It's that time of year again, The Holiday Season. That special time where some folks try to be slightly less assholey for a couple of weeks and where other folks become more assholey just because they hate Christmas.
Personally I don't really enjoy Christmas, but then again, after this many years in my current job, I don't enjoy any Holidays anymore, the hospitality industry has ruined them all for me. That being said I used to love Xmas as a kid; the tree, the lights, the toys and all the cookies and whatnot.
Really did it for me.
Then I became an adult and realized what a pain in the ass it is.
My family keeps it simple. Get together, have some dinner, do a hug or two and call it a night. We don't exchange gifts because we're all broke most of the time. When I can, I give a few people $50 and call it a job well done. Merry Holiday and so forth.
I fucking love my family, we don't take anything too seriously.
So, happy Whatever-You-Believe-In Day!
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This past October marked my 8th anniversary of writing this pile of shit. I would've commemorated it in its own post, but I was too lazy if you can believe that. So this is the closest I'm gonna get to a self congratulatory post.
In the very trite words of a lot of bloggers who never imagined themselves writing a blog for eight years when they first started, I can't believe I'm still writing this blog. I figured it'd be less then 10 posts and I would get bored and move on to something else I wouldn't finish. I didn't anticipate the restorative, cathartic release that writing it gave me, nor did I fully appreciate the enormity of inspiration that my occupation constantly provides me.
Such Plight of the StripperHerder staples as: Drunk strippers, wasted strippers, drunk customers, drunk people in general, lost phones, the glory of heroin, completely unnecessary violence, The ATM, men's bathrooms, women's bathrooms, the threat of feces, the promise of blood and the reality of vomit.
Lost phones, ripped shirts, stripper gangs, human garbage, stupid wretches, missing Ray Bans, angry girlfriends/wives, bachelor parties (shitglobs), stingy millionaires, annoying thousandaires, dipshit hundredaires, the broke, the mentally challenged yet wholly unsupervised, lost phones, complainers, criminals, rappers with over inflated egos, VIP wannabes, name droppers, hooligans, people from Quebec, hat fans, various organized crime affiliates, lost keys, misplaced phones, random discarded underwear, incredulity over our local liquor laws, prison bus riders, the cheap, day shift, the creatures that haunt day shift, Ancient Strippers, stolen phones, liquor control, non tippers, men who believe every strip club is a thinly veiled brothel, lost phones, Crimppers*1, locker babies*2, drooling smack-hooked spuzz sponges.
Oh yeah, and lost phones.
So thank you for continuing to read, in such numbers that the site suggested I try advertising. And while I wasn't wild about the idea, even though it could make me money, I looked into it anyway.
Luckily for you, dear reader, I found that there aren't any advertisers even remotely comfortable with my subject matter, much less my colorful use of language to even consider running ads on my blog. Seems narrow minded to me, I could totally see some beneficial product tie ins, things like:
-Guns: I like guns without getting carried away with it. Why not read about deranged titty dancers and then download a 10% off coupon for the latest compact .45?
-Booze: I love booze. If it hadn't been for booze and booze related products, roughly 85% of this blog wouldn't exist. Booze makers should embrace me as a stunning example of alcohol's ability to entertain and create while doing minimal damage over the short term, kinda.
-Stripper Shoe Manufacturers: If you advertised on my blog, many pervy foot guys would buy shoes from your site to trade with strippers for their used shoes so they could hump those used shoes later in a Burger King parking lot while listening to the theme from Conan or a Taylor Swift song and using three packs of honey mustard sauce for lube.
-Condoms: You're desperate/wise/wealthy enough to pay for sex, you gonna do it raw dog? Endanger your trailer/health/fortune for the added pleasure of unprotected sex? Seems risky, brother. Better to wrap the rascal than have it erupt in sores/knock up a gold digger/cost you $60 more a month in child support.
-Lawyers: Yeah I hate them. I blame them for basically destroying this nation. However, it should be obvious that any dedicated reader of this blog may at one point or another require legal representation because of their blatantly troglodyte sense of humor, which is not in favor in current times.
Thought crimes are just around the corner.
-Any company manipulated as a front for a rogue AI: My readers are of above average intelligence despite the overall quality of the content of this blog. It's catchy, yo. Ergo, if you pay me handsomely to advocate a product that's tantamount to abject slavery, I'll make it seem like a buttery dream that's totally obtainable because I'm tired of working.
Just fucking pay me. I have no conscious anymore because of drunk people.
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The following are Christmas carols from when I worked at Cathleen's Cooze Cathedral, a dark place where my life meant every bit as much to management and ownership as a prairie dog means to an ocean liner. When I worked there, a bottle of rum had more value to the place than I did. There were hundreds of lazy, morally malleable cunts out there who would happily punch their grandmas to have my job.
So I let one of them have it and I think it killed him.
Here's your fucking carols:
1) The 12 Days of Christmas.
On the first day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
A Cum Sock in a Onesie
On the second day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Two Soiled Thongs
And a Cum Sock in a Onesie.
On the third day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Three Barf Piles
Two Soiled Thongs
And a Cum Sock in a Onesie
On the fourth day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Four Convulsing Sluts
Three Barf Piles
Two Soiled Thongs
And a Cum Sock in a Onesie
On the fifth day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Five Bags of Smack
Four Convulsing Sluts
Three Barf Piles
Two Soiled Thongs
And a Cum Sock in a Onesie
On the sixth day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Six Johns' a Jizzing
Five Bags of Smack
Four Convulsing Sluts
Three Barf Piles
Two Soiled Thongs
And a Cum Sock in a Onesie
On the seventh day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Seven Lawsuits Pending
Six Johns' a Jizzing
Five Bags of Smack
Four Convulsing Sluts
Three Barf Piles
Two Soiled Thongs
And a Cum Sock in a Onesie
On the eighth day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Eight Doctors Spending
Seven Lawsuits Pending
Six Johns' a Jizzing
Five Bags of Smack
Four Convulsing Sluts
Three Barf Piles
Two Soiled Thongs
And a Cum Sock in a Onesie
On the ninth day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Nine Ho's Complaining
Eight Doctors Spending
Seven Lawsuits Pending
Six Johns' a Jizzing
Five Bags of Smack
Four Convulsing Sluts
Three Barf Piles
Two Soiled Thongs
And a Cum Sock in a Onesie
On the tenth day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Ten Teat's a Leaking
Nine Ho's Complaining
Eight Doctors Spending
Seven Lawsuits Pending
Six Johns' a Jizzing
Five Bags of Smack
Four Convulsing Sluts
Three Barf Piles
Two Soiled Thongs
And a Cum Sock in a Onesie
On the eleventh day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Eleven Vice Cops Searching
Ten Teat's a Leaking
Nine Ho's Complaining
Eight Doctors Spending
Seven Lawsuits Pending
Six Johns' a Jizzing
Five Bags of Smack
Four Convulsing Sluts
Three Barf Piles
Two Soiled Thongs
And a Cum Sock in a Onesie
On the twelfth day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Twelve Tough Guys Swinging
Eleven Vice Cops Searching
Ten Teat's a Leaking
Nine Ho's Complaining
Eight Doctors Spending
Seven Lawsuits Pending
Six Johns' a Jizzing
Five Bags of Smack
Four Convulsing Sluts
Three Barf Piles
Two Soiled Thongs
And a Cum Sock in a Onesie
Do You Hear What I Hear?*3
Said the Floor Host to the Stripper
Do you see what I see?
(do you see what I see?)
A wad of cash in that fucker's hand
Do you see what I see?
(do you see what I see?)
Some dough, some cheese
In that Douchebag's mitt
Go earn you some of it
Then tip me some of it
Said the Manager to the Stripper
Do you hear what I hear?
(do you hear what I hear?)
Ringing through the air, you deaf cunt
Do you hear what I hear?
(do you hear what I hear?)
Your name, your name
called by the DJ
Get your ass on the fucking stage
Get your fat ass on the stage
Said the Manager to the Floor Host
Do you know what I know?
(do you know what I know?)
I can destroy you with a fucking word
do you know what I know?
(do you know what I know?)
Your soul, your soul
blackens by the day
You'll be just like me some day
You'll be worse than me some day
Said the Owner to his underlings
Listen to what I say
(listen to what I say)
Pray for death people underfoot
Listen to what I say
(listen to what I say)
Your jobs, you jobs
Fucking mine to take!
Thirst for cash cannot be slaked
My thirst for cash can not be slaked
MOWWA-FAKKA.
So, that's it.
That's the post.
There you have it.
It's done now.
That's all, folks.
Go peruse something else.
Thanks for reading!
And might I say, in the most sincere spirit of Christmas, fuck your pictures.
Gut Notting.
-The StripperHerder
*1 A portmanteau of Criminal/Stripper: Dancers who always try to gouge their drunk prey and expect the Floor Staff to mindlessly back them up.**
**See also: Stripinals (Stripper/Criminals)
*2 Locker Babies: Infants either born at, or brought into work in duffle bags due to lack of baby sittage who are stashed in a stripper's locker with a handy hamster bottle and a convenient nosebag of mashed bananas to sustain them through a six hour shift.
There are harnesses you can buy to secure your offspring to a wall while you earn a living. These are the types of products that should be buying ad space on my blog. If I had a kid, I would totally buy a brat-sling that had built in Disney VR goggles and food/water supply for up to 3 days of absence with a self cleaning diaper.
