Pages

Keep All Hands And Feet In The Ride Until It Comes To A Complete Stop And Please Don't Feed The Junkies. Or, Amateur Contests: Sometimes The Truth Is Uglier Than Fiction.




  I wish we could brand all of our pillhead and heroin loving dancers with a giant "J" on their forehead in the hopes that maybe some customers would stop getting dances from them. By giving them money, one is merely shortening their lifespan as they head immediately to their dealer's house after a shift to trade all their cash for some smack or oxy's.


  Even in the dimly lit environs of the club, you should, with little effort, be able to spot the track marks trailing their ways up and down a bitches arm.


  Open your fucking eyes, losers.





                  The average reader won't notice that her sunglass frames are made from barbiturates.





  Anyone who's OK with a junkie dancing for them has clearly never had any dealings with one before. They're despicable, gross people. Capable of any depth of degradation or self abasement to get their fix. Unless you've been among them for any length of time, you simply cannot comprehend what these chicks do on a daily basis to feed their habit. If you want that grinding your meat, more power to ya, sicko.


  The only thing worse is a crackhead, who will happily blow a dog if it gets them a rock.




                                                    "No! You said only one dog!"





  This is probably the single greatest shit cookie I have to eat by working in this industry, dealing with fucking drug ADDICTS. Hardcore drug addicts, not your fluffy, barely-even-criminal weekenders. For some girls this club is the last stop before death or the utter inability to even hold down a strip club job, the most forgiving industry on the planet if you have a vagina.


  The same applies to drunks. The consistently drunk, that is. Anyone can have a bad day every now and then in this occupation. Strippers are pretty much encouraged to drink: by customers, by circumstance, by anxiety, by other strippers and hell, why not, by society in general. Everyone loves a drunk stripper except those charged with seeing to her safety, due compensation and control as part of their job description.


  I bring this up AGAIN because tonight we had a dancer I'll call Revelation, because she's named herself after a section of the Bible, albeit a different one. This is the variety of tit-slinger that comes into work already buzzed as hell and proceeds, rather quickly, to get drunk as all fuck. Every night she works, rain or shine.





                                         Revelation after a typical day shift.     




                                         
  To say Revelation has been around the block a few times would be an understatement. To say she's been dragged face down around the block a few times from behind an oil leaking '67 pick up truck would be slightly more accurate and much more fun to say. So I'm going with that.


  I've worked with her before at a number of clubs and she's a career path alcoholic headed for All Star status.


  SO tonight, predictably, she was shitfaced 90 minutes into her shift. She, like Vodzilla, is possessed of an eerie ESP-like ability to discern any time a customer buys bottle service within the confines of the club. It doesn't make any difference if she's in the same room or even on the same floor as said customer, her BoozeSpider Sense goes off any time a liter bottle of 80 proof or better gets cracked on the floor of the club.




                                            "There's booze. Over...........THERE!"




  Then she teleports to their table and begins a devastating assault on the free liquor supply, totally content to sit and drink someone else's booze instead of making money. When it's gone, she vanishes like a mirage leaving only a faint whiff of vaginal deodorant and some uncomfortable memories.


  This is what happened tonight. Hammered early and determined to get worse.


  And she did.




  Then I had to walk her out. Yes, she was clearly intoxicated, but I've seen worse. No, she probably shouldn't have driven, but I suggested a cab or Uber to her the requisite number of three times, the magical Floor Guy's Incantation.


  And when she refused and insisted she was fine, I replied "OK" and got the fuck out of the way. I had fulfilled my legal obligations*1 and in my opinion, exceeded my job duties. I've been in this situation many times and I have a number of very strong opinions about it. Namely:



A) I didn't serve her the fucking alcohol in the first place, why isn't one or more of the bartenders policing her at the end of the night?


B) It is IM-FUCKING-POSSIBLE to stop a dancer from drinking if she's determined to do it; most of the bartenders will serve her no matter how wasted she is or failing that, she can find customers or allied dancers to buy funny-juice for her. Outside of breathalyzing her every hour on the hour or following her around with a drone all night, there's no realistic way to prevent her from getting bro-faced.


C) I'm not willing to risk putting my hands on a girl to stop her from driving when she's insistent about doing it. Legally it's assault at best, kidnapping at worst and in today's ultra-social-justice reality, I ain't risking that. I can reason, threaten, cajole, beg or belittle, but I can't yeti-hug a bitch and drag her kicking and screaming back into the club and hold her hostage while she sobers up.


D) If Management would just grow a pair and actually fire some of these loopy tequila-sponges, and fire them permanently, it would show they have some teeth. But they prefer to gum everything, or run it through a blender first.


E) If you don't want a girl driving home all kerfuckled, don't let me walk her out. They know I don't care. I've told them I don't care. Yet they keep allowing me to do it and then get upset at me when so and so was permitted to drive off all gin ruffled.


  My theory is that there are VERY few cars on the road when we unleash the worst of our rolling road hazards and that of those folks:

   
  1) Sober people will see her coming a mile away and take evasive action, thus avoiding collision.


   
  2) Drunk people get what they deserve, which is sometimes a stripper-piloted carnage dildo with a Nissan badge.



  F) I feel like once we become adults we make choices. For some strippers, making the right ones are a constant challenge, like running uphill while juggling three babies and two chainsaws, drunk and on roller skates.


  G) I'm fresh out of patience for problem dancers. If you've driven home drunk on 70% or more of all the shifts you've worked, then you're probably really good at it at this point. After all, you're still alive and tottering around on two legs.


  I'm willing to put in the extra effort with the dancer who is occasionally too drunk to drive. Like once or twice a year occasional. Weekly girls however, I'm done. If management wants to make a change they can, but it's too much effort for them. It's easier to displace blame unto your underlings.


  In my defense I've allowed much drunker dancers than Revelation to drive home in my time and they've all survived and utterly failed to kill or even maim a single person.


  Check, motherfucker.





                                                      "We all just wrecked our cars."








  Which is a nice segue into Dynamic Management Team Laser Falcon Ostrich Thunder Alpha, and the fun, fun games they play.






                               "We shall fight them if they're bitches and on their breeding grounds, 
                                                   we shall fight in the dressing room and on the stage, in the parking lot;
                                                                                 we shall never surrender."





  The greatest of which is "Have Her Come In Tomorrow"; best played on the night of our monthly Amateur Contest.


  The principles are like this:


  You're the Manager on an Amateur Night, you poor fuck. You have some horrendous, self-deluded amateurs come in, thinking for some ungodly reason that they are attractive or talented enough to work here*2, but of course are wrong. You really hate having to tell them they're nasty as sardine chum on an assholed toothbrush and you'd rather gnaw the ballsack off a roadkilled beaver than hire them on.


  The owner would be.....very derisive toward you. He likes slender blond girls and wants many, many more slender blond girls to be hired. We agree, but how many slender blond girls do you think show up for our monthly thing, on average?


  If you guessed, "a lot less than other demographics" you may be correct, sharp reader.


  Therefore your move is to have the DJ or a Floor Orc tell all the girls to come back tomorrow, ironically at a time and date when You won't happen to be working, thus passing the whole awkward mess onto the next day's Manager.


  This isn't a game for the impatient. Near as I can tell and through my exhaustive research, this game has been going on since neanderthal times when one primitive fuck made one of his bitches dance for another primitive fuck in exchange for a gazelle leg.


  That was the Genesis.



  The next move for the loser of the first round (Manager the day after Amateur Contests) is to first make a Floor Schmuck do your dirty work by telling dancers that we had no intention of hiring, but were asked to come back anyway, that the club wasn't interested in offering them a contract at this time. It deliberately wastes these ladies time and since the managers dump responsibility off on us Floor Dicks, the uncomfortable and sometimes hostile interaction with justifiably pissed off semi-attractive gals who've been led on by weak willed management usually falls to us.


  Your second move is to pick one of the best of this dismal tribe and tell her that she needs to come back tomorrow night to fill out her paperwok, that for some reason it's impossible to do it tonight. This sends an increasingly agitated, acrylic-nailed Wolverine back toward the Manager who'd fired the salvo in the first place.


  Check, motherfucker.


  It's been going on since we crawled from the ocean and it's never going to stop.


  Other sweet management games include: Guess If You're Working Or Not!, I Never Said That!, WaLk AwAy, Trainwreck Rehire, and another one of my favorites, Changing Standards.


  It's a lot of fun for us Floor Staff to have to guess which set of rules apply on any given night, we often bet on it just to see who can be more wrong.


  I frequently "win" Changing Standards because I'm almost always wrong in nearly all my assumptions.








  Dancers and music: a sick, twisted relationship.




  Strippers are extremely predictable in their musical preferences and can get very bitchy about a DJ going outside of their genres or awarding other dancers "their" song. Fortunately for us Floor Dudes, strippers, not unlike bull seals, seldom fight to the death. They just need to fuck a bitch up a little bit where other strippers can see it, thus metaphorically spraying the room with their spoor.


  Their musky spoor.


  But essentially, these days, 90% of strippers dance to the same sort of garbage, i.e. hip hop, R&B, rap, techno and other related nonsense about money, fucking and how great the artist is at everything. It gets astonishingly tedious to listen to, like wandering through an art gallery comprised entirely of paint-by-numbers pictures and beautifully framed candy wrappers.


  Utter shite.


  Back in my day, a glorious time in our history that most folks refer to as the late 80's/early 90's, things were different. They were better.


  Fuck you! I SAID THEY WERE BETTER!


  Back in them days, the majority of the gals still danced to rock songs. Hair metal, alternative, grunge and whatnot. It was awesome, dude! The occasional Whitney/Mariah song had to be tolerated, but most songs played, all night, featured guitars.


  No drum tracks, auto tune, rapping, and those annoying little computerized cymbal beats that every song today must have.


  For examples, I'll list a typical 10 song rotation from when I first started in the industry and then another similar list from last Wednesday.




  The good ole days:


1) You could be mine GUNS AND ROSES

2) (Everything I do) I do it for you BRYAN ADAMS

3) Winds of change SCORPIONS

4) Cradle of love BILLY IDOL

5) Vision of love MARIAH CAREY

6) Black Velvet ALANNAH MYLES

7) Unskinny bop POISON

8) Smells like teen spirit NIRVANA

9) Give it away now RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS

10) Evenflow PEARL JAM




  Compared to last Wednesday:


1) That one song about being a VIP all night SOMEGUY FEATURING SOMEGIRL

2) The rap song about being a document forger with the gun sound effects: SOmE ChICK

3) Annoying song #16 RIHANNA

4) Garglin spuzz at da club KESHA

5) Bustin on Bentley's YIL' SLAZZY

6) F**kin in a Veyron: LIL' YOUNG T-POOG

7) Anaconda NIKKI MINAJ

8) That song about endless bottle service and riding around in a Maybach TINY WEEZY

9) That genre that's just grating noises put together in simplistic rhythms PICK ONE

10) Fucked with an anchor ALESTORM*3




  That last one was a surprise, yes? Read your footnotes...





 Right, that's it. That's your Halloween Spectacular Extravaganza, with footnotes!*4



 So fuck off now.







Pleasant Pagan Pilfered Hooby-Day, yon fucksticks
-The StripperHerder















*1 Here's the completely fucked up part, from a legal standpoint: Say one of the dancers I let drive away while drunk ended up killing someone on their way home. Technically the club, and maybe even me personally could be subject to a lawsuit.


  However, if I'd yoked up a drunk girl in a full nelson and carried her back to the club both for her own good AND against her will, denying her civil liberties and whatnot, both the club and I could be plaintiffs in a lawsuit.


  Fucked if I do and fucked if I don't. Hope the worst never happens, unless it's Vodzilla and a single car accident...








*2 No, I'm serious.


  Listen, if I were a female and was interested in entering an amateur stripper contest, or already an experienced stripper that was too arrogant and self absorbed to be realistic about the certain truths, I would still research the market. It's not like it's quantum physics. Go to whatever titty bar you're thinking of entering said contest and see what kind of dancers work there.


  Can you, with a modicum of self actualization, picture yourself as part of this particular team? Do you "fit in" in a general appearance sorta way? I'm talking body type, not race. Face rather than color.


  Example from my perspective, to assuage the lefty freedom fighters who still read this blog despite knowing that they hate it, me and my industry.


  God bless ya girls...



  If, for some fucking crazy reason I decided one day, "I should enter an amateur male stripper contest because maybe I could win some money and possibly even get a job!" I would figure out what club the contest was at and then I would go there as a customer a couple of days prior to the contest and see what kind talent they had and if I could, being honest with myself, picture me successfully working there.


  Had this situation actually been real and had I been very sincere and forthright with myself, I would've drawn the following conclusions which, being only semi-delusional at best, might've led me to believe that I was fucking dreaming if I thought I could be a goddamn Chippendale.




A) I need leg muscles for this?


B) Not a single one of these guys had to lift their gut up to show their wang.


C) Is it cold in here? I'm gonna need about 3 pints of silicone injected into my dong before I properly fill out a banana hammock like that.


D) Unlike me, none of these guys are two shades paler than a blizzard.


E) None of those guys were winded sixty seconds into a song.


F) Compared to the dudes who work here I move and smell like a wounded musk ox.







*3 Goddamn I love this one DJ named Joey who downloaded this song on my recommendation and I really love entertainer Xera, who is the only dancer we have that prefers metal and loves this song.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVu4UR5Zarw







*4 Which may or may not be amusing, there are no guaranties here, dear reader.

The StripperHerder Writes Another Brilliantly Delicate Haiku. Or, My Demise Is Written In The Cards, Can't Be Too Much Longer...



  I don't know what to tell you kids. Uncle Herdy is getting real tired of this occupation. A lot of this has to do strictly with economics, i.e. my ability to put up with tedious fuckshittery is directly linked to my income.


  And lately, that income has been appallingly low. As in: I normally pay all my bills for the month on the first and have the entire month to build my money back up so that I can do it all again come the next month.


  At the beginning of September, as usual, I did that. Now, with only a week left in the month, I'm not even halfway to my "normal" level. If I were to pay all of my October bills now, in the amounts I normally pay, I'd be 100% broke. Rifling couch cushions for ramen money and so forth.



  I wrote a haiku describing my frustration:



                                  My mask bone china
                Scorn light glow like sun through cloud
                          Scowling at drunk fucks







 Money at the club has been shit for most of Spring and almost all of Summer and as my balance dwindles, my contempt and apathy grow like hateful sponge on an abject reef. I can deal with all the junkies, dealers, drunk twats, vomit, rudeness, assorted dickshittery, arrogance, pedestrian intellects and other fucked up nonsense...


       
      WHEN I'M MAKING SOME FUCKING MONEY.





  When I have to put up with elevated levels of moron, slapdash management, 31 flavors of asshole and am going broke doing it, I get annoyed.


  Tonight for example contained what I felt to be unreasonable amounts of irritating dick-slurry, considering my recent levels of compensation, that is.


  Do you sense a list coming on?


  I sure do.




Irritating Dick-Slurry up to my knees, Vol 1





 1) Management drops the ball again


  It'd be more accurate to say that Management didn't even show up to the field, or to stretch the metaphor further, even have any idea what sport it was supposed to play had it shown up. Some of you may be wondering what the hell I'm talking about right now, what could they have done to earn such scorn?


  Well, I'm gonna tell ya.


  There was a major event in town tonight and it was the ONLY one. The only plausible reason for anyone to be in The Town™ as it probably drew between 15,000-20,000 people. You'd think that just maybe, that might be an event you want to try to promote the club at, by picking a few cuties and sending them out under my watchful eye to hand out free passes to the herds of dude-sheep that would be clogging the streets when the event was over.


  I mean, it's a thought, right? Not even a deep one.


  I was on the bus, training my replacement, which by the way is a whole fucking thing all unto itself, but it's so messed up that I'll have to address it in a future post unless I happen to be far more productive that I suspect I'll be.



  SO, we're on our first stab through The Town™, when I notice all the activity around a particular venue. I texted my Manager, Sir Wilfred CuddleRage XIX, alerting him to the presence of an Event. He texts me back within 2 minutes that it's the Whoever Show at the Wherever Arena.*1


  So I text him back "Can you get me a couple of girls to hand out passes? There's about to be a mass exodus of pre-enebriated people of a certain age and income class which is JUST what we're looking for and they'll have to shuffle past our hottie to get to their car and a whole bunch of them are going to take free passes from our girls because they are pretty and drunk men respond very keenly to that. 

  Which I might remind you is the very core tenet of our entire industry."


  I'm paraphrasing here. I believe what I actually sent was "Need pass-sluts NOW! Soon people lotz!"


  His response was, and I'm NOT going to paraphrase, I'm going to quote directly...


  "I can ask."



  I'm gonna go make another drink while I let that one sink in a moment.



  Seriously. That's what he sent.



  I'll be right back...










  That's better. Vodka is good as an antiseptic against soul-rot. At least that's what my doctor tells me and he's Russian so he would know.



  Where was I? Oh yeah, "I can ask."



  Ummm...you're the fucking boss, dude. You can't force dancers to promote because they are independent contractors and have to be handled with kid gloves. That being said, brute force is not your only anti-stripper countermeasure. You could have cajoled, bargained, offered free house fees (which is the standard compensation for promoting) or made promises you ultimately didn't even have to keep if you wanted to be a dick about it.



  What you chose to do was nothing.



  With the following assets at your disposal, I might add:



  4 Fucking Floor Hosts


  3 Goddamn Waitresses


  2 Friendly and 1 Bitchy Bartender, all cute.


  1 New Shuttle Driver


  Roughly 30 Strippers, Assorted*3




  And the challenges facing you at the time:



 Maybe 10 Customers, 12 max. You were staffed for up to 100 or so customers and had, to be charitable, 15 at best. You could've found a way to send hot chicks into the masses, like a surprise calvary charge.







  Seems like it may have been possible to scrounge up two or three girls doing fuck all and offer them a free house fee good til midnight whenever they wanted to use it. This would've allowed them to work for free even if they checked in at midnight, instead of having to pay $75 up front.


  Why not? The potential reward outweighs the payout by lots and lots of mathematical stuff I can't articulate because I suck at math.


  I'm not going to get pedantic about it, I have other human stupidity to cover. It just seems to me that keeping tabs on major happenings should be within a Manager's purview, especially in a mediocre market. Some are better at it than others. Sir Wilfred seems to actively resist it.





2)  "I are Alice. Am Waitress thingy are to bring drinks for you. I have a pen."



  Alice isn't the brightest star in the constellation, but golldern it she's a determined little thing. Literally scurries about the club, wee legs pumping away like a tiny dog trying to keep up with a tall human. Moves like a squirrel fleeing with two cheekfuls of tasty walnuts, eager to stash her prize, but frequently distracted by other promising looking ground nuts.


  I don't know. I like her. But she can be a bit silly from time to time, dumb as things that feed on algae. Yet she wants to be good at her job. She actually cares still.


 


3) Last week a dancer was called 'Sunshine'. Now she's changed her name to 'Jordan', but didn't tell anyone.

  Strippers deciding to change their name, sometimes in mid shift, is aggravating. There are no rules for changing your stage name other than if we already have an "Amber" we don't let any new hires take that name. Maybe this is why 20% of the entertainers I work with can't make their stage calls, they've forgotten what dancer name they're currently performing under.


  I mention this because I recently set up a VIP room for a dancer that I've worked with for 8 years across 3 different clubs and when I asked if she was still using the stage name Euphoria, she said "no", we already have a tedious bitch named that so she was going by "Alphonsa".


  So I go to the DJ and tell him that "Alphonsa is gonna be in a champagne room for a half hour and he's all like 'Who the fuck is "Alphonsa"? I shrug and describe to him your standard Mk II Mexican Fake-Tittied Stripper chick and he has no idea whom I'm referring to because we have so many Mexican fake-tittied girls working here.


  So I go back to the champagne room and ask her again what her stage name is and she says "It's Lexi."


  That's not what you just told me bitch. You said "Alphonsa", plain and simple. Now, in 3 minutes time it has somehow changed. Make up your drug-addled mind. Remembering what your 'professional' moniker is shouldn't take two tries. Doesn't make any difference how long you've been in the industry or how many goddamn stripper names you 'performed' under, it should be something you remember at all times, because a stripper that can't remember their stage name is about as useful as a dishwasher who refuses to use water.


  It would be like coming into our club three nights in a row and when I greeted you and asked for ID, I'd say my name was Bill On Monday, Cassius on Tuesday and Just Ted on Wednesday, just to fuck with you.


  I'd like to take this opportunity to state that World Class Strippers NEVER change their name, only hackneyed, stretch marked, droopy/fake tittied winkle-gashes do. Thinking perhaps in their opioid-dependent excuses for brains that by changing their names they will somehow change the course of their misbegotten lives and negate the constant rain of poor decisions they make.


  Fucking useless.


  Yet no matter how many track marks a gal may display, there are always guys lining up to throw money at them. This is because they are prostitutes and dudes love reasonably priced sex. Most of these guys couldn't get laid if they didn't pay for it, so an obvious heroin addiction just adds to the danger and allure of an already uncommon experience.


  "I fucked this junkie ho! Spuzzed on her mug because that's what porn dudes do. Cost me $32.41, with tip. Stained the seat on my Fiat something fierce."








  OK, that's enough of that so-called List.


  It sucked and I apologize for that yet at the same time have no intention of fixing it. If you found it unsatisfactory in a StripperHerder's Best Lists sort of way, I urge you to forget about it and move on with your life. If you just can't let it go however and simply must have vengeance upon me, then start driving for Uber or Lyft and get in front of the Bus when I've decided one more 'no use of turn signal' was the perfect amount for me to go all ostrich-rape crazy and make an example of you with my V-10 powered War Shuttle. See what that gets ya.


  Whether or not I die in a hail of gunfire or you die under the wheels of my Party-Panzer, someone's got a great lawsuit*2 and it ain't gonna be my team....


  Thus you (or your surviving family) gets sweet revenge against me, a would-be Mad Max villain with a faggily painted Battle Bus, by suing eighteen kinds of shit out of a company with relatively deep pockets that will most likely settle out of court for several times what your smiley, selfy-taking ass would ever amount to.


  Shame on me. I'm getting all off track again.






  Here's some slices of the past two night's headcheese. Enjoy.




  -There's this thing where 'problem' dancers will try to assert their power over your average strip club patron (loser) by threatening to get said losers kicked out if they don't buy dances from them. This practice was the main reason I quit Sally's Snizz-Market; I got sick and fucking tired of shaking dudes down for scam money, or throwing them out for some invented slight. Never mind the theft I endured at the "Senior" Floor Guy's hands, the strong arm bullshit involved with the corporate ethos there disgusted me.


  Especially since after I intimidated a guy into coughing up what he didn't owe in the first place, the strippers involved usually tipped anywhere from 'crappy' to 'Lap my whore-crust, Floor-Bug!"


  If I wanted to do this kinda stuff, I could've become a leg breaker for some sort of organized crime outfit. It's not like I haven't had chances, or haven't worked for 'questionable' people. And by 'questionable people', I mean businessmen with clear ties to organized crime.


  Cuz I have.


  That's all I'll say about that.





  And now I'd like to remind all my readers that frequently an installment of the Plight that you may be reading might very well have been written over the course of several nights. This is one of those.


  Normally I like to mention it, you know, for transparency. Which I strive VERY hard to maintain.


  So, I'm mentioning it here. Everything you read up until "That's all I have to say about that" was written after a brutal Saturday night, and everything after it was written after a brutal Wednesday night.



  Let me break it down for you:



  I can't do this shit much longer.



  This is a fact.


  My escape used to be driving the fucking shuttle, and I hadn't realized what a longevity booster it was to my career in drunk-tolerating, but now that it's virtually gone, I'm in a world of service industry shit, folks.


  I never acknowledged how short I was on patience with everything: strippers, customers, pieces of shit, more strippers, regulars, other humans, drunks, management and even my fellow Floor Dudes.


  I'm fed up with it all.


  Current plan is to be so bad at my job that management is forced to fire me, collect unemployment for as long as I can get it and work on my script while I rapidly succumb to poverty, hoping I can sell a finished script before I repaint the walls with my thinky bits.


  It's what I came up with on short notice, maybe something better will present itself.





  And finally, remember when I said that this installment, like so many others, was penned on multiple nights?


  Well here we are three weeks later from everything written above and my attitude has changed dramatically. The reasons for this are twofold:


A) The money has improved markedly through October, and


B) I researched and put myself on a couple of natural mood boosters and they work really well. Turns out my body wasn't producing enough feel-good hormones and as a result I was a completely miserable sack of shit in every facet of my life.


  I'm much better now, thank you.



  Later,
-The StripperHerder
















 







































*1 In all honesty I should've been aware of this particular Happening because as the primary Driver of Das Shootle, it behooves me to know when opportunities and obstacles are going to be thrown my way.**



  **How's that for honesty and transparency? You whining, post-liberal Utopia-Thugs.


#anythingsoffensiveifyoutryhardenough  #imoffendedbythathashtag






*2 The NEW American Dream






*3 Sounds like a Christmas song, doesn't it?

The One Dollar Tip, A Clear Indication Of Assholery. Or, More Wonderful Shit From The World Of Drunken Everybody.




  FUN STATS: I'll do them later.



  And through the magic of lazy writing and sloppy editing, here they are:





-Number of dancers living on borrowed time who continued to exist, against all odds, since my last post=

  All of them. I know. I'm shocked too. Females are resilient, dude.



-Number of times someone else in the past month, besides me, has swept the entrance area of all the assorted detritus accumulated nightly by the drunken scum who haunt this place=

  Twice. I was out of town and our Manager, Sir Snafflin Coobeastie XII probably did it himself rather than tell an underling to do it.


  Ostrich Style!


-Number of new DUI recipients since my last post=


  Three. Bitches rackin em up.


  Two out of three are girls I walked out to their cars personally. I only feel a vestigial stirring of remorse about this. One might argue that it's part of a Floor Guy's job description to stop hammered dancers from reinforcing Darwin's theories on evolution when they leave the club, i.e. killing themselves before they can pass on their genes.


  I argue that without the legal ability to bear hug their tiny asses and carry them back to the club, which would be SO easy, I merely have to offer and/or suggest a cab, or to speak in modern terms, an Uber -at least three times. It's like a magic spell that legally gets me off the hook. If I were to pick her up and haul her back into the club, against her drunken will, I would be up for several felony charges should she choose to pursue the situation.


  And, through experience and bitter hindsight, I now trust most strippers about as far as I can throw them through plexiglass, which isn't far at all.


  Charmingly enough, I am an employee of the club, and as such the club is legally liable for my actions. This is an important reason why the recent trend in stripper-employment is all "Private Contractor" as opposed to "Bitch works here", Private Contractors carry much less legal liability than 'Bitches who work here'.


-Number of customers maimed/injured by one of our contractors since my last post=

  Zero. At least physically. I'm sure some mental damage has been meted out but it's not my problem nor am I qualified to diagnose it.





  All right, enough of that horseshit.




  Right now I'd like to talk about the infamous service industry fuck you, the One Dollar Tip.





                                                  "Here ya go, Driver-Snizz, but yourself a gumball."





  The concept of tipping was conceived to reward those poor bastards who had to deal with drunk cunts in exchange for paying their rent and feeding their wee babbies. From there it has branched out to encompass all kinds of services and it is primarily an American thing. Folks from the good ole U S of A are the tipping kings of the world.


  No one tips like a Murrikan.


  That being established, let's move on.




                                
                  The Stiff vs. The One Dollar Tip





  Stiffing people, or tipping absolutely nothing, can mean one of the following things:


1) You're an inconsiderate jizzstain, or


2) You honestly didn't realize that it was customary to tip that particular person/occupation.



 I was guilty of this when I was in my late teens/early 20's with my barber. The haircut was $10 and that was what I gave him. I was completely ignorant that this was an job where tipping is sort of expected.


  I feel bad about it to this day.


  But at least I wasn't a One Dollar Tipper. This says:


1) I'm an inconsiderate jizzstain, or


2) I'm well aware of the fact that I should tip you but have decided that whatever effort you put into making my life more enjoyable is only worth a buck. It's a garbage move and I'd rather they not tip at all than toss me a buck.




  I had a group of maybe 30 loudmouthed, cokehead foreigners the past two nights and each time one guy would hand me a crumpled dollar bill. The first night I had to split that Washington with six other Floor Grubs, for a total gain of a bit over 14 cents for me.





                                               "TITS AND CLITS, JA JA JA!"





  Tonight I had a four way split, which meant I got to keep a shiny quarter all to myself.


  I think they might've been Latervian. Voting for Dr. Doom every four years because no one else ever runs against him.





                                                    Totally unaltered pic.








  Super Fun Happy Drunk Time, Sponsored By Ivana Poutvainly, Russian Drink-Twat, Level 43.




    
                                     That's a $5000 shoe she's pouring $3 vodka through.   







  I really wish we could fire people at this place. I don't know why it's so hard. It's the polar opposite of virtually every other titty bar I've worked at where getting fired was as easy as looking at someone the wrong way. It's abso-fucking-lutely amazing how hard it is to get fired from this Nipple Hut.


  I guess the management team here would rather put up with the idiot practices of some of its employees rather than have to go through the hire/train process with new people who may or may not suck just as much as those they're meant to replace.


  Ostrich style leadership in (in)action!



  Our Russian Booze-Slinger, Ivana Poutvainly is the purest example of I can think of to illustrate this.


  This loony menstrual sock will serve drinks to anything, no matter how obviously obliterated it happens to be as long as they are a few rubles in it for her. She will sell booze to someone lying on the ground and mumbling about Camaro's. She'll sell drinks long past when she should and in inadvisable amounts, like ten beers for one guy thirty seconds before we have to pull alcohol.


  No effing problem comrade, just toss her a few bucks so she can continue to buy idiotically priced items to try to mask the utter and complete emptiness of her soul from the rest of the world. No one notices that you're a worthless, vapid douche-hole when you wear a Gucci dress and $1200 boots.



  I've written about Ivana in this blog before, multiple times in fact. She makes all Russians look bad and they should send a Spetsnaz unit to eliminate her with extreme prejudice. Remember when she got a weed brownie from one of the cook's and when she ate the whole thing, against his advice, she freaked out, couldn't work and promptly narced him out to management, resulting in them both being suspended two weeks.*1


  Or how about when she wrecked her expensive German sedan against a guardrail less than a mile from the club and ended up getting off scot free from a DUI charge.


  SO tonight one of our more disturbing dancers, Vulcana, got extremely hammered. This only happens 50% of the shifts she works, so we were all taken by surprise.


  Here's the inside deal on this though, the parts not obvious to someone outside the stripperherder industry:


A) I had heard the DJ "call off" Vulcana about an hour or so before I heard the gravelly tones of her wasted vice grating out from the main bar. Being "called off" meant the dancer had informed the DJ that she was leaving and that he should take her off stage rotation.

This means she should've taken her skunked ass to the dressing room and got ready to leave. Once girls call off here, they're not allowed to be on the floor anymore, much less parked at the bar throwing more booze down their suck-hole.


B) Vulcana is CLEARLY intoxicated, but small details like this have never stopped Ivana from serving up more drinks and it certainly didn't this time either.


C) I watched the booze-hag pour back her drink which was something clear with lime in it, probably a vodka tonic. I tried to catch Ivana's eye to give her the "cut this bitch off" sign, but she steadfastly avoided making eye contact with me. I went to find the Manager, Sir Smedly Snotmyproblem XI and told him that Russia's greatest treasure was over serving again and that the world's 6th oldest stripper was a wasted fucking mess who was getting drunker thanks to Ivana's utter lack of conscious.


D) When I returned to the main bar, Vulcana was just setting down a shot glass with a few drops of some sort of brown liquor in it. Clearly Ivana had poured her another shot the moment my back was turned.



  Ivana steadfastly refused this of course, whining that she cut people off all the time, which she does, all of them crappy tippers. But Vulcana knows how the game works, she tipped Ivana handsomely and therefore could blow lines of meth off the bar for all Ivana cared.


  I think it bears mentioning that if we'd breathalyzed our dear soviet bartender, it would have turned out that she too was drunk, just not as drunk as Vulcana...



  Let's see what else?


  

  Fuck it, let's get into this new guy they have working in the kitchen which they've given two of my bus shifts a week to. He's his own whole thing.


  Christ, where to start?


  Let's do the basics.


  I'll call him Malvio. He's of some sort of South American descent, used to work out a lot but has clearly let that go for the past couple of years. He has the expressionless face, uncomfortable levels of eye contact and bland demeanor of a serial killer and he enjoys twisting people's words to mean what he wants them to mean, rather than what was clearly intended. And he lies a lot.


  In other words, he's fucking creepy as hell.



  I feel a list coming on. Please bear in mind while reading this list that this dude has only worked here three weeks or so.



1) Kitchen experience.


  Obviously lied on his application. He has never worked in a kitchen and it is painfully obvious to anyone who has. Doesn't. Know. Shit. Doesn't know how to cook a burger. Doesn't know how to cook chicken. Doesn't know how long fries take to cook. And this my friends is only the beginning....


  Training in this kitchen isn't very good. Our culinary team members don't do anything very good. That being said they have shown Malvio how to do a lot of stuff, he is just completely incapable of learning it. Rather than getting into enough detail to fill 30 pages, let me give you this one very critical example.


  The dreaded Temperature Log.


  This fiendish practice requires a kitchen employee to check and log the temperatures of the various coolers once a shift. The onerous task forces the unfortunate cook to look at a two digit readout on an LED screen and then write it down on a sheet of paper with the date and time.


  Fucking grueling.


  Malvio has stated that he doesn't know how to do this because he was never shown how it's done. In fact Malvio wrote a six page explanation of the things he doesn't know how to do because the staff never trained him how to do them.


  Not even kidding you, not exaggerating for comedic purposes. Six fucking pages.


  Among these pages were things like the Temperature Log Crisis, and these other gems:


-Checks burger temps by cutting them in half

-Doesn't know how long our french fries take to cook

-Doesn't know when chicken is done

-Thinks pepperoni goes UNDER the cheese on a pizza

-Thinks raw chicken wings take four minutes to cook properly

-Doesn't know the difference between romaine and iceberg lettuce

-Was never shown how to make a quesadilla, one of the most challenging dishes on any menu

-Doesn't know what penne pasta looks like

-Has no idea what the main ingredient of alfredo sauce is

-Can't tell shredded parm from shredded mozzarella

-His third shift in he calls and reports the kitchen to the Health Department. The kitchen he works in but yet has no idea how to do anything. Health Dept does an inspection and gives us a glowing report




  Shitcicles. You get the idea. It went on for six pages.



  The other side of this is that he also drives the bus now on two nights a week, two nights where a certain large, dimpled ass used to sit, doing a much better job of it if I do say so myself.  He also has very deranged ideas of how a bus driver for a gentlemen's club should dress.


  His notion is something like this:




                                            "Hey fellow males. Get on the bus."




  Again, not even kidding you. He showed up for work on his first day with a sport coat over some kind of spaghetti string 80's musclehead shirt with a fucking bowtie on. I would've never thought to make something like this up. He has since come in with the same sport coat and NO shirt, yet still with the choker bow tie.


  Reports I've received from bouncer and valet friends at other area clubs assure me that he drives around with a blazer and no shirt, plus bow tie.


  He's a meltdown, which is much more tit's up than a trainwreck.


  Has already showed up on the dancer creep-o-meter. Multiple complaints. Dude stares like a psycho and whatnot.




  I am changing the name of our management team from Laser Falcon to Ostrich Thunder Alpha.


  Make a note of it.




 Have a terrific night,
-The StripperHerder












*1 They BOTH still work here. Ostrich-style!