An Unwelcome Return To The Saturdays Of Old. Or, Cutting The Shit Eagle.

  You may have noticed, astute reader, that I haven't written much about Saturday nights in a while. The reason for this is because they've been so much slower than they used to be that I don't get much material from them anymore.


  Tonight however, buggered that paradigm right up its arse. All manner of remorseless horseshit trotted about the club tonight: hostile hillbillies, deranged dancers, wasted wankers, you name it-we had it.





  But before I get into all that bilge scraping, let's do this installment's FUN STATS, cuz I like em.

               This has nothing to do with FUN STATS, but I'll be damned if it wasn't gonna be in my blog.

-Number of females involved in physical altercations tonight: 4



-Number of dancers I've worked with who've died since my last post: To the best of my knowledge, 0



-Number of times my new Arch-Nemesis, Ratty, has gone all white trash cunt on a customer since her ill advised rehiring: 2


  I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO. I fucking well told the world that this would happen and by Odin's quim-primped beard I was right. We need to cut ties with this psychopathic walking chancre before she does or causes something irreparable to happen. Why Dynamic Management Team: LASER FALCON can't see this I just don't understand.


  Ratty is a fucking LIABILITY.



-Number of club patrons who lost their phones since last post: 89



-Number of dancers whose names I just can't remember, ever. Possibly because they don't tip: Many



-Number of strippers who quit tonight: 2*1


  Good Riddance.



-Number of times since last post Management failed to inform me of something I felt was important to the fulfillment of my job duties then yelled at me for not knowing it: 1



-Number of times in the past week the entrance area of the club has been swept of all the assorted garbage that makes it look like a patio in a refugee camp after a tropical storm: Twice.


  This is because although I work 4 days a week normally, I was too damn sick on Thursday to care enough to do it. No one else at the club is qualified to use a broom.







  All right, enough of that crap. You deserve better. Sort of.





  Enumeration of tonight's suckitude, By A. StripperHerder.

                                  (Some of which will be in the footnotes.)




  Hillbillies. Rednecks. Plow-Chasers. Sheep Rapists. Incestuous Dirt Prodders.


  Whatever your preferred term for them is, they can be a trial when they scamper on out into the Big City. Now before you rural folk get your hackles all tangled up in yer panties, let me remind you that whenever I refer to any group: Ghetto Kids, Suburban Cunts, Euro Trash, Dirty Hindi's, Celebrities and hell, even Strippers, I ALWAYS focus on the worst among them. Making examples of nice, polite people for the purposes of this journal would be counter productive as it is definitely a glass-half-empty sorta blog.


  Duh.


  So if I cared about anyone's feelings, I would go out of my way to say that the vast majority of the 'hillbillies' who visited our fine establishment tonight were very polite, well mannered gentlemen. Clearly raised by parents who instilled a traditional Do-Unto-Others perspective in their progeny that I have a lot of respect for because that's how I was raised.*2 Maybe its a Midwest thing, I don't know.


  That being stated, I will always choose to write about the worst of our club's visitors and if some of them in this instance happen to be Rednecks, well, I'm gonna write about Rednecks.


  Hell, to some twat from LA or NYC, I AM a Redneck. Midwest boy here through and through.

                               "What? Sometimes your bathtub freezes up. Don't be a bitch"





  Anywho, we had a group of folks from a Midwest State famous for being a Midwest State and having lots of tornadoes. The were, by our urban standards, stump-jumpers. There were about eight of them, two of which were girls.


  So one of the guys decides to rip our "Welcome to the Patio" sign off the wall of our patio. I've always thought it was a stupid sign anyway, clearly you were on a patio, it has all the hallmarks: it's outdoors, flagstone floor, lame bar, and several cheesy 'cabanas'. It all adds up to "I'm on a patio" for even the dullest of patrons.


  So Big Jimmy Tractor Oaf pulls this sign off our wall and a dancer alerts my Manager, Sir Vulcanic Magmafist VI and he grabs me and we head out to investigate this heinous act. When we arrive, Baby Huey is holding the bent and destroyed sign like Lennie petting the fucking rabbit.

                                 "I'll pet that sign REAL god, George! REEAAAALLLL good!"





  Sir Vulcanic isn't happy and starts getting all angry-quiz on the wheat-golem, who's answers aren't satisfactory, nor even coherent. The whole time this is happening, Huey's much smaller buddy is running his mouth with fight words like he's Connor fucking MacGregor, not some little Pipefitter bitch who belongs in a women's welterweight Spin class.


  Sir Vulcanic was willing to let the rest of the party stay as soon as Lennie left without a struggle, but Dick-Mouth ruined it for the whole group with his shit-breathed assholery. Magmafist declared "they all gotta go" as he caressed his Mace dispenser lovingly.


  In the end, the cooler heads from the frontier party prevailed, which is to say, all the rest of them, even Baby Huey.


  As a closing to all this, when we had let the last of them out of the patio gate and went back into the club to do all the shit that didn't get done while we dealt with this ridge-runner insurgency, the douchebag and Lennie viciously attacked one of out landscaped trees, ripping several branches off it.


  So fucking lame.








  In closing, I'd like to describe to you, sensitive reader, one of my favorite punishment scenarios I'll inflict on every Uber driver I can get my hands on, if I ever become the Dark Lord of North Murrika.



             

              Cutting The Shit Eagle. 






  This is a form of execution I loosely modeled on a historically shaky Viking ritual known as 'Cutting The Blood Eagle'.


   According to Wikipedia:


The blood eagle is a ritualized method of execution, detailed in late skaldic poetry. According to the two instances mentioned in the Sagas, the victim (always a member of a royal family) was placed prone, the ribs severed from the spine with a sharp tool and the lungs pulled through the opening to create a pair of “wings”. There is a continuing debate about whether the ritual was a literary invention, a mistranslation of the original texts or an actual historical practice.

                                           "I told you not to steal that rutabaga..."






Cutting The Shit Eagle is a variation on the theme I came up with where someone is bound in a folded over position so his asshole is as close as possible to his face. Then a deep incision is made in his mid back where a high pressure air hose is inserted and turned on. This blows the contents of his colon all over his face and with luck, he'll choke to death on his own bloody feces and shredded mucal lining.

                                                      "RAGNAROK!!!"
         


  

  If he isn't so fortunate he'll enjoy a long agonizing death made more amusing for the spectators because of the constant farting noise his tortured o-ring makes as excruciating amounts of PSI are pumped through it and an airbrush-like blood mist issues forth erratically, sometimes with significant chunks.


  It's like art for the Hospitality-Ruined and Uber-Discourtesy Overdosed.




  Well I think you get it, HerderHeads, so I will say no more for now.


  Fuck Saturdays,
-The StripperHerder
















*1 The first one to quit was Concertina, who is (put on your shocked face) an unrepentant drugavore. In her opioid ravaged brain she felt certain that she had done four dances for a guy and that for certain, he owed her $100, which buys a fair amount of smack or crack.


  In reality she did one and a half according to the Counter. And since...


A) Dancers are supposed to wait until the start of a song to begin 'dancing'. If they get to the dance room midway through a song, they're supposed to wait until the next song starts before they 'entertain'. This ensures they aren't charging customers for 30 fucking seconds and calling it a "dance".


B) Concertina never grasped the concept of tipping the Floor Staff, no matter how much money she made or we made her. As a result Floor Guy enthusiasm for obtaining cash for her or not counting a portion of a song as a "dance" in regards to her income is nonexistent.


C) The customer she was trying to swindle was a cop from a nearby area.


D) The cop guy was clearly not drunk, was extremely calm, compliant and didn't try to do typical shit such as walking determinedly out the door or punching me. He willingly remained with us at the door while we tried to sort the situation out and the situation turned out to be what the Counter said:


-Bitch did maybe a song and a half. 
-Dude owed her for ONE song, $25, but her gave her $40. 
-Delusional cunt felt it was FOUR songs, but was wrong. 
-Left in a huff complaining about 'pussy bouncers and shitty managers'.



  Profound sense of relief attained. One petty smack-a-ho down, scores to go....






The second bitch to quit tonight I'll refer to as Missing In Action, because her brain functions have been shanghai'ed by poppy extracts.



  It's sort of ironic that this loony snatch also decided to fuck with a cop, assaulted him even.


  It's also kinda weird that I've never really had a problem with this stripper outside of the fact she doesn't goddamn tip, which is a major irritant to me. Yet tonight she went total fucking Hyde, imagining herself 300 lbs heavier and bulletproof. Capable of unrealistic things, such as correctly spelling "Mercedes", or beating a street wise cop twice her weight in a bar fight.

  





*2 Not sure what went wrong with me, but if I had to guess I'd say it's the Service Industry and the cold, razor-like contempt for humans it breeds in it's slaves.

Russia Surpasses The UK In StripperHerder Readership-What Does This Mean For The World Market? Or, Goldilocks, A Stripperherder Crime Fable.

  When I looked at my stats just now I noticed that my readership in Russia has just overtaken the U.K. as second place in the meaningless race that is my global following, finishing JUST SLIGHTLY UNDER THE U.S.


  This is a surprise to me. In retrospect I feel like I've been kinda hard on Russians and Russia in general throughout the history of my blog, mainly predicated on some negative experiences with the progeny of former soviets.

Porn Stars: Sometimes They Can Be 50 Gallons Of Douche-Chunks In A 25 Gallon Can. Or, If You're Going To Make A Living In This Industry You Need To Grow Some Better Soul-Callouses.

  I'm going to start this installment with a new feature I call FUN STATS. It's not complicated so I'm just going to launch into it and hope that you, dear reader, can keep up.






-Number of dancers I worked with who have died since my last post= 3 that I know of. Two O.D.'s and one murder.


-Number of club patrons that lost their phone in the club since my last post= 546


-Number of times, since last installment, management failed to inform me of something I felt was important tothe fulfillment of my job duties, then yelled at me for not knowing it= 4


-Number of times I've been asked for money by complete strangers since last post= 63


-Number of times someone has said a variation on the theme of "Make sure you check his ID, he's only 12!" since my last post= 11,234


-The number of patrons who showed up specifically to see our last "Feature" entertainer= maybe 6


-Number of times my new Arch-Nemesis, Ratty, has gone all white trash cunt on a customer since her ill advised rehiring: 0.

  I'm even more surprised than you, trust me. But mark my words people, it will happen. She will explode all War-Twat on an unprecedented scale and the longer she manages to behave herself, the more catastrophic her rampage will be. Hope I'm not around when it happens...


-Number of times our Door Girls have managed to suck at their job since my last post= I didn't actually count but it's a lot.


-Number of Waitresses who have become Strippers since last post= 0

  Which is unusual in a two week span.


Number of club employees that drive the shuttle other than me= 3


Number of club employees that drive the shuttle who actually wash or clean said shuttle= 1. Me.


Number of club employees that have also driven the shuttle and who apparently enjoy leaving their nasty ass tobacco spit cups for me to find and dispose of: 2. Keen Kenny Deen (no longer at club) and Floor Guy: Judas.

  .





  All right, enough of all that garbage. No one cares.





 Let's discuss Pornstars as club attractions. I mentioned them in this post's title, so I may as well talk about it.


  Depending on the level the club operates on and the whims of its Owner, a titty bar may at some point opt to hire a Pornstar to be a "Featured Entertainer". This worked out fairly well back before the internet forever changed the way people consume pornography. Back before sites existed where you could watch soul-killing amounts of free yank fodder, porn was sort of a big deal. To some humans anyways.


  And by 'big deal' I mean that you had to go through some sort of tribulation to get your hands on it. Maybe you ordered it from the internet. Maybe, if you're older, you had to mail in for it from the back pages of a skin rag.


  Or, God forbid, you had to walk into a porn store and buy it. Letting some complete stranger in on what you were gonna whack it to just as soon as you could get home with it.


  There were no great alternatives back then unless you had a Porn Cooperative among your friend base. An informal Pornography Exchange Program where properly reviewed VHS and DVD's could be traded for fresh material at a much reduced cost for everyone.


  Those were the days. When hordes of sex starved compulsive masturbators would descend on a club because their favorite fuck-queen was gonna be there, live on stage, her high capacity vagina on display for all to see.


  What could be better?


  Porn Stars like Ginger Lynn, Jenna Jamison, Tera Patrick, Lisa Ann, Janine Lindemulder, Jill Kelly and Chasey Lain. Actually famous for taking dick, even outside the industry. Girls like these could put a lot of asses in seats and sold pics of themselves posing with various losers all night for $20-30 a pop.



  Nowadays however, nobody cares about Pornstars. Most people haven't the slightest idea who any of them are, including us strip club employees, who you'd think would be better than average informed about these things. The advent of utterly free porn available at the touch of a button totally destroyed any 'mystique' porn had to it, eliminated any "quests" you had to embark on to obtain it, thus seriously devaluing it. Back in the day it was earned, not tossed about all over the interwebz like so much spanktual chicken feed.


  This is why I submit to you, my readership, that the Golden Age of porno is over and that very few people give a fuck about so called 'pornstars' anymore.


  As my example of this statement, here's how the last two Features we had went down:




Feature A) Sally Smith or something like that. Had done exactly one porn DVD and decided that she should go on tour because making one professionally produced pornographic movie in today's webcam and free online porn saturated world means you're a big deal.


  I got stuck minding her one night and my favorite quote of hers came from when she was talking to some random stripper. She said to this stripper, "Oh no honey, I'm not just a stripper, I'm important."


  Seriously, she said that. I shit you not. I wish I could remember her name. Suzie Snizzbert, maybe?




  Whatever.




Feature B) A much better known 3-holer lassie, with dozens if not hundreds of adult videos to her credit. This chick had a following and it was roughly six dudes, one of which who's just a broke regular who loves all pornstars and has an encyclopedic and disturbing knowledge of the last 40 years of fuck-flick history. He's like a comic book fanboy, but much creepier, far more adept at clownface and way more likely to kill someone someday.



   Now I'll give Feature B, who I'll refer to as Assmerelda from here forth, some credit. She put on a decent show and really knew how to work a room. And by 'work a room' I mean she was exceptionally good at engaging a table of customers and pressuring them into buying her booze.


 Which she drank a lot of.


  Somewhere in between shots she managed to land a half hour room, which she was charging $800 dollars for. Since the guy payed with a card she was paid in the club's funny money*1, which she loses 10% on when she cashes them in. This was patiently explained to her by both the Manager and the Floor Host running the transaction.


  But Assmerelda went all Hyde*2 when she found out she was only getting $720 for the room. We weren't even charging her the way we would one of our own girls in that there was no 'club' fee attached to her rooms. We weren't taking a dime in "room rental", all we were doing is taking the standard 10% off the top because the guy paid with a credit card.


  If it had been cash, she would've received all $800 of it. If it was one of our strippers, she would've only got about $450 once the club got it's cut and then took another bite through the funny money system.


 It's quite the racket. But horny dudes are like sheep; when things get hot, they enjoy being sheared.




  But enough about her income, let's talk about how that crazy Felch Drain handled it.




  She went batfuck.




  Plain and simple.



  I saw the storm a-comin and I went out to check the parking lot for gun toting criminals, safe in the knowledge than it was better than being around the whirlwind of shitfaced snatchery that was about to curb-stomp any semblance of serenity it could find.


  Insulting and assaulting dancers, motherfucking everyone with a vagina or less than $4000 in his pocket. It got fucking grim and I managed to dodge the vast majority of it by preferring to risk being shot by heroin dealers, funny as that may seem.


   She reminded me of my ancient foe, Vodzilla, but her nether bits were far less Cthulic than Vodzilla's opium-addicts-nightmare of a vulva. Voddy's lady parts looked like bubble gum flavored gummi waffles inexplicably wedged between two stretched marked nylons full of pork based greek yogurt.


   In a perfect world, I would've been able to cage fight Assmerelda versus Vodzilla and charged $19.99 to watch it. Then I would retire and start buying and outfitting War Rigs, preparing for a Mad Maxian future which may or may not happen in my lifetime.


  Best to be prepared. Not in the real life sense of survivalism, but in the crazy-armored-vehicles-fighting-over-long-stretches-of-road sort of way.


  Just in case.





  In closing I'd like to mention that to be a success in this industry, you have to have a rhino hide. All facets of the service industry have to deal with human shittery, but the strip club segment really sets new lows for standards accepted.

  If you're going to freak out any time some drunk ballsack utters something reprehensible, then you're not cut out for this occupation. If you feel like some sort of crime has been committed when a stranger grabs ass, then you should flee.


  An environment, not your moral code, dictate what behavior is acceptable and what is not. Doubt that and try going to an Islamist state and squawk publicly about education for females or being gay and see what that get's ya. You probably won't like it.


  If your moral codes say that pretty much anything qualifies as an assault, a clam shack should be the last place you seek employment. The Floor Squad will back you up within legitimate parameters, but best not lie to us. We will get to the bottom of all kinds of tangled-ass shit but it may take us a few minutes, we're not wizards.


  If and when we find out through our various sources that you've been a lying, exaggerating bitch, we'll give you the Black Mark, lass. And you'll be on your own, adrift on a sea of your own connivance and snizzery*3.


  Don't fark with us. We see all, we know all.


  We are the Floor Creed. We are eternal.





  Fuck the pictures. I need to eat. I know I should do them and I still don't care because the vodka says everything will be all right.


  And I fucking believe it. It's transparent.



The vile overseer,
-Das StripperHerder


















*1 Funny Money: For those of you new to this blog and ignorant of the strip club industry in general, funny money is how the club pays it's entertainers when a patron pays with a credit card. It works like this:


  You want, for some probably overly optimistic reason, to pay for a one hour champagne room with one of our lovely dancers who you feel like you've made a connection to. You wish to put this on a credit card because hey, what's $500?


  Seemed reasonable at the time I'm sure.


  But if you don't understand the system and the Floor Walker didn't take the time to explain it to you, then you may be surprised when the receipt comes for you to sign and the total reads $575. That's because since it is not "real" currency, the club can basically charge whatever it wants to sell you some of it. The industry norm in our tier market is 10-15%, but it gets higher in top level clubs.


  Therefore if you want to charge $2000 worth of VIP rooms at our club, it'll set you back a minimum of $2300. And here's the real beauty of the whole thing: when the dancers cash them in at the bar, the club takes another 10% from them for turning it into real money. So the club makes 20% right off the top of any VIP credit card transaction.





*2 Hyde: Again, this is for neophytes' sake here. Any experienced 'Herderhead knows exactly what a 'Hyde' is yet I feel compelled to mention it once again to accommodate new readers. A kind, easy going stripper is called a Jekyll. The raving, psychotic thing she becomes after nine shots is a Hyde.


  If you see one, best find something interesting to do in the opposite direction.






*3 Snizzery: A portmaneau of Snizz and Misery, or suffering caused by poor vaginal choices.
  

"This Is Not The Degenerate Whore You're Looking For." Or, Apparently, Yes It Is. It Is The Degenerate Whore We're Looking For. Thank God She's Back!

  Dynamic Management Team: Swordfish, made the decision to hire back Ratty, the single most annoying white girl I've ever had the misfortune to work with*1. This is under the condition that she isn't allowed to drink at work.


  Which seems completely reasonable and utterly enforceable. I'm sure she's changed from her raging, unpredictable, insulting ghetto drunk self, into a retiring flower of womanhood. Ready to be non-cunty and on 100% less drugs.


  Yeah. That seems plausible.


  It's not like we need dancers. We're deluged with the damn things. Can't swing a sick puppy without smacking four of the skinny little critters. It's like 70,000 girls turned 18 yesterday and all decided to be strippers at the same time.


  What I'm trying to say is there's never been a better time NOT TO HIRE BACK A PROBLEM BITCH than right fucking now. We simply do not need any more 'entertainers'. Our business isn't supporting the ones we do have.


  Therefore hiring back Ratty is like deciding a cactus up your asshole is EXACTLY what you need in order to be run a proper business. I realize that this isn't a strong simile, but I'm going with it anyway. They can't ALL be gems...


 










































*1 Outside of Vodzilla, of course.