because I'm lazy, I'm going to highlight the original post in blue, then keep writing. Try to keep up.







  I found out tonight that Musky, a dancer I used to work with at a couple of different clubs, died yesterday.


  And though no other information is available at this time, I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that she either OD'ed on heroin specifically, or just OD'ed on drugs in general. Lots and lots of drugs.


  Call me crazy but that's my hypothesis. Musky really enjoyed her narcotics...


  So that happened. I don't mean to sound callous about it but it occurs pretty often in this business and if you get all attached to a trainwreck then you inevitably are affected when it finally goes off the rails. So I try to stay detached from the job. I'm the standoffish guy. I'm less likely to stay and "bond with the team" after work and I almost never go to work colleague outings or parties.


  I'm very guarded with the people I work with, I have to be because I write this blog. If you're a regular reader then you may have noticed that I seldom have much to say about various co-workers that's positive and any connection between me and the guy who writes this would be catastrophic to my fiscal needs.




  All right, everyone still with me? Sexcellent, let's kick this mule in the tail.

                                                    "You best not kick my mule."






  So Musky's unfortunate passing was roughly three months ago. About two weeks ago Margo also died, again from a heroin overdose. They both at least had the courtesy/good fortune to die somewhere besides the club.


  But not tonight. I got called back to the club from the shuttle bus by the Manager at around 1:15 AM. I hadn't been at the club ten minutes when I get a panicked call from the other Manager for Floor Staff to come to the dressing room. Every other time I received a call like this it was because two or more rival stripper gangs were having a rumble and they needed to be broken up before someone got a stiletto heel through the eye, where it may or may not have hit something important, like a brain.


  Nope, this time it was for a dead stripper. Literally a dead stripper. Laying on the filth of the bathroom after having shot up in a stall. Super classy way to go.


  That being said, as far as I know she isn't still dead. In fact she probably wasn't when I arrived either, but her survival can all be attributed to Floor Guy No Codename. If she'd been somewhere by herself, she would be deceased as I write this.


  Here's what happened: When I arrived in the locker room she was sprawled out halfway under the stall wall. There was a syringe laying at her feet and she wasn't breathing. Fortunately there was a rescue stripper nearby who took charge and starting doing shit that clearly wasn't helping. I was on the phone with 911 dispatch at the time, giving instruction to said clueless good samaritan, when No Codename pushed the "helpful" bitch out of the way and got the girl breathing again very quickly. He's pretty skilled at CPR it seems.


  From what I hear, after she regained consciousness, she was angry with everyone for calling 911. Not thankful, not appreciative for saving her life, but worried about going to jail if the cops found her smack.



  This is a great segue into the next thing I want to cover in this installment, how working in this industry has made me into something I don't like. You see, dear reader, I simply would have let her die. Not even kidding you one bit. If I could look you in the eye and make you feel my sincerity, I would.


  I would've let her die. I would have stood there and watched the ineffectual efforts of rescue stripper fail and a young girl's life slip away. A decade ago I could've never said that about myself, but today it's just a fact. Realizing this was very sobering for me. In fact it hit me kinda hard. There wasn't any way in hell I would've put my lips on her, even to save her life.


  I don't know what she did. May her shit was cut with carfentanil*1, the deadliest stuff to hit the streets in history. You can brush this substance off your clothing and die:

http://miami.cbslocal.com/2017/05/15/ohio-police-officer-fentanyl-carfentanil-overdose/


  What they don't mention in that article is that it took four doses of Narcan to save this guy's life and he only touched it with his fingers.


  So I would've let her die and that doesn't say anything good about me. A lot of this has to do with my loathing of junkies in general, mixed with a healthy fear of dying while trying to save someone who clearly chose to do something horrifically stupid. I blame the service industry in general and the strip club industry in particular for helping to make me this way. The current panhandling and heroin epidemics aren't helping things any and the bottom line is I'm growing fucking weary, people.


  Tired of being angry, tired of feeling hateful, tired of thinking the worst about my fellow sapiens and seldom being wrong. I'm tired of working at hours out of sync with the other 90% of the country and getting to see other humans at their worst, all the time.


  I'm just a hateful wedge of angry old goat cheese anymore and I fucking hate feeling this way.


  A change has to be made and I only have one real option. Writin. It's all I got.



  But enough about all that. Everything's happy! Everything's good! TITTIES YAY!

                                    "Sweet Christ! Look at those Lactose-Cannons!"





  I'm gonna stretch out this post, which was rapidly becoming depressing, with some cleverly worded observations about more of tonight's fiasco.



  
      

      I'm Hideous, COME TO OUR CLUB!

                                     "No seriously. We have wings and funnel cakes."



 *Here's a grand idea, take your fattest, most unattractive dancer, a girl so physically unappealing to the majority of males that she's not even allowed on stage when she's working*2 and let her go out promoting. Let her be the face of the club that potential customers see. That's the way to reel them in!







 *There's a huge racial divide in strip club economics that NO ONE TALKS ABOUT. Merely discussing race nowadays can get you labelled as a racist, so I prefer to avoid the whole issue, except for this instance.



  On the customer side of things, white guys tend to do champagne rooms while black guys tend to throw money on stage. I'm not going to go into my theories behind this because nothing good would come of it, suffice to say, the ratio isn't even close, for whatever reasons.


  One goes, one throws. One does champagne, one makes it rain. Make up your own rhyme here. It's fun. You'll feel like a rapper.



  On the dancer side of things, with an equally stark ratio, black girls don't tip as well as their paler counterparts. Don't know why this is, but I also don't know why gravity works, it's just one of those things that's a fact and you just have to learn to deal with it or it may become aggressive with you. Doesn't cover everyone of course, nothing referring to humans does because some of us can be stubborn cunts rather than predictable cattle.


  Read into that whatever the fuck you want. I've ceased to care. I talk from life experience.






  I'm positive that this post needs further editing, but I'm not gonna do it. because I'm stubborn.


Much amor,
-The StripperHerder



















*1 This shit is decimating people everywhere, but poor Ohio seems to be the epicenter:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/to-your-health/wp/2017/03/16/drugs-are-killing-so-many-in-this-county-that-cold-storage-trailers-are-being-used-as-morgues/?utm_term=.2076b985390e

  Glad I don't work there anymore, what a shit show.






*2 I've mentioned my feelings about this before in this blog. Basically it boils down to "if you're too gross and porcine to appear on our stage, then you should be too gross and porcine to even work here at all. MUCH LESS BE SENT OUT PROMOTING.


  What were they thinking?


  And before you get all panty-twattled, if I showed you an accurate picture of this girl and you had one shred of  objectivity in regards to this industry, you'd agree with me. She's gross.

If I were inclined to go to a titty bar and this was the girl who'd invited me to where she worked, not only would I not go, I'd attempt to order an airstrike on it. I'd do this because I'd think to myself "If this is the best of what this club has to offer, what's the worst?"

                                               This. This is the worst. In a bikini.







  

So Much To Talk About, So Little Vodka. Or, For A Thursday, Tonight Sucked A Whole Bunch Of Various Animal Ballsacks. Or Even, I've Added More Onto This Since Thursday But Couldn't Come Up With A More Clever Way To Say It.

  I don't even know where to start tonight, I have so many topics to expound upon that it's going to be impossible to properly address them all. So in my typical slipshod fashion, I'm just gonna leap in feet first and hope for the best.


  But before I get into the grim details, let me do a preface:


  On most days, I hate my job. I, like any other dog, have my days. But really I dread every single fucking shift I have to go in there and the only reason I'm still at this place is because everyone seems happy to let me pilot the shuttle bus and thus remove myself from most interactions with all the tedious, enraging denizens of this never ending twatfest. 


  The thought of just getting myself fired and collecting unemployment for however long they're willing to give it to me seems pretty goddamn appealing. I could literally live off my credit cards for at least two years, with or without supplementary income, so it's not like I would be homeless inside six months. This would give me all day, every day to sit around in my manky underwear and pound away on my TV pilot. Which, if my survival depends on it, seems the only way I might actually get it done.


  So that being covered, let's wade around in the turd pool, shall we?

                                 Got your water-wings on? Cool. Splash around. Have fun.
                               







1) DA MANAGEMENT


   One of my biggest aggravations at the moment is the Manager I'm forced to work with 95% of my shifts, Sir Balrog Da Passive of Agressia II. The other "cool" manager (Sir Mellowtimes S'allgood V ) doesn't like me and since he's the one who does the scheduling, I literally never work with him. Ever. Which sucks because he is everything Sir Balrog is not.



 

                                        Clearly upset with the Latervian Football Team.





  Let me cite some of Sir Balrog's charms for those of you blissfully unaware of the entirety of the past four years worth of installments. Some of these are traits that he appears to be saddled with and others are but wee shit-cookies that I had to deal with tonight specifically.




TRAITS




-He takes FOREVER to close the club. Sir Mellowtimes can do the exact same job in one third of the time, no matter how busy the club was. One fucking third.


-He enjoys cornering the poor House Mom or some other unfortunate bastard in the parking lot when they're just trying to go home, and yak at them for a half hour or more. All of this being on everyone's time as we can't go the fuck home until he does his motherfucking job.


-This happens to me up to four times a week. Adding 4-6 hours onto my weekly schedule for no discernible reason, nor gain on my part.


-He's an escalator. He'll wade into a situation us Floor Guys have under control or at least made nonviolent, and start dropping racial slurs and insulting people, reigniting the whole keg of powder.




WEE SHIT-COOKIES

                     Anally baked, just like weird Uncle Ted used to make.

-We had this asshole tonight who was too drunk to even be allowed in the club, but got in anyway because...



OUR DOORGIRL IS A FUCKING WORTHLESS, SELF ABSORBED MENSTRUAL CLOT WHO SUCKS AT HER JOB AND SHOULD'VE BEEN FIRED LONG AGO.*1



  Not only did he gain access the first time, he got back in four times after I had told him he was done for the night because our Doorgirl, Taco Bella, couldn't be bothered to stop Instachatting and Snapgramming long enough to notice the blithering drunk idiot I had escorted to the door multiple times, waltzing back in.


  It wasn't like he was subtle.



  The funny thing is, Taco Bella was only responsible for only three of those times which brings me back around to the original subject of this itemized tirade, Sir Balrog.


  The fourth time I had to throw this guy out was because Sir Balrog gave him permission to go use the bathroom, obviously thinking "Hey, he's done everything else we've asked of him tonight, what could possibly go wrong?"


  That's when I dragged the dude off the patio. Totally unnecessary for me to have to go to that extreme in my job because two layers of the other club staff couldn't do their's. I'm seriously getting fed up with this crap.


  Nothing was said to the doorgirl. Nothing. Like she played no part, much less a major role in this fecal layer cake.


  I'm getting fed up with this crap.



-If you're going to keep the club open later than usual to cater to less than 10 customers who aren't spending any money, don't you think it'd be a good idea to let your Floor Staff know about it? I mean you have a radio, we all have radios, we're just the push of a button away. It seems like something that I oughta know since I'm working the door.


  Just sayin.




  But enough about Sir Balrog. I have to strive to cover some other happenings, but I fear it's gonna be a pathetic effort, i.e. my average output.




  Here, in no particular order, are things of suck right now:




2) THE RETURN OF METHALUMPS.


  

                         They look like they might erupt in baby spiders at any time.



 This stripper was a nightmare to work with and I've had the pleasure of doing so at three different clubs so far. This one twice, because we're stupid. A leopard don't change it's spots, and I'd bet that we find out that Methalumps hasn't either. The formula is the same; a sweet natured, repentant dancer who is on less meth than before as evidenced by her somewhat less bony ass. On good behavior protocols until the trigger is pulled and she gets all trollish and knuckle-dragging.


  I'd wager 60 ounces of silver it'll happen with 3 months, and I thought carefully about that.


  And while the optimist in me hopes that she has shrugged off her drug-demons, the experienced, cynical cunt in me thinks it's only a matter of time until she Hydes*2 all over the place. Probably with me at ground zero, knowing my luck.


 If you'll recall, dear reader, she's the one that due to surgery, has nipples that rest on top of her tits, nowhere near the business angle of your standard booby. Any offspring might be forced to evolve giraffe-like necks to deal with the harsh geometry involved in feeding on such inconveniently placed milk nozzles.


  I don't know, I'm not an Anthropologist. If that's even the correct profession to explain possible consequences with the awkwardly situated mammal-juice taps that Methalumps exhibits. When you stare. they become very creepy.


  Shame, cuz she's pretty.






3) A FUSILLADE OF STRIPPERS


  It seems like average to above average strippers have fallen from the sky lately, there are so many scampering about the club, looking to crop some green. I don't know what happened, but all of a sudden there are so many new dancers that I don't know half their names anymore. And with the repetitive nature of Common North American Stripper Names, I sometimes get confused, ambivalent even.

                            It's like THIS just stormed our club, demanding jobs. We said YES.




  Since most of them don't tip the guy keeping them safe on the way to their car, (me), I can't be bothered to remember their names. In fact I love when I have to walk a stripper out who I've walked out several dozen times before, but who has never tipped me and I ask her what her stage name is even though she's told me many times before. Sometimes I even do it if I know their name, just to annoy them.





4) SELL ME WEED SO I CAN NARC YOU OUT.


  Our former Soviet Bloc ice princess, Ivana Poutvainly strikes again. I really hate it when people who repeatedly do stupid things aren't punished for it, they're never going to learn without a little pain and scar tissue. Well, they're probably never going to learn anyway because they're stupid, but at least give them the chance is what I'm saying.


  Let's get into this, comrade.


  First off, this crazy Nezturkistanian bitch has the cook make her a "special" brownie. For the more innocent readers among you, a "special" brownie is a goody that's baked with weed in it. So you can get high without having to smoke anything. Apparently she doesn't even smoke regularly and was warned by said cook NOT TO EAT THE WHOLE FUCKING THING because ingesting rather than smoking THC will get you much higher, it just takes longer.


  So Ivana receives her stony-treat and eats half of it. After a half hour she's not feeling anything so what do you suppose she does? If you're thinking to yourself "eat the other half?", you're correct. The dumb commie ate the other half.


  Fast forward thirty more minutes and she's so high she is completely incapable of doing anything other than gripping the bar in terror and staring wide eyed at everyone, who are all now speaking gibberish.


  Manager takes her aside and says "what the fuck is wrong with you?" At this point Ivana spills her guts and narcs out the cook which she assumes has Mickey-Finned her or something. So her and the cook get suspended and the cook ends up quitting.


  Super cool.


  But she wasn't done yet, oh no, she had plenty more stupid where that came from.

                                            "I would rather die that drive a Serf car."


 


  She wasn't back four shifts from her suspension when, on her way home from the club, she smashed her Beemer against a guardrail not a mile from work. When I say smashed, I mean totaled. That car was proper fucked.


  So Ivana flees the scene and scoots her wasted ass back to the club. A Manager and Floor Guy convince her that she should go back and they run her up there. By the time they arrive the PD is on scene. When an officer asks Ivana what happened, she's says some guy she picked up from the bar was driving and that when he wrecked the car he ran away. The officer then asks her to describe the guy and pretends to write down what she says. The main point you need to know from here on is that Ms. Poutvainly said the guy was kinda tall, maybe 6'1" or so.


  From the account I heard from the Floor guy present was that the cop let her spin her yarn for a while longer before stopping her and saying "Listen, this is how I know you're lying:

A) The passenger side airbag hasn't deployed and

B) Anyone taller than you would find it difficult to drive from where the driver side seat is placed. In fact it's the perfect distance for someone exactly your height."


  "That being said" the cop continued "Without a witness or some sort of proof that you were the driver, I can't PROVE BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DOUBT YOU WERE DRIVING WHEN THIS ACCIDENT OCCURRED. So you get a Leaving The Scene Of An Accident charge."


  Now some of you may argue that this was not, in fact, a stupid thing to do. A Leaving The Scene charge is way better than getting a DUI, and all of you thinking that are right. But let me tell you why I still consider it as rewarding the stupid. I consider it thusly because Ivana wasn't calculating this outcome, she just fucking panicked and didn't know what else to do. The fact that she got away with it irritates me to no end.



  That's all I'm gonna say now because I'm getting mad thinking about it. If I'd had at least one positive interaction with Ivana, I'd be cutting her some slack right now, but the truth of the matter is, she's a class conscious, elitist spoiled brat who expects the world to unfold before her based on her specialness.


  Meanwhile she stills sits on a toilet and grunts out used food just like the rest of us.


  She's exactly the type of girl to complain about not making enough money and always being broke, but drives used to drive a brand new BMW 6 Series, regularly spends $700 on boots she can't wear at work and a dress for $800 that looks identical to a really long T-Shirt. She could've chosen to buy a Camry and some Reeboks, but no, that is for plebians. Grass-clutching beet farmers who eat dirt and rape field mice. People whose ancestors should have been massacred by Cassock Calvary sabers if the world was run properly.


  That's Ivana. Our special joy.




5) WE. FUCKING. TOLD. YOU. SO.

                                                      See? This girl gets it. 


  Sir Balrog allowed a group of area business guys to have an informal meeting in one of our unoccupied champagne rooms for reasons known only to him. He wasn't charging them for the privilege because we were slow at the time and they didn't bring in any strippers with them. Probably because they wanted to actually accomplish something.


  So I guess what happened was that our least savory waitress, whom I'll refer to as Ghetto Scumbag, told the two witless dancers (Pogo and Helga) to go in there. A few minutes later the Camera Troll alerted the Floor Staff that they were two Intruder Strippers in the room, wreaking havoc with any potential productivity.


  So Floor Guy Seamus goes into the room and pulls the girls aside and tells them point blank, "This is a free room Sir Balrog is doing as a courtesy, if you stay here you AREN'T GONNA GET PAID." English doesn't get any plainer, folks. And seeing as how ONLY Floor Hosts can set up VIP rooms, not fucking drunk waitresses, the aforementioned dancers should have beat a hasty retreat.


  I'm not even going to insult you by asking, esteemed reader "What do you think they did?" Because you all fucking know exactly what they did. They ignored the Floor Host, the only human they should've listened to, and stayed in the room for 2 1/2 hours.


  This should've made them in excess of a grand but instead netted them nothing. Like they were told it was going to make them.


  And they, of course, went batshit.


  And at this point some of you more perspicacious and/or suspicious followers may be asking, "What's to say that Seamus told them at all? What if he just wasn't paying attention and didn't care anyway?"


  And these are valid questions.


  The answer is that of course he told them because he most certainly didn't want to deal with angry dancers who go all MTV reality show star on you when they don't get their way. But the second part of the equation is that Pogo can be a Platinum Level Tipper*3 when you help her out and might average out as a Silver Level Tipper when taken as a whole.







  In the end, I found myself not caring at all. I believe Seamus's side of the story because that's precisely what I would've done except for the fact that I would've tried one more time after another 30 minutes or so, just to see if I could make them understand, possibly using crude drawings if necessary.


  They both stormed out and I'll bet they won't be back.




  For at least five days.





  That is all. Picture time so you don't cry.




Mas Consternato
-The StripperHerder




















*1 As a strip club we have a lot of strengths, our Doorgirl staff has never been one of them. It makes me think nostalgically of working at Anthony's Place of even Sheila's Shag Hut, where the Doorgirls were miles above anything we've ever had work at our place. Their DG's were fucking fearless, knowing they had the Floor Beasts to call upon, they owned the fucking Portal.


  Our guardians are like "OMG! I didn't even realize he was wearing sweats! Oops!"


  Or, "OMG! I thought you carrying him out in a full nelson was like, I don't know, some sort of male bonding thing? I don't know. I don't know about Bro culture. Tee-hee."








*2 Hyde: For any potential new readers among you, a Hyde is the ravening, soul-eating monster some strippers turn into when they've had too much of something. Kinda lie a Banner/Hulk thing. When a bitch hits her seventh Patron, she ceases to be a Jekyll and explodes into her Hyde-self.

  Frequently violent.






*3    LEVELS OF TIPPING:




PLATINUM: Do I even need to explain it?



GOLD: Very good, like gold. We take very good care of these gals.



SILVER: We like you. We'd take a staff comprised entirely of Silver Level's if we could. If all girls were consistent but unspectacular tippers, us Floor Sloths would, on average, make more money.



BRONZE: Meh. Understands the concept but just isn't very generous, or is hard to get into rooms, or just isn't good at making money for whatever reason. Usually because she's not very attractive.



ALUMINUM FOIL: After the split you may get as much as a dollar. You know, on a good night.



BITS OF ENAMELED RAT BONE: Mostly given by strippers who are past their SELL-BY date, as opposed to strippers who are merely in their waning years who are more frequently Silvers or Golds. Usually the tips consist of whatever trinkets the ole gal might have on her or may be things handed down from her people, carved antler and whatnot. But every now and then a drunk Yoda-aged stripper will unwittingly hand you a small treasure.


  For example I walked out Methusalina one time, a dancer who is literally over four hundred years old, and she drunkenly tipped me an antique Parisian Snuffbox which I subsequently sold on Ebay for $1,800.



SPIT: Occasionally tip one dollar. This is more insulting than tipping nothing at all because it says that she derives pleasure from just having tipped you 14.2 cents, which is what your take will be after you split it with six other Floor Grunts. This froths her truffle.


  Spitters are despised. Don't make that feeble gesture at me, cunt. You need that 14.2 cents more than me, so you just keep that dollar. Buy some off brand Mac N Cheese for yourself.



CHOLERA: Not only doesn't tip, she actively tries to bugger our earning potential and often costs us money by some of her various scams and junkie bullshit. To be branded and driven from the village whenever the opportunity presents itself.