Winning Friends And Influencing People The StripperHerder Way. Or, Beggar-Rage:The Re-Fuckening.

  I find it ironic that just a couple of short years ago I was writing about Floor Guys who are burned out and should quit the industry and now I am exhibiting all the classic signs of burn out myself. I am a terrible Floor Host nowadays. Any drive or obligation I felt to be the best stripperherder I could be has slowly drained out of me, leaving only a sarcastic, scowling husk behind.


  My attitude has been getting more and more ambivalent of late and I'm not concerned by that at all. I'm much less of a "Floor Host" and much more a "Bouncer" these days and I don't care much about that either. Fuck it. I'm making the same money as I would if I actually gave a shit and that's the only reason I haul my shambling carcass into work day after day- money.


 I hate my job just that much less than I hate being broke and homeless.


  I gave up on job satisfaction a long time ago. Ditto for 'career advancement' or 'occupational pride' or 'not feeling like a scumbag'.



  What brought this to the forefront of my mind is when I was laying in bed the other night, replaying some of the days events in my head. I recalled an interaction I had with an out of town customer outside the club. The guy was pretty fucking dumb of course and as a result of his diminished intellect he asked me what I felt to be a stupid question as I was walking from the bus to the front door.



  "Hey man, how do I get into this club?"



  Now there were many avenues open to me in how I could've responded to him and I'm going to outline what I should've done and said as opposed to what I actually did and said.


What I Should Have Done: Stopped walking and turned to face the customer. Make eye contact, smile and introduce myself. Shake his fucking hand. Escort him and his friends to the door and hold it open for them. So welcoming, so warm, so friendly. Once inside the club I should have found a table for them and let them know where the men's room is, how to get to the smoking patio and made sure they got a waitress etc etc.


But instead, and fairly typically:


What I Actually Did: Kept walking past him, never even so much as glancing at him and said "I usually use the front door." No joking at all, that's exactly how I handled the situation and what I said to him. Then he called after me "How much is it to get in?"

  "$10 or same day game ticket" I called back over my shoulder as I went in the front door, ending any possibility of further interaction.



  When I thought back to that, I couldn't believe that I've regressed so much without even realizing it on a conscious level. Sure, subconsciously I knew I was shit at the job lately, but I never really admitted to myself just how far I had fallen. I'm in a rut so deep I've been looking at wallpaper options.


  But to illustrate how little my actions oftentimes mean, the customer and his whole group made their way into the club, had a good time and spent a few bucks. My apathetic countenance seemingly didn't even phase them. Maybe that's how they're used to being treated, I don't know. But when I thought about it in retrospect, I was surprised at myself for just how shittily I handled that aspect of my job.


  Cuh-stO-mer Ree-LAY-shuns. It gets harder as you get older....







 The latest thing that's beginning to compete with road rage over what will finally drive me to slay another human being is begging. Seeing as how I work in a metropolitan area, being hit up for money goes with the program. I expect it when I'm downtown. There are a lot of homeless people that need to get drunk or high and they float through the downtown area like small, fucked-up looking whales, straining money like it's krill from an ocean of restaurant and bar goers.


  Comes with the territory.


  The problem is that they're not just downtown anymore, nor is it just the homeless, drunk and lazy that wants free money out of my wallet. Nossir. I'm subject to being asked for money every time I go into a grocery store, a drug store and even convenient stores. All these places want to know if I'd like to donate a dollar to Blah Blah Blah. And I almost always do.


  I figure hey, it's only a dollar, maybe it will actually help someone. I feel guilty if I say no. I think South Park did a whole episode about this, so watch that and you'll see what I mean.


  But outside of retail, the beggars are spreading to the burbs. And it's not just your generic homeless old drunk guy anymore. I get hit up by young, able bodied people who have no apparent barriers to getting a job other than they just don't seem to want to work. Maybe these are the 'professional beggars' I've seen in documentaries. White suburban kids who've figured out they can make $100 a day or more by begging with a good backstory and a suitably piteous appearance.


  I don't know. For some reason there doesn't appear to be any stigma in asking complete strangers for charity anymore. I'm not sure why this is or when it happened, although I believe the rise of social media with it's associated crowd sourcing and gimmefundsnow campaigns has certainly contributed to the lack of shame some folks exhibit in what is, let's face it, begging.


  Holding a bowl out. Shaking a cup a people.




 Let me outline a couple of incidents in the last week that have really ruined it for anyone that I might have given money to in the future.



  First off, one of the most insidious species of beggar is the Offramp Tramp. We've all seen them, some pathetic looking bastard holding a sign full of lies at the red lights on freeway offramps. Every couple of minutes he has a captive audience and goddamn it's fucking uncomfortable when they stare at you.


  So the other day I had no choice but to go to the grocery store because my cupboards were bare and I was hungry. And I think I needed some vodka too. The easiest store to get to that could fulfill both these requirements was one exit down on my local highway. Maybe a mile at best.


  When I rounded the corner of the offramp heading toward a redlight, I could already see the Tramp with his sign, putting on his 'pity-me' face. I sighed. How aggravating was this shit? On my goddamn day off.


  I ignored the guy and waited for the light to change and made my way to the store. I went in and got my stuff and when I made my way out of the parking lot and had to stop at a redlight, lo and behold there was another, completely different beggar holding up a different sign with different lies on it, wanting some of my money.


  Shit you not. Double tagged in a day where I only left my apartment that one time for a two mile round trip.


  In another and very similar incident two days later, I was again forced to leave my sanctum to get some Taco Bell. I got my crappy but delicious food and headed back to my lair. I had parked in the rear of the building and was walking to the front and saw that a pedestrian was coming down the sidewalk and that our paths would intersect, and indeed be shared for the 30 feet it would take me to get to the front door.


  Sure enough, this person, only the second sapient creature I had interacted with that day, asked me for money. So did the first one, but it was her job and she wouldn't have handed over the tacos without me paying her.


  This guy's excuse was that he needed to go somewhere on the bus, blah, blah, blah. I stopped listening and told him I didn't have any money even as I realized we could both hear the change bouncing around in my pocket as I walked.


  In retrospect I wonder how he would've reacted to that if I'd been smaller than him...


  Seriously, when you literally only interact with 2 humans in a day and 50% of them try to beg money off you, right on your doorstep, it gets super fucking aggravating. I guess the shame, if there ever was any, goes away after the first week or so. I wouldn't know. I've asked a stranger for money exactly one time in my life and that was for a quarter to put some air into the tire of my car, which I was standing right next to. Clearly not begging for beer money, nor asking for an amount that would do me any good.


  I remember when I was growing up and sometimes my Mom couldn't make ends meet and I'd have to go with her to the local Episcopal church to pick up a box of food. My Mom swallowed her pride to keep her kids fed by taking pity food from utter strangers, at least that's the way we looked at it. We're sure weren't having a good time going to a church with our hands out, but it was either that or steal, and there are some depths you just don't sink to.


  But nowadays, things seem to be different.


  Other humans are there to support you and your alcoholism. Don't fret about not being a productive member of society, we'll do it for you. I enjoy working a job I hate so other people can just mooch off my efforts, it makes me feel useful.


  Put me in charge. I'll put a euthanasia program in place, see how fast the problem goes away.



  Argh. I hate everything.




Mary Fuckmas,
The StripperHerder










  

Another Nemesis Defeated, But For How Long? Or, Drunk Strippers Are Like A Millstone For Your Soul.

  Ratty is gone, praise the Gods! It's like another stripperherder holiday, the day from hence forth we don't have to deal with her mouthy, drunk, white trash ass anymore.


  

                                  Whor-elujah!




  Its such a fucking relief. Trainwreck strippers aside, Ratty was one of the worst human beings I've ever met when she had a few shots in her. Which was every night she worked, of course. There are just some people who should never drink, they are clearly adversely affected by alcohol and yet it seems like those are the people who drink the most.


  Ratty got all tanked up at work again and was out on the patio caught in the middle of some kind of drama which was escalating towards a fracas before the Floor Staff had to intervene. She's one of those people who when she hears something she doesn't like or someone says something rude to her, she is utterly incapable of just walking away. She cannot, under any circumstances, just chalk it up to the person being an asshole, which any place that serves booze is full of, and just go about her business. SHE HAS TO RUN HER MOUTH NONSTOP UNTIL VIOLENCE ERUPTS. IT'S HER CALLING, IT'S HER LOVE.


  As a bouncer, I HATE these kind of people with a passion normally reserved for serial killers or rabid fanboys. Words mean nothing, the only ability to hurt you that words have is whatever ability YOU ALLOW THEM TO HAVE.


  Seriously, get over yourself. In the big scheme of things you mean nothing, just like the rest of us.








   I'm going to get into a familiar subject for dedicated Herder readers, namely, the dreaded ATM. Yes I realize it seems that sometimes I dwell too much on the cash machine and that maybe I've said all that needs to be said about it and trust me, I tend to agree with you. But every time I consider it a dead option for discussion, someone comes along who reignites my desire to talk once again about that wretched contraption.


  One of the many, many unfortunate parts about working the door is that it's right next to the fucking ATM, so when some baffled twat can't figure out his PIN number, who do you think he goes to about it?


  If you guessed the nearest club representative, which is the Door Man, then congratulations, you are correct. Every miserable taint-nodule that fails to receive money from the ATM comes to me, brow all wrinkled in consternation, about his problem. It's maddening.


  So, what's my latest bitch? I'll call him Fagodread, a strapping 6'4" corn fed white boy with super lame braided hair. Mr. Dread was shocked, shocked I say that the cash machine charges a 10% fee to get your hands on your own money.


  He withdrew $500 and was flabbergasted that he had to pay a $50 fee to get it. And naturally, he comes to the front door to complain about it. But here's the main thing and in my mind the most important thing:


  This fucking machine tells you what it's going to charge you right up front and you have to agree to it before anything else happens. It can't do a damn thing unless you concede to it. By agreeing to the astronomical rate to receive your own goddamn money, you have abdicated any possible right to bitch about that cost. This is the equivalent of going to Burger King, ordering a Whopper, eating it and THEN going back to complain to the counter person about how much that Whopper cost.


  Because I have as much control over what kind of fee our ATM charges as the average Burger King employee has over how much a Whopper costs. We don't own the magic money rape machines, we don't set the fees or fix them when they're broke, we pay a company to do that and all that shit is up to them.


  And on top of that, why the living fuck would you complain about a decision YOU ALREADY MADE? Seriously, what do you expect to gain from it? Stop being a panty stain. I'm sick of it.






  Speaking of panty stains, let's talk about some arrogant, piece of shit strippers, shall we? I mean, it's what keeps you coming back post after post right?


  So we're rid of Ratty for the time being, I'm sure she'll be back and when she is I'd bet her 'grace period' of good behavior will last just slightly longer than this last time, if for no other reason than to lull management into a false sense of security over their remarkably poor decision.


  That being said, allow me to elaborate of some other hot trash golems I have to deal with, shift in and shift out.


-STICKER: I've talked about Sticker before. She's smart as cheese, clever as a plant and about interesting as a dead pet. However she IS a hot little monkey and all kinds of dudes trip all over themselves to fondle her tits and ass as she "dances" for them.


  Sticker was, not long ago, a sweet natured demure young lady who didn't seem at all cut out to be a stripper. I often questioned her career choice because she was so sheltered, dumb and gullible that I figured some Russian human trafficker would've scooped her up a long time ago. But instead, here's what happened:


 -She turned 21 and therefore was now permitted to drink on the job. And boy did she take advantage of it. Joined the DUI club in less than 3 months.


-Her bestie, the ridiculously hot entertainer Beverly, is banging the Owner. So Beverly and her wee minion Sticker are, for all intents and purposes, bulletproof. They could shiv a bitch to death on camera and get away with it. Steal her shoes and whatnot. Maybe throw in some mild corpse disfigurement.


-She finally came to terms with the fact that she's a little hottie and is determined to mine it for all it's worth, no matter whose back she has to walk on to do it. As a result all the other dancers despise Sticker and Beverly. If these two conceited twats worked at Mary's Melee Chalet, the club I worked at before this one, they would've been beaten to death in the locker room by a hostile stripper gang long ago. But now, at this club? They piss on everybody with complete impunity.


  The good news is that with their present lifestyles as money ravenous Hydes, their looks will fade prematurely and they'll develop the hoarse, unpleasant voice of booze-harpies and will probably die sucking off a horse on camera for an armful of smack or a Gucci knock off.


  I calls em like I sees em.




  The next "entertainer" I'm gonna mention is Glutina, the life support system for an ass. Good ole Gluty is a buxom gal with a butt that probably leads a life of its own when she's asleep. It's far and away the only interesting feature about her and it makes her a lot of money. There's a plethora of men out there who have no upper limits to their interest in booty and would be happy to bang a chick whose ass has to be forklifted around and thonged in sailcloth.


  To me it's just too much booty for the frame. If I'd been referring to a six foot blonde who was one winged helmet away from being a Valkyrie, that much ass would be acceptable. A lot of woman needs a lot of ass. But a 5'3 mean tempered swarthy chick doesn't need that much ass at her disposal.


  The problem with Glutina is not her giant ass, but I wanted to write a bit about it so I did. No, the problem with Gluty is that her boyfriend bangs a lot of other bitches. Bitches that she's aware of and who frequently end up at our fine establishment. Where Glutina gets all misplaced anger on them, how dare they receive her boyfriend's penis? Why didn't they try to resist more?


  Apparently her boyfriend, an aspiring rapper, is free to bang whoever he wants since Glutina's been aware of several of his side pieces and all she does is take her wrath out on them, not her man.


  Seems reasonable.







  I saved the best for last.



  I had a genuine Vodzilla encounter this past weekend. I know, I know, it's been a bit. Many of the younger generation of my readers believe Vodzilla is just a myth, a tale to frighten children with at night or take up blog space. I hadn't seen her in months and wasn't sure if she was still filtering oxygen through vodka or not, but there she was...


  Again she bypassed the line of people and headed straight for me like I was a hapless model ship in a cheap Japanese movie. Our encounter went something like this:


VODZILLA: "Hey Steve! How ya doin?" Hugging me like a drunk Aunt.


ME: "Hey Vodzilla. Sir Hamblast*1 says you're not allowed in anymore. So, you know, fuck off and shit."


VODZILLA: "Wait. What? Are you fuckin serious? Call him up here!"


ME: "He won't come up here, but I'll try anyway."


  I grabbed my lapel mike and pretended to push the call button. "Door to Hamblast, Door to Hamblast. Vodzilla seeks parley, advise. Over"


  I cocked my head as if listening for a reply on my headset. When this had gone on for maybe fifteen seconds or so Voddy started to protest and I suddenly held up my hand in the time tested 'shut up bitch' position and cupped a hand over my ear, an obvious sign someone was communicating with me via radio.


  I shushed her and said, "Sir Hamblast says fuck ye off. You'll never tread his domain again ye foul liquor lich!"


  Her jaw dropped so fast that her double chin smacked the tops of her liver-spotted fake titties which absorbed the shock like two bags of damp concrete.


  She stared at me for a mildly uncomfortable amount of time, as if her watery gaze could somehow douse my intense, burning hatred for all she stood for.


  The she harrumphed off and said she would go to the club next door.


  "What a blessing" I called after her. And truly, I was blessed. Stuffing that cunt twice in one year, it was to be savored.






  I was going to write more but decided not to. No sense in challenging myself at this point. As a result some topics you may see in an upcoming installment may include:


-How managing this club is slowly destroying the people responsible for it.


-Floor Guys stood accused....and were vindicated. Story at eleven.


-Floor Guys still get reamed for transgressions, yours truly caught in the drift net of general Floor Guy laziness which I have oft bemoaned.


-Hookers invade a strip club: someone's gonna get fucked!




  All the above sounds very intriguing doesn't it? Fuck yeah.








Dis Unt All,
-The StripperHerder





















*1 Our Manager on Duty tonight was Sir Ominous Hamblast XXI.