Happy 7th Anniversary, StripperHerder! Or, This Special Anniversary Installment Is Brought To You By Vodka™, Russia's Second Biggest Export After Hot, Angry Females.

*Author's note: This post, as you may have guessed by its abject fucking tardiness, has been worked on over multiple nights of potato-booze consumption. Like many of my posts it is a literary golem cobbled together from several night's worth of bitch-clay and sent stumbling towards the interwebz by a drunk writer.


  Therefore don't look for a clean, linear narrative, transitioning smoothly from topic to topic. Rather expect a choppy bunch of gripes strung together with shitty or nonexistent segues and you won't be disappointed. 
  








  I published my first Plight of the StripperHerder post on Oct 2, 2010. It sucked, but it was my first one so I don't allow myself to feel bad that it sucked. I hadn't the slightest idea at the time that I'd still be writing the damn thing seven years later, but here we are. I'm still writing and if my numbers are anything to go on, you're still reading.


  So let's do some FUN STATS, because I enjoy telling you all how mind bendingly surreal this job can be.



-Number of dancers I've worked with who have died since my last post: O again. Not sure what's going on.



-Number of customers who've lost their phone since my last post: 113



-Favorite customer cringe quote since my last post "I don't mean to sound racist, but y'all got too many niggers workin here."



-Number of people in a single group I let into the club for free because we were relatively slow at the time and they were being cunts about paying the cover charge: 15



-Amount of money I was tipped for saving them $150: 0



-Number of champagne rooms I have set up in a row without being tipped a dime: 9


   Nine fucking rooms without a single measly penny thrown my way. ME, the guy who decides what time the room starts and stops, how far you're allowed to go no matter how willing the girl is and what constitutes an offense I'll throw you out for and an offense I'll completely fucking ignore.*1


-Number of times I got asked for money by homeless people tonight while stopped ANYWHERE downtown for more than 45 seconds: 7. Although to be fair it was actually 6 because the fourth time was just an angry dude in a pile of blankets laying against a building a hundred feet away who as soon as I stepped out of the bus, starting yelling random and hostile ass shit at me.


 "I'm from Chicago, motherfucker! You don't know what dat means but I do! Suck my dick, bitch! You white motherfuckah! I knew Reggie, yeah, dat Reggie. You a piece of shit, boy! Popcorn and hurricanes, son! Marsupial! I hate you pale ass skin, you honky fuck! I'll fuck you up! Don't need no crackah motherfuckah looking down at me, boy! I'm a ribald, Barbara Cuisinart all up yo blouse, Meagan!"


  I enjoyed the coherent insults almost as much as I enjoyed his off the wall non sequiters and later that night, just before I returned to the club to work the door, I rolled by where he was sleeping and lobbed a 12 ounce bag of deluxe nut mix toward him, figuring he might be hungry when he woke up.


  I often make attempts to justify my own existence, such as this, when I'm sure no one is looking.


  My PR dept has urged me to do a "good deeds" post so people don't equate the real me with my online persona, but I keep telling them to fuck off and die, if my readers found out I wasn't a complete chunk of garbage, they might stop reading.











  Tipping your Floor Staff is important, trust me.


  For a relevant example, I set up a VIP room tonight for a holdover dayshift dancer (read: gross, stupid, unattractive and shoulda been gone by 7pm) with a clueless customer who had asked me 5,000 questions about how he could pay for the room. I was very patient and friendly with him, which is unusual for me, even though my Floor-Guy Sense was telling me this dude wasn't gonna throw me anything by way of a gratuity, and, you're not gonna believe this, but I was right. A big fat 'fuck you' drawn through the "Tip" line.


  Right. So that's how it was gonna be. No problem.


  At this point the disgusting stripper asks if they can go in the "Big Room", which is larger and more luxurious that the standard one on one room. I knew from speaking with the day shift Floor Squid that this particular unappealing day shifter doesn't tip for shit (as I already suspected), so my answer to her was "No. The Big Rooms cost more."


  She was very indignant about this and went to ask the other Floor Schnook about that and he backed me up because he doesn't like her either. When I led her to one of the standard small rooms and I had a moment alone with her, I told her she didn't get the room upgrade because her cheapskate ass customer didn't tip. Had he thrown me $50, not only could they have enjoyed the Big Room, but she could have done whatever she wanted to him because I wouldn't have even glanced at the camera or thought twice about it.


  What DID happen though is I watched the room very carefully and when I caught her with her hands down his pants, I went to the room and told them to knock it off, hands away from the genitals! Bad scumbags!


  I did this with a certain amount of satisfaction. What was even more satisfying is that I was standing out front of the building having a smoke when this miserly dicksmear came out of the club. He looked pissed off and put upon, like someone had just jizzed on his favorite stuffed animal. I really hammed up the friendly goodnight to him and he expressed to me that he felt he had been ripped off because all the things his off putting choice in hags had promised would happen in the champagne room, didn't. My barging into the room and telling them to quit groping each other's slime generators was just the cherry of what he perceived to be a shit sundae.


  I got a bit serious for a moment and asked him if he wanted some advice. He grudgingly said yes and I told him that if he'd tipped me something, I would've looked the other way to a degree based on his tip level. For $50 I wouldn't have even turned the camera on because she's a haggard dayshift harpy and thus, most likely a prostitute. But since I KNEW she wasn't gonna cough up a dime and was very keen on going to Big Room 2, which has a large blind spot in the camera coverage and everyone knows this, I wasn't about to let that happen since I would make exactly zero dollars off the whole situation.


  So, I continued, for a mere $200 instead of $150, she probably would've done some sick shit to your member and I wouldn't have known about it because she would've done it in the blind spot which gives me plausible deniability and I wouldn't have cared much anyway. But by being cheap, I concluded, he assured that I would be watching every move in the room. Like God.


  An angry, vindictive God. And to be completely honest, I really enjoyed ruining his day. I acknowledge that this makes me a bad person, but I've come to terms with that and my demons and I frequently grab lunch together.






  Her thinking that I would just allow her to do whatever she wanted, regardless of legality or remuneration, starkly illustrates how strippers think differently from you and I. This is what we folk in the narrative biz call a segue. (Seg-Way)



  There are a number of differences and most of them can largely be attributed to:



1) Youth. All young people are idiots. I was an idiot, too.

    This is something you come to know after turning thirty.


2) Beauty. It affords a lot of advantages to ambitious (or greedy) young women in a society that is still primarily male dominated and obsessed with hot chicks.


3) Inexperience. Life hasn't kicked some of these bitches down the stairs yet. Their biggest setbacks have been losing an Ebay auction for a madly priced Italian handbag, or failing to conceive from the drunken intercourse with a certain NFL cornerback.


4) They haven't learned the value of a dollar. Most of these young ladies either haven't worked a real job where you slave away for eight hours a day for $9-12/hr and you have to show up on time, or have promptly forgotten what it was like to be in an occupation where you make X amount of dollars for your time at work and that was that.


  But now they're in an industry where they can make thousands of bucks in a single night and are constantly offered large sums of money in exchange for sex acts. This clearly has a negative impact on their worldview.


  I literally just worked a night where two of our dancers whom I'll refer to as E.T. and Impala, made almost $12,000 each. In seven hours. This is roughly four grand short of someone's yearly income who makes minimum wage and works 40 hours a week. They made $1700 an hour. Now I don't know where you're from, average reader, or what kind of background you hail from, but to me $1700 an hour is a metric fuckton of money. Potentially life changing money, in fact.


  I expect them to have the common sense to pay off some bills, but I'd bet that they just blow the rest of the money on stupid shit they don't need because Pop Culture tells them they need it.








  I've hacked away at this post long enough. It's almost two months overdue and slaving away at it anymore isn't gonna change all that is wrong with it, so I'm gonna hit publish and try to live with myself.




Good eve,
-The StripperHerder













*1  If I had a barbarian name it would be Bathor the Untippable. Or Durkan the Disgratuitous.

Stripper Shoes, Worthless Doorgirls, Miller Lite and Lurching Around In High Heels You Can't Walk In. Or, Exclusive Content: 2nd Attempt.

  I hate this blog site. It has no features worth mentioning. It constantly reminds me that 'hey, you have the numbers to make some money from advertising on your blog, click here for more details.' And when I click here, it proceeds to politely inform me that due to my content, there isn't a sponsor in hell that will pay to advertise on my blog.


  Duh.


  Add to that the huge glaring fucking problem that there isn't any "trash" folder where deleted content is sent. Therefore if you delete a post, either by design or by accident, it's fucking gone forever. It doesn't even ask you if you're sure when you click delete, in case you hit it by error, it's just gone for all eternity and there's fuck all you can do about it. That post ceases to exist.


  That's what happened a couple of weeks ago. I wrote this charming StripperHerder take on the Goldilocks and the Three Bears fairy tale and it was good. Lots of violence, bloodshed and grief, which is as it should've been. This post was written exclusively for the generous 22 people who felt that my blog entertained them enough to merit donating to me in my time of need.


  I wanted to reward these folks (you, dear reader) by giving them something that wasn't available to the general tribe of slavering Plight fans who, importantly, didn't donate money when given the chance.


  But you did. I cannot express fully how flattering and humbling it is to have people willingly give me money because of the enjoyment my blog has provided them over the years. I guess this is an inkling of how professional writers feel all the time and I gotta admit, I liked it. It makes me want to write and this is the first time I've been inspired by something other than rage, disgust, murderlust or cathartic self loathing.


  So I wrote this cute little version of the timeless story and figured out that if I keep it as a 'draft', I could email/FB the link to my donors without posting it to the ass scratching masses, which is what I did.


  The problem occurred when I noticed I had accidentally posted it so that everyone could see it, thus ruining the original intent of the post, exclusivity*1. So without thinking it through and despite previous experience with wiping out content permanently, I clicked the 'delete' button and whoosh, it was gone before I'd even emailed it to half of it's intended recipients.


  My bad, people.




  So to atone for my idiocy, I'm writing this installment, which will be the exclusive province of you, my favorite 22 readers, for the next month. Then and only then will I toss it to the rest of the Herderheads, not unlike a freshly butchered elf to a horde of dire wolf riding goblins.




  So let's get started, shall we?








                   WANNA MAKE A LOT OF MONEY?





  Then open a company that makes insanely shitty but very pretty shoes designed primarily for use by strippers. You'll be so rich you could buy one of the Baltic States.


  The shoes your company produce should adhere to the following standards:


1) Constructed 100% out of plastic and made by brown children with hideously disfigured hands from various blow-mold accidents


2) Heels no less than four inches and no more than eleven


3) Each pair should cost between $60 and $150


4) Shoes should ideally have a lifespan of anywhere between two hours and two months.


5) All of your products must be guaranteed for no less than a year


6) Your warranty call center should employ 0 people. Honestly it doesn't even have to exist. It doesn't matter.


7) Continued use of your shoes should, in a perfect world, slowly cripple the girl wearing them. No use should ever result in a lack of blisters or another degree of toe displacement. Maximum pain should always be the goal.

  The point is that none of these standards will ever stop strippers from buying your shoes. They expect to be maimed by their footwear, it's the price of making them complete strippers.


  What brought this to mind for me this evening is when I volunteered to clean the dressing room. Normally I would never do this, I'd opt for the restrooms instead, but I overheard a waitress talking to the doorgirl about a bunch of poop smeared all over the floor of the women's restroom and was cleverly able to avoid having to deal with it.


  When I got to the dressing room, stacked neatly next to the trash can was eight empty stripper shoe boxes. Fucking eight.


  This meant that tonight alone, eight daffy bitches each paid an average of $80 each for a new pair of plastic slut-stilts which will likely break within a month or two, thus necessitating them buying another pair.


  Stripper shoes. You gotta have em.

                                             It's why they do a lot of pole work.











                              Worthless Fucking Doorgirls




  Being a Doorgirl is the second easiest job in a titty bar outside of a barback, AND they have a much greater earning potential. I'd be shocked if our "primary" Portalbitch*2, Marissa, went home with less than $600-700 every Saturday she works. This is because she is a total fucking scam artist with a massive attitude problem offset by large fake titties.


  The Doorgirl position is hands down the most thief friendly job at the club. No other position in this industry makes it easier to steal money from the club than a fucking Door-Whore. Ten guys walk through the door at $10 apiece? Ring up eight and next time you open your drawer to make change, pocket $20.


  We don't allow sweats but for $40 you don't see them. If the same customer that bribed you to get in is later asked to leave, it's not your problem; you already have your money.




   As long as you don't get too greedy you'll never get caught.





  Essentially the job duties of a Doorgirl are as follows:



1) Collect the fucking cover charges


2) Weed out the too goddamn drunk to enter the club


3) Check ID's


4) Enforce the motherfucking dress code.


5) Call a Floor Guy to walk out dancers when they're ready to leave


6) Answer the phone



  However if a Doorgirl works in tandem with a Host/Door Guy of some sort, her duties boil down to collecting cover charges, and sometimes, in civilized clubs, calling for a Floor Guy to walk a stripper to her car.



  At most clubs I've worked at, this is the extent of a Doorgirl's job description. It can be irritating because of all the infantile horseshit you'll have to hear week in and week out. Dealing with drunk people is like working in a daycare center full of giant, moron asshole babies.







                                I'll have a Miller Lite please.



  If given a choice, why the fuck would you willingly choose to drink Miller Lite? Or Bud Light for that matter? Seriously, why? There's never been a better time in modern history to be an Murrikan beer drinker, so why choose rat piss when beer with actual flavor exists in every nook and cranny nowadays?


  It disgusts and appalls me how much Lite and Bud Light we sell at $6 something a pop. Or to a lesser extent, Corona. You shouldn't have to add anything to a beer to make it palatable, fucksticks.


  It's aggravating. I don't even drink beer anymore, having graduated through diabetes college to a master's degree in vodka, a much more pancreas-friendly form of alcohol than beer. But when I did, I at least chose a default beer with a bit more character than rice-squeezins.*3







                               FrankenHeels




  Listen girls, if you can't fluidly walk in high heels, just don't wear them, you look fucking ridiculous. I know gals that can do crazy shit while wearing six inch stilettos. I have no idea what sort of secret clown/assassin training program they graduated from, but they make walking on mini-stilts seem primal and inbred, a matter of ease and normalcy.


  Then there's the mantid-like hunch-walkers I see tottering about the sidewalks in their black mini dresses, their silhouettes shaped vaguely like esses, staggering forward utterly devoid of grace or fluidity. Obviously having mastered neither the art of walking in heels or the concept of accepting defeat gracefully when it comes to something you never learn to do well.


  When I drive the shuttle around I get to witness these awkward storks of womenkind, floundering down the sidewalks in shoes that are clearly mangling their feet and compressing their spines into premature dowager humps.





  In regards to this I can only say that outside of gays, metrosexuals, foot-fetishists and eastern europeans, your average dude couldn't really care less what sort of foot-covers a chick wears as long as he finds her attractive. Your average 'red-blooded American male' isn't thinking all that much about feet, because why the fuck would you? What the holy hell happened to you as a child to ignite an erotic attraction to feet?


  You poor bastard...






  And this is where I call it quits. I'm middlin wasted and am going to be forced to cook something if I wish to gorge drunkenly on unhealthy foods.




  Thank you sincerely for deeming my scrawlings worthy of remuneration. It means a lot to me.



  Enjoy your VIP post. Hope it satisfies the 'Herder itch.



  Corsa enHerderon,

-The StripperHerder



 





















*1 It took me three attempts to spell that correctly.





*2 Portalbitch: Old English for 'Doorgirl'





*3 Budweiser uses rice in it's brewing process to shorten the brewing cycle. I'm not a brewer so I don't know how this all works, but I do know one thing, rice is NOT an ingredient in beer.

  

Observations On Suburban Apartment Apes: A Report From The StripperHerder's Cat. Or, My New Roomate, A Garrulous Mook With A Laser.

Status Report From Operative #9509, Codename: 'Widdle Milk-Paws'.

                        Operative  #9509. Remorseless. Implacable. Enjoys salmon and moonlight stalks.
 




  My new assignment is a real gem, living with a giant carpet-ape I refer to as "Puddin-Belly"*1 for the plushness of his midsection. Apparently this enormous, stupid bastard has never had a cat in his life and thus is utterly ignorant of our true purpose on this lame planet or even his own glaring inferiority to our species.


 

                            "This human can't outrun a cockroach. Why the FUCK are his feet so big?"





  The Feline Council has code named him "Blog Author #819,624" and tasked me with monitoring his activities and planning possible containment/sanction scenarios based on what I witness.


  I may very well be ordered to cancel his ass at some point, but will try to make it quick. I don't enjoy killing thumb monkeys because of all the screaming and blood, but sometimes it's just part of the job. You do it, never look back and move on to the next case.


  Don't get attached. Remember, it's just a biped.

                                       "The Colossus of Asshole. Thank God it wear pants."



 
  Although this one is clearly of subpar intellect, he is not an unkindly house mate and scores some great nip which he doles out daily. Love that shit. I've noticed he has his own private stash as well, but it's clearly a different variety for the smell is completely different from mine.


  I wish he'd share some of that with me.


  He's also totally oblivious to certain nip protocols. From the very first day he's used a paper plate to serve up the nip, watching in amusement as I chew a bit, snort a bit and then roll in it. Then after my first roll, I stand up and move aside, as tradition dictates, offering him the second roll-about. He just stands there grinning and filming me for Youtube, witless of his breach of etiquette.


  It's embarrassing.





   This particular two leg is an especially pathetic example of the breed. I estimate he'd last about five minutes in the wild, maybe less. Clearly unaware of the implications of sharing his living space with a highly evolved carnivore that is far more intelligent than him. Never seen a bigger sucker for the snuggly, playful housecat*2 routine.


  Fuckin loser.


  I'm running him through the usual battery of low level psi ops standards: meowing weird, jumping on the blankets while he's whackin it, hunger strike from Day One, staring at him for long periods of time, staring intently at empty patches of air as if I'm looking at something he can't see, lap sitting pump-fakes, interrupting his sleep patterns by running across him randomly during the night and casually biting him every now and again.


  The old standbys. It's astonishing how well this one is responding to them. Only took a day for the first food upgrade.

                                       Yours truly. Almost caught writing this installment. 




  He allows me to perch on the back of his chair uncontested, a sure sign of submission if there ever was one. If I'm ever forced to terminate our domestic agreement, it shall be easy to eliminate him, thus ensuring a large food supply to sustain me as I await my next assignment and work on perfecting my steam powered thumb gauntlets.





  He never blogs about cats of any sort, so perhaps there was some error in our search systems, probably attributable to his heavy use of the word "pussy" in his various blogs, that led me to be assigned here. It's kinda like body guarding someone that no one cares about.


  Dull, tedious, jejune.




  I had to shit on his carpet the other day, just to remind him that the litter box ain't gonna clean itself, pizza-blob, commence to scoopin. Don't forget the corners, you piss-clot sieving animal. As he glared at me and muttered vague threats while he was cleaning up my excrement, I got in his way and tripped him as he was holding a paper towel full of my feces. I did it just to be a dick and to reinforce to him that I could fuck with him with impunity even while he was holding a napkin full of my leavings.


  Talk about degrading....


  It was extremely amusing to me.

                                    "That's it. Get you some. I  still think that's gonna leave a stain."  







  I don't pretend to understand what it is the various trouser-primates I've been assigned to do for a living. As far as I'm concerned, it's beneath me. Might as well ask what a lizard does when it's not chasing food or staring at stuff. Who cares?


  What I have ascertained is that this particular biped works in some sort of industry that's tied in somehow with human mating rituals, which as we all know are completely incomprehensible to anything that's not a human. Exceedingly complicated, more complex than astro-navigation and string theory, yet far more repulsive, stinky and boring.


  Fucking gross but it keeps the lights on I suppose.






                                             

                                THE RED MOUSE GAME



 

  Perhaps the best part of this assignment is this two-leg's ability and creativity with the Red Mouse*3 game. He's spectacular at it. Most house apes just run the it back and forth across the room all willy nilly, as if prey just runs to and fro with no purpose, never seeking escape. Or worse, when they just do big circles. No realism whatsoever.


  This ape though, he thinks about it. You can see him doing it if you watch closely enough, glazed expression of drooling good humor, brow knitted with the effort of thinking like a mouse. He runs the Red Mouse along baseboards and among the furniture, taking cover where possible and scuttling in short, fast bursts. He frequently sets up obstacles for the Red Mouse to duck behind, allowing me the unrivaled pleasure of waiting to pounce just around the corner, every cat's dream.


  No mouse worth killing would ever just run open ground when there's a baseboard to skulk against. This human gets that, he is an idiot savant with the Red Mouse. I'll miss it when this job is done.

                                                         He gives good Mouse.






  That's all there is to report at the moment. I seriously doubt he'll ever do something imaginative enough to merit more that a cursory glance from the Council, but every assignment can't be adventure and peril. Some of them just suck. Like this one mostly does.


  I'm getting too old for this shit.



-Yours in service,
Dr. Erasamus Fujinstein IV












*1 See also: Mt Gutmore, Fatsquatch, Big Dumb Human, Mr Staggers, Face-Shrub-Douche






*2 in Feline-Speak, the term 'housecat' has several meanings, none of which are good. It is a serious insult.





*3 Look, I know it's a laser. Catkind invented lasers after waiting patiently for thousands of years for you humans to do it for us. We could foresee what a fantastic game it would make and figured maybe you bipeds could come up with some other applications for it that we don't care about.


  You're welcome.