A New Post To Thank My Benefactors. A Brief History Of My Titty Club Security Background. Previously Unpublished Shit.

  I'm flattered that some folks have stepped forward and donated some cash to what they deem has been a worthwhile cause. I never had any intention of monetizing this blog, in fact, my content pretty much barred me from any sort of realistic sponsorship, so I just wrote because I liked it and a lot of other people seemed to enjoy it as well.


  Other humans telling me they enjoy my blog or how they'd sprayed coffee across their computer screens when reading a new post makes me happy. Making people laugh is a rare gift and if I've delivered over the years and it's worth it to you, there'll be a way to show that at the end of the post.






  In my career I'v worked at seven different strip clubs across two states in addition to two bars, three music venues and on one very creepy night, a sex club. Any other bullshit I've written in this blog about moving to another state was merely an attempt at misdirection after the cat got out of the bag at my latest club for reasons I'm still not comfortable going into.



  That being said here's situations I worked with at each and every strip club in no particular order:



1) Tammy's Titty Trailer: Worked totally solo. Couldn't even count a bartender to have my back. I was a lot younger back than and didn't fully appreciate the level of risk I was taking on for what wasn't much more that minimum wage. Was way too neophyte to plan or execute any sort of money making scams and would've sucked at them any way. I didn't carry a knife or most certainly a gun.


  Wouldn't even consider doing the same job today without both....


  I was lucky enough in my ten or so months at T3's to have not come across any situation I couldn't handle. I preferred not to put my hands on people, but I got very proactive when I figured it was going to be necessary for me to do so. The local PD were nominally sympathetic, knowing I worked alone in a sometimes less than desirable environment.


  In truth the most vicious fights I broke up in my time there were between dancers, not customers. I had tiny crack-dancers willing to stilletto-stomp a weaker rival in order to obtain valuable market share. It was a tiny club with a small clientele and competition was fierce.




2)  McCracky's Ass Overload: I don't know what I was thinking. This was a straight up ghetto strip club on the outskirts of a major PA town. I was the only white guy on security and I was hired because with me on the Door, it made the club seem less threatening to potential white patrons or at least this is what I was told.. If this is racist, don't blame me, I didn't hire myself.


  I was thrust into a world I wan't really prepared to deal with, but you either adapt or you run away. I learned quickly to just say 'fuck that' to everything. Everyone has some sort of story at the Door, everyone knows someone, or so they think.


  This led to a lot of confrontations because I was a minority in this situation, but my team had my back like you wouldn't believe. This was, without a doubt, THE most proactive security team I've eve worked with. If there was a problem, which there frequently was, they would descend on it like the fucking locusts on unsuspecting crops. They protected their white boy because they knew I was in over my head, culturally speaking, but respected the balls it took to show up day in and day out. The unit cohesion and response of this team ended up instilling in me unrealistic expectations of how working in clubs would be everywhere.



  And I was wrong as fuck. It's often a symptom of being young.





3) Naked Allure: The have-it-all strip club outside of a major midwestern town that features all kinds of special shit to those willing to spend money. They have solo stages, crazy champagne rooms, a Dungeon Room, private catering, blowjob nooks and cocaine vending machines. As a cook there I made about $500 a week there in shift pay, but employees (including entertainers) were required to tip me to make their food, so I was making good money.


  Most of which I spent on drugs because I wanted to fit in.


  Since I was a talented cook, I was very popular with the employees and clientele. Since I didn't sell weed and coke, like the other cook, James, I was eventually cut to one day a week. James couldn't cook his way out of a wet paper bag, but at this particular club, drugs were more important.


  Shame too because it was easy money. I even traded some sauteed shrimp for magic mushrooms one time...



4) Lisa's Labia Buffet: The worst club I ever worked at in regards to how I was treated by management, dancers, customers and especially my fellow Floor Guys. At this club if you weren't the two 'VIP' Floor Dicks, then you were the lowest form of life at the club. EVERYONE was valued higher than you, even barbacks and cooks. Hell, the toilets at this club were shown more respect than the average knuckle dragging Floor Ape. My contribution to the Owner's wealth was appreciated at roughly the same value as a gallon of ranch dressing, more or less.


  And I was treated accordingly.


  Management either screamed at you, failed to help you in any way and never, ever took your side against a Dancer no matter how much evil the bitch had perpetrated. Even if a Manager wanted to help you or sympathized with you in any way, the Owner would reach out from his orbiting Whore Star and eradicate any good outcome.


  The Strippers here could broadly be divided into two groups: A) the hardened ghetto criminals who ran the club and B) all the other strippers who were terrified of them. There wasn't much middle ground. It didn't matter how blatant these PMS13 members were with their scams and crimes, they were able to act with utter impunity thanks to the whims of the all powerful Owner and his fearsome floating Death Ray.


  The worst part for me was the Floor Staff. In all regards but one they were pretty decent to work with, the one glaring exception being the fair division of tips at the end of the night. Holy fuck did I get ripped off there. I'm gonna go out on a limb and estimate that in the bit-less-than-a-year I worked there, I probably got cut out of about $2,000 or more a month. All that by the two Floor Thieves that exclusively ran the VIP area, where they wallet-raped customers and their fellow Floor Guys alike.


  I still shudder when I think about some of the shit I saw and did there...




5) The Aluminum Goat: What a sad fucking place. Typical shithole titty joint. This was the first job I landed after returning to my home state after having lived elsewhere for a year or so. I didn't like the job, I didn't like the people and I most certainly didn't like the pay, $9 with no tips. We weren't even allowed by the Owner to accept tips if a dancer tried to do it. If he caught us doing it, we were fired just like that.


  The most ironic thing about this club was that it was controlled by a local biker gang. Everyone knew it, no one talked about it and the members purposely didn't hang out there because they washed their money there or whatever the case may be. I certainly wasn't asking.


  Where the irony comes into play is that the last guy I worked for before moving back home was a higher-up in a rival bike club who ran security for several area establishments. Ergo if the "management" at the Aluminum Goat had found out who I worked for up until I relocated, I would've probably ended up in a dumpster because they would've naturally assumed I was an enemy informant. I mean, I looked like a biker to be sure. It would've been a natural assumption to make.


  Glad they didn't ask a lot of questions.


  The only thing good to come out of that experience was meeting one of my best friends. So, totally worth it.



6) The Velvet Gauntlet: Probably my favorite strip club I've worked at overall. The money wasn't as good as some other clubs though it was better than most. This is because the Owner didn't put up with crime, scams or similar bullshit*1. He's old school and doesn't want to run a place infested with lowlifes, predators and the run of the mill scumbags that comprise the majority of most strip club ecosystems.


  The sense of team there was very strong and the trust level between management and staff was the best I'd ever experienced. The Owner wasn't some aloof figure, a source of fear and anxiety in his occasional visits to the club, he was hands on, right there with ya and willing to get his hands dirty. Sometimes even too willing.


  I remember some donnybrooks with bachelor parties where amidst the fray I'd look up and be like, 'where's the King?' and lo there he was, knee deep with his Floor Staff dealing out crisp jabs or full nelsons like he didn't pay us to do that for him.

  As a career Minion, ya gotta respect a leader who leads from the front. In this respect, this Owner was absolutely unique in my seven club experience. By contrast, in three out of the seven titty bars I worked at, I never even met the Owner, much less fought side by side with him.


  There's a bond that forms between men as they fight drunken rural bachelor party members amidst the diesel fumes of a cheap convict/party bus lent a garish glowing quality by the mandatory strip club neon lights. I'm not going to have the gall to compare it to actual combat or warfare, but kidney-punching or arch-stomping a wasted fuckwit who's trying to choke your fellow club staff is both satisfying and noteworthy.



7) Herb's Ribs and Clits: Rural fun for horny guys everywhere! The only Topless BBQ joint I've ever worked at. By state law you had to be at least 14 to get in and you could bring your own moonshine and prostitutes, provided you didn't offer to sell either one to other patrons.


   Herb's was a significant waypoint in my career. It marked the club where I decided that jeans, engineer boots and skull rings are holding me back from making slacks, wingtip and necktie money and all for nothing. I'm not a fancy person but being reasonably intelligent, possessed of a decent vocabulary and a willingness to use it, I talked my way into better jobs from this point forward.



  This marked a change in my life where I went from mobile-homeless, to buying shit I didn't really need because I could. It's a symptom of the formerly poor, buying shit you don't need but have always wanted, just to give the middle finger to life.


  At least you finish with something....



  In time you you get past this as well, hopefully, and realize that life is all about perspective and where one finishes in regards to where one started and what directions they may or may not have taken in the course of a life lived.




  This is all metaphysical bullshit and should be considered questionable at best by all who read it.




  Thank all of you who chose to support me with some contribution towards my non-homeless future, I certainly appreciate it and promise that I won't buy vodka with it. For the most part.



 




 Yours in continuity,
-The StripperHerder













*1 Crime, Scams or Similar Bullshit: The way most strip club Dancers and other positions such as Floor Staff, Management, Bartenders and Doorgirls make their best money. You find drunk enough prey, you pounce.

Stripperherders 'R' Us, A Floor Guy Report. Or, Telling It Like It Is.

  I don't talk much about my fellow Floor Hosts in the course of this blog. I've mentioned them here or there, normally in regards to an incident, or referring to A team and B team dynamics. Ergo I feel like it's a topic that is long overdue for some more in depth discussion.


  I would like to take a moment to point out that I am currently sober, a situation that may or may not change as I am feeling a bit under the weather at the moment. Cracking open a bottle of vodka would be a poor decision but that doesn't mean that I'm not going to make it. I will keep you informed, dear reader.





  So, Floor Hosts. The unsung heroes/asshole villains of any gentlemens club. Note that I used the term "Gentlemens Club" in this instance because before you can get into any discussion of the male employees of any given titty bar, you have to address the nature of the titty club first.


  Let me break it down for you as I have worked a broad range of this industry. Generally speaking, if a club is well appointed, ostentatious and has a variety of private rooms available for stupid amounts of money with Hosts running around in tuxes or ties, you're in a Gentlemen's Club.


  If however the location is sketchy, the environment worn and reliant on poor lighting to look anything beyond post apocalyptic and the security staff (if there are any) are clad in black t shirts that say "SECURITY" or "STAFF" on them, then you my friend are in a Titty Bar. Guys who work in these clubs are Bouncers, not, technically speaking, Floor Hosts.


  There's a lot of grey area between these two extremes and either one can provide a rewarding or horrible experience for the clever or shithead among you.

  Now that you're a bit clearer on the terminology, allow me to outline the various jobs that the Floor Staff at my particular club, A Gentleman's Club, are expected to do.


VIP Rooms: The coveted job. Minimal interaction with broke fuckbags because broke fuckbags can't afford these rooms. When you do this job, 90% of the time you lean against walls or sit on a couch and do whatever it is people do on phones all day long to kill time. Usually only on Friday or Saturday nights do you get busy enough to actually earn your hourly wage.

  Not only is this the easiest job in the house, it's far and away the most lucrative. The top earner on almost any given night will be a Host who worked the champagne rooms.


  So as you may have guessed, this is a 'A Team' job. The only time us lowly 'B Team' guys get a shot at it is when there's been an illness or death in the ranks, the A teamers get overwhelmed or it's a weekday and there are only two guys scheduled. Other than that, this is 'A Team' country and lowly B Scum need not apply.


Stage: Bottom of the food chain. Not a lot of earning potential. Basically a well dressed bouncer. The Host who has to watch the stage on the weekends is for all intents and purposes, the police. He's there to make sure any of our good-natured and fun loving strippers don't do things on stage that can get us shut down by the powers that be. While they do that they're also expected to watch the floor and make sure the clientele isn't doing anything verboten such as taking pics or video, finger blasting strippers on stage and/or general douchiness.


  It's not a desirable job in any sense which is why it is strictly the domain of the 'B Team' and always will be.


Counter: Worst job in the club in my opinion. The poor wretch who has to count dances is tied to the back room for the entire shift. He has to deal with wasted strippers, drunk idiot customers, spilled drinks, vomit, and the occasional explosion of feces. He's not supposed to take tips because management feels like he could accept them in return for not counting dances and cheating the club out of it's cut of each dancer's 'labors'. We would never do that.....


  The no tip part of this sucks because when the Counter tells a girl "I'm not allowed to accept tips, give it to the guy who walks you out", how do you think that works out for us? They tell the Host who walks them to their car that "I tipped the Counter", which is a lie roughly half the time. The problem is we can't talk about it on the radio because Dynamic Management Team Alpha Ostrich Thunder is always listening. Therefore we lose that tip.


  There's been a recent crackdown on the Floor Staff recently due to sloppy procedural practices and a general lack of effort on most of our parts. Being as how I mostly drive the shuttle and work the door, I basically just got reamed for everyone else's laziness. It's ironic because I, for the most part, DO all of the little details that I'm supposed to do on the rare circumstances I work these positions, but ended up getting screamed at anyway.


  I've learned from long experience to just nod my head, say the right words and ride out the current pogrom. In a short period of time everything will go back to how it was and we'll have a few months of relative peace until the next witch hunt starts.


  It's all just a cycle.


Door: Working the door is the second suckiest job in the building. Same thing night in and night out: They don't want to pay the cover, they SHOULDN'T HAVE TO pay the cover, don't I know who they are? The same stupid fucking jokes and comments all drunks make when they think they're being clever, which is all the time. It's tedious, frustrating and makes you think about beating people unmercifully.


  That being said if you're willing to play dirty and deal with possible consequences from your actions, you can make a few bucks working the door. I mostly choose not to do this because to me it's not worth losing my job over a measly hundred bucks or less. But honestly the real reason is because I enjoy deflating people's egos a bit. It's the only thing fun about being the Door Whore.



Floater: When the club is well staffed enough to have extra Hosts around, their job is just to wander through the club being vigilant and helpful, friendly and welcoming. This sucks, but it's preferable to the Counter or the Door.



  Take all the positions listed above and add in a generous helping of janitorial service and everyone's else's work too, and you have what I do for a living.






  Now that I've covered that, let's...








                   Meet the Floor Staff!

                                      Me, Lo-Jaj, Seamus, Fitch and Mephistopheles.






  Our management team, Alpha Ostrich Thunder believes in diversity. The Floor Staff here at the club illustrates this principle quite nicely as you will read below.





Mephistopheles Rodriguez: (Codename: El Matador) Quiet, dependable, recently experimenting with sobriety. This Mexican-American font of tranquility is cool to work with, which happens for me about once a month due to conflicting schedules. Fisty is purely an A Team guy, only works a few shifts a month and never does anything except VIP rooms.

                                         "Hey man, youj need bottle service, eh?"



Seamus O'Grady: (Codename: McBastard) I used to hate Seamus when I first started here. Like some other clubs I've been at, the entrenched staff isn't very friendly or open to new Floor Guys. There's definitely a shake down period where you have to prove yourself one of the team or you'll get iced out and be stuck with the worst jobs forever. Seamus is pretty much the ringleader here and was kind of a dick to me for the first 90 days or so.


  After we got over that rough patch, we figured out we're both equally horrible in how we think of other humans and have a similar sense of humor. Sure he's the laziest one of us all and doesn't do shit but VIP rooms, but he's honest mostly which is more than I can say for the staff at the last club I worked at who were fucking thieves.



Brijc Vjasdiloljic (Boris): (Codename: Citizen Comrade) Face like an anvil, heart like a hammer. Boris isn't actually Russian nor named "Boris", but since us Murrikans can't pronounce 'Brijc', he's resigned himself to being called Boris and accepts it with grim good humor.

                                         Totally not the second guy from left. Nope.





  He never talks about his past and therefore we all assume he's some sort of Special Forces/Black Ops from an undisclosed former Soviet Bloc nation who's probably wanted for war crimes or something. Don't ask, don't tell.


  Boris is solid though. He's dependable as hell, doesn't bat an eyelash at doing unpleasant things such as mopping poop, puke or human innards and there's no one else you want on your side in the event of a ruckus. That's where Boris can really be himself; amidst the fray. That where he shines.



Little Billy Hoskins: (Codename: Temporary) Our newest Floor Team member looks kinda like I did when I was 13, only smaller. He's a nice kid, but the dancers already have him wrapped around their finger and I don't think he's gonna make it at this club. Not sure what Management was thinking by hiring a 22 year old kid to do this job, but I know for a fact that at his age, I would've never been able to overcome the many opportunities available to me to fuck up my livelihood, not to mention my life.


  He has a great chance to make a good living here, if he has the will power and self awareness not to screw it up. We'll see....

                                     "You wanna Cham-pag-NEE room? I gotchya!"



Lo Jaq Washington: (Codename: Mocha Smoothie) I like Lo-Jaq. He's a Floor Team stalwart and always has a fellow Floor Guy's back. He's an A Teamer of course, but will stand in briefly on other jobs for you if you need to piss or grab a smoke.


  That being said, like all the other A Team guys, don't expect Lo Jaq will swap shifts with you or cover one for you if you're sick. Ain't ever gonna happen, son.









Fitch Schmidt: (Codename: No Codename) Ole Fitchy has become one of those guys who allows his wang to really complicate his life. Knocking girls up, juggling multiple dancers at the same club, legal stuff, custody horseshit. It just seems like a lot to go through for on-demand ass.

                              "I canna be expected to evade every voogina toosed me way."


 



  I expect that kinda stuff out of fresh faced 20 somethings, but Mr Schmidt is in his mid thirties and, frankly, should have better impulse control by now. Or at least learned something from previous mistakes. But I guess getting laid is all he has going for him.


  He's gonna have to pull his head out of various girl's va jay jays soon, Management is getting fed up with his alienating strippers until they go somewhere else. I'm sorta surprised he hasn't been fired by now.


  At what point do you glance down and say to yourself "Goddamn you, penis!"?



Hiram Scooterveldt: (Codename: Joker) Fat cunt.*1



Young Robby Bangemall: This kid ain't gonna last. A month in and has already mated with a quarter of the Dancer Corps. Fuckin his way right out of a job, exactly what I would've done at his age, except he's much more efficient at it than I would've been.




  So that's the majority of the Floor Hosts I work with. The other two are like extras in a movie not important enough for a backstory, I don't know shit about them and rarely work with them, so they don't merit a mention here.


  Sorry lads.




  In other news, Dynamic Management Team Alpha Ostrich Thunder recently suspended Godiva, our most drunk, conniving waitress for whatever her latest offense was. It's about fooking time. This criminal bitch should've been fired long ago based on looks alone. Scare the bark off a tree then steal it's leaves, she would.



  She's been caught red handed swindling tips off a high end customer, who, by the way, accused the Floor Staff of ripping him off. Made a big stink about it. Turns out it was Godiva that was rippin him off the whole fucking time. Fired? Nope. Suspended? Nope. Tacitly condoned? Yep.


  I hope this "suspension" is, in reality, a parting of the ways with Thief Gut. It should have been enough when she was so drunk at the end of one memorable shift that she didn't know what money meant anymore, or how to ascertain how much one might have of it. Classic Godiva moment.






  And that's about all you're getting in this one. I will go back through it and put in some pics, solely for the benefit of my illiterate fans, of which there are many.


  Until next time, which will hopefully be a Year End Special, try not to molest anyone.




The World's 76th Best Blogger,
-The StripperHerder


















*1 I found out much later that Hiram (Floor Guy Code Name: Joker, Butterball) was the guy that narced me out about this very literary endeavor to the scheduling Manager, his pedicure buddy. This is after I had sensed in him a kindred spirit and disastrously approached him to help me write a sitcom based on this here blog.

  He kept quiet for maybe 3-4 months and then spilled the beans to ingratiate himself with his platonic Management benefactor. That's when shit got all fucky.

  Luckily for me their legal team declared there's no possible way to prove who wrote anything on the 'net that doesn't include intimate details and therefore I was unable to be held accountable for stuff.


  Still, you know, fuck you Butterball and whatnot. I am a man who believes in karma. I fervently pray that his self serving bullshit will one day bite him in the ass


  

Because I Don't Care Anymore, I Just Republished About 40 Older Posts, Many Of Which Deal With Management And Their Effectiveness And Brilliance.

  Over the next....little while, I'll be going through my archives and republishing some posts I had taken down for one reason or another, usually because they were hyper critical of Dynamic Management Team: Laser Falcon™.

  But seeing as this is no longer a concern for me, let's put em back up, shall we?


  Now as I repost these, they will appear chronologically by the date they were originally posted, not conveniently at the top of the blog. Ergo, you might have to breeze through the archives to find them. Shouldn't be too hard, there's a lot of them.



  As to new posts, well don't hold your breath. I'm not saying I'll never get around to finishing up some drafts, god knows I have plenty of half complete crap in my Draft files, but I've moved on to other things and am devoting whatever energy I can muster towards them.


  It felt like this blog had sort of run its course before I stopped working in the industry, now I'm sure of it. I had a good run, it would've been 9 years on Oct 2, and maybe I'll try to put a little something-something up for that.


  No promises, kids.


  But I would like to say thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it as much or more as I did writing it.


  Feel free to check out my other even less content containing blog, Dark Lord's Journal for more of my brand of lazy, evil-leaning humor.


https://darklordsjournal.blogspot.com/




Retired Stripper-Herder
-The StripperHerder.

Re-publishing all kinds of older stuff, because who the fuck cares anymore.

Aw yeah.

The Least Subtle Vehicle In The Town™. Or, If My Manager Has Nothing To Be Angry About, So He'll Manufacture A Reason.

 Ya know, I've been really, really drunk in public a few times. Like combative, mindless drunk and I'm not proud of it. Even at that level of hammered I could still tell you what club or bar I was in, even if I couldn't explain how I arrived there. I don't think there's ever been a time where I didn't know what bar I was in, when I was in it.


  There may be an exception or two, but if I was drunk enough to not know where I was, I probably shouldn't have been allowed entry in the first place.


  So it amuses me when some functionally drunk shuttle patron asks "So where does this thing go?" I mean talk about an utter lack of situational awareness. You just hopped on a shamelessly corporate emblazoned limo bus the size of a garage, garishly painted with suggestive images in lurid colors, and you don't know where you're going?


  How can you still be walking around? How can you not have skinned by a serial killer by now? Getting into random vehicles piloted by a stranger with absolutely no idea where said vehicle goes, even when it's written in 10 inch lettering on the side in retina-searing hues.


  To me, it's astounding how trusting and utterly culpable people can be, especially when drinking.


  I'd love to buy a limo bus and paint on it in perfectly respectable lettering "Mikey's Rape, Murder and Sexual Torture Mobile!" right next to some cute corporate logo and see how many people climb aboard, blissfully unaware of what they'd just stepped into.


  I could have meat hooks dangling from the ceiling and blood drenching the floor and I guarantee I could still catch one or two on the weekends.



                      Odin have mercy on us all.




  Here's where the alcohol industry is in a Catch-22 situation because of lawyers. Especially upscale strip clubs.


  Getting searched at the door is an extremely unpleasant thing to have to go through, and our most desirable clientele aren't used to it because they don't go to the kinds of clubs where you get searched at the front door. I've never worked at a strip club where we searched people at the door and I've worked at seven different strip clubs in two states, some of them appalling in aspect.


  I've worked bars and concert clubs where we patted down or wanded people at the door, but never a titty shack.


  Therefore, people can generally get into a strip club anything they want provided it isn't something as obvious as a shotgun strapped to their back, or a chainsaw where their hand should be. We won't control what comes through our doors, and thus are forced to merely react to it, rather than being proactive about it.


  It's the strip club curse, People have literally come into the club with a dozen of those little airline bottles of booze in their socks or pockets and proceeded to get massively hammered even though they were told the only reason we were even letting them in the club in the first place was because they agreed to not drink anymore.


  If we're not going to search people, which will never happen, then these things will continue to occur. The lawsuits will keep coming, our lawyers will grow wealthy and we'll still amble about our jobs, going through the motions and hoping for the best. Seems counter productive, dumb even.




  So let's get into a few more slices of the shit-pizza, shall we?



  We had the best Friday night we've had in a long time and instead of being happy or god forbid telling the team what a great job we did tonight, our Manager, Sir Desperately Ineedov-Valium IX, starts yelling at the Floor Staff about how four or five of our dancers weren't 'checked in' but the House Mom.


  Some of you unfamiliar with titty shack procedures may be wondering at this point what the fuck I'm talking about. So let me explain.


  The House Mom, who is much less effective here than at any other strip club I've ever worked at, is supposed to give the girls a little card she has signed that states said dancer has been House Mom Approved. I.E. she has met all the club requirements on appearance, attire, nipple armor and various other esoteric mandatory bullshit that the club and laws demand.


  Whichever Floor Cunt is running the Counter is supposed to make sure they have this piece of cardboard before he signs a dancer in and thus puts her on the clock. We had almost 80 dancers tonight, which is a record number for the time I've been here. Well in the chaos, the Counter missed*1 roughly a half dozen dancers and since Sir Desperately didn't have anything else to bitch about, he selected this meaningless cause to get all pro wrestler about.


  Literally fucking screaming at us about how if we can't do our jobs right, he'll find some that will. Fortunately for us we've learned from past experience that this is just his way of letting off steam and we nod and put on our repentant faces and otherwise ignore him.


  But it still sucks to be rage-spittled at by someone who should be thanking you for a non-murderful job well done. It's fucking demoralizing on every level. I don't mind being yelled at when I've done something wrong, but here's the part about this particular situation that gave it an extra layer of shit frosting:


  While it is a Floor Guy's job to clock dancers in, it's the Dancers' job to check in with us when starting their shift. It's in their contract for fucksakes. They are also obligated check in with the DJ before they start "work" and required to check out with first the DJ and the Counter at the end of their shifts.


  Beyond 'Don't break the law', strippers here don't really have any procedural obligations other than what I listed above. That's about it.


  And because so many of them are so bad at it, many of these things end up as Floor Guy responsibilities. Literally stuff that is the responsibility of the Stripper, but becomes a Floor Ape thing because too many of the girls can't be trusted to do them.


  Let me give you two examples of this titty-centric madness.


1) "Check out with the DJ". The poor bastard running the Counter has to tell all the strippers to check out with the DJ first before they can clock out. Then he has to wait for the DJ to radio him that Whatsherface is checking out and then he can sign them out for the night.

 
  We were forced to start doing this because strippers would just plain lie about it. "Yes, I checked out with the DJ" they would say very convincingly. An hour after the girl had left the DJ's calling her to stage and this throws the rotation into chaos.


2) "Did you check out with the Counter?" Just asking this question proved fruitless in many cases because, again, bitches just plain lied about it. I know, I know, it continually shocked me too.


  So we began to have to call the Counter for each and every stripper we walked out, to make sure she'd done the two steps required of her.


 

  This is a recurring theme in all strip clubs I've worked in: Give It To The Floor Staff. Everything management doesn't want to be bothered about, or by whose lack of consistency extra work is created, goes to the fucking Floor Grunts. The buck, more often than not, stops with us.



  #floorguyproblems
-The StripperHerder













*1 And by "missed" I mean the dancers didn't bother checking in with him. Ain't his fault.**



  **But did the dancers who failed to check in get covered with scream-spit?


     Nope.

  

More Republished Classics Because, You Know, It Doesn't Matter Anymore. Or, Enjoy That Rich, Vintage Flavor Of A Properly Aged Post.

Four more Classic Herder post for your consumption.

Bone-Ape-Tit.







https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2017/09/porn-stars-sometimes-they-can-be-50.html


https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2017/06/so-much-to-talk-about-so-little-vodka.html


https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2017/04/every-little-thing-she-does-is-tragic.html


https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2017/03/thank-you-for-making-me-600-heres-your.html

Six Sauced Strippers Sliding Slowly Sideways In A Silver Saturn On Snowy Streets Seems Super Scary. Or, Look Angry And Carry A .45.

Most strippers aren't very good at driving under ideal conditions, much less when taking selfies in a blizzard while two of them are having a fight over a picture of a drug dealer's penis in the backseat. I'm constantly amazed when certain strippers turn up for work each day, continuing to triumph over statistical probabilities."Life hasn't killed you yet?" I think to myself. "Huh".*1


  The sheer amount of effort they put into doing what a normal person would call 'waking up and getting to work' is astounding. They've complicated their lives so thoroughly with their drug problems, their drinking, their unplanned children, their DUI's, social media feuds, their frequently hostile relationships with their "boyfriends/bebbydeddy's" and all the related chaos these things bring, that's it's actually something of an accomplishment when they get to work within three hours of when they're supposed've been there.



  Many strippers who started in the industry at a young age aren't like you or I, they seldom have any idea how the real world works, or at least how it works for normal looking people and/or those unwilling to take their clothes off to support themselves.


  I know a couple of dancers that never had a "real" job. Their first and only occupation is being a stripper. They have no real concept of the value of a dollar, no interest in planning for their future because they'll be pretty and young forever and money just happens, yo. Guys like to buy them stuff and usually drugs are free.


  It's these kind of girls who go one of two ways, they either learn to pull their heads out of their own vaginas in time to see that the lifestyle they lead is using them up fast and that they'd better start putting some of their large, untaxed income to good use instead of buying purses, shoes and cocaine with it.


  Or they just go with it and look haggard and frontier-ish by the time they're 27, well established with their drug of choice and with multiple children that various other people care for most of the time because they're either sleeping, partying or at work. Which is oftentimes all the same thing.





                              *******************************





  Some hardcore readers may be wondering who is my current nemesis and I have to say, at the moment I don't have one. Sure there are dancers I like and dancers I don't like, but there's no one glaring ultimate overbitch that I'm slugging it out with.


  No Vodzilla, no Elsie the Wonder-Cow, no Rattie, no SkeevaTron.



  That being said there are still girls I dislike working with and there can be various reasons why I don't like working with them. For the sake of clarity I'd like to mention that there is a very easy way for me to like you as a stripper: fucking tip me.


  It's seriously that simple. Tip me something and I will suddenly forget, overlook and/or ignore any facets of your behavior and practices that I may not care for. I'm willing to put up with a tremendous amount of horseshit if I'm getting paid. I work with a large number of girls who are very nice and trouble-free as strippers which is a lot to like quite frankly, and I still act neutral towards them because they don't tip.


  Ever.



  Say a Floor Host makes you a grand by getting you into a champagne room with a whale. That Floor Host deserves a tip and if you ever want him to do that again, you goddamn well better give him some money. But what about the Floor Cunt who makes sure you're not robbed of that $1000 while walking to your car? Surely he may one day prove to be equally important if not more so than any VIP-Host guy, right?



  So tip him you silly twat. The reason dudes lingering in the parking lot don't fuck with you and try to throw drunk game at you all the way to your car is because of ME, the giant lumbering and unhappy looking guy at your side. If I wasn't there, you can be assured that you'd have many more uncomfortable encounters while walking to your car, with a much higher possibility of something really bad happening than if I wasn't.


  But not on my watch. I'd literally kill a guy if I had to to protect even a non-tipper and I carry the tools to do it. This is a fact, missy and should be worth something to anyone who's not an oblivious, self-absorbed jizz-sock.


  .
   I am the fucking reason the parking lot is safe even if you take it as granted. Give me money so I can afford air conditioning in Summer and the occasional gyro.

                                      30 rounds of .45 ACP at 25 feet. Better than most.




  To continue with this theme, here are some dancers currently on my Naughty Bitch List:



-Channing: Non-tipper. Like many strippers tries to hide/enhance her plainness and insecurity with prison-biker amounts of tattoos. Hasn't worked yet but maybe if she gets a lifesize picture of a pretty girl tattooed on her face.....

                          "I'm thinking flowers on one side and steampunk gears on the other."



-Nurney: Non-tipper. Also fat, gross and embarrassing. FUPA doesn't even begin to describe it. Midriff wraps and onesie outfits are only going to hide so much you fucking orca.

                Still allowed on stage despite the structural risk. Those are load bearing stripper poles...






-Ming-Soo (Russian girl believe it or not): Serial drunk, non tipper. Dumb as yeast.

                                                   "I wike wodka, not know chess."







-Apocrypha: Uglier than rat scrotum. Non-tipper.


-Elwood P. Grimsby: Looks like a retired NFL linebacker with giant fake titties and artificial ass. Tips, but in small ways.


-Eleanora I'm Gonna Bore-Ya: Tee-Dee-Us. This stripper creates a fear in me whenever I see her approach, or more specifically, if we make eye contact. She will talk the flesh off your bones, boyo. Unending chatter about the most innane of subjects until you're looking for a sturdy rafter and an extension cord.


  She lives her life under the comforting illusion she's more intelligent than most people. And while this may be marginally true, one must remember that the vast majority of human beings, regardless of race, religion or creed, are idiots and in a Strip Club, that bar is set even lower.


  Run, lad. Fucking RUN.


  Tips crappily every once in a while.

                            "You don't want a dance? OK. Let's talk about religion and politics!"






Molasses: Used to tip OK then decided we weren't worth it unless we look the other way while she gives an apathetic handy. Currently residing in "non-tipperville".

                                           Don't judge. She looks great in near-darkness.







Wanda: Drunk 80% of shifts. When confronted immediately starts crying. Total fucking mess. Tips a wad of crumpled singles that never amounts to more than $7, then cries. Spreads all the crap in her purse all over the ground then can't remember what's she's looking for then cries. Complete plane crash, that cries.


Tulsa: Good looking, yet utter 'hood garbage. Extreme non-tipper. In fact she's one of those wretched girls that siphons off dances from strippers who might have actually tipped if they'd made money. Tulsa is the equivalent of an intestinal parasite in our dancer stable, stealing nutrients that at some point may have nourished the Floor Staff.


-Lucinda: Serial drunk, part time Hyde. Is so fucking stupid that if she played a game of checkers against herself, both sides would lose. Also really short. She looks kinda like someone left Ronnie James Dio in a dryer too long and he emerged smaller yet amused about it. And in a pink bikini.

                               "Welcome to the Silver Mountain. There's gonna be lightning...."








-Wysteria: Fragile, demented, alcoholic, emaciated white girl trapped in a black girl's body.*2 Always wasted, but denies it. Non-Tipper but frequently loses money which we find and don't return whence we establish it's hers.


-Scirocco: Lifetime Achievement Award Recipient for Non-Tipping. Has never been caught tipping and never will. Current owner of the 39th Ugliest Tits I have ever seen, which is saying something. Seems to be still growing taller and stronger into her 30's. Odd.




  Which leads me to:


  
Simple clues that a patron may be too intoxicated to be allowed entry into the club.




  I've included this helpful section for the sole hope that it may lead, even once, to me not having to explain to someone why they are too drunk to come into the club. The ultimate lesson to be learned here is that a seasoned drunk, who's not a total dick when he's hammered, will not only accept a Door Guy's decision not to allow him into the club, but will actually respect it.


  "Well spotted, lad. Yes I AM a shitfaced mongrel, ill advisedly seeking more booze because it seems like a great idea. And I believe you when you say it's time to call it a night. Not only are you fucking big, you are wise."


  *fist bump*



-Among the very first obvious clues is the ability/inability to walk. Many really drunk people have a rough time with balance while performing simple motor functions. I am one of them, so I should know. When someone rolls up to the door supported on one or more sides by a friend(s), they aren't coming in.


  I've watched people literally crawl up to the door, somehow so drunk they thought I'd let them in. Not even kidding.


-Another is having barf all over your shirt. This is almost always a dead giveaway because if you were sober enough to enter the club and that was really "a friend's" vomit splashed across your torso, then you would've changed clothes or made some effort to clean it off at least. That fact that you're sporting it with zero awareness that it's even there tells us you're housed, mate.


  How can you not smell it?



-Reiterative speech is another huge clue. You explain/ask the same fucking thing over and over and no matter how carefully slow and using really small words we tell you the same goddamn thing, no amount of repeating ourselves gets through your booze-fucked brain.


  It's like you don't even hear us. Or believe for some reason that asking why you're not allowed in fifteen times will magically result in us allowing you in the sixteenth time you plead your case.





  At this point I'd like to add in a comment that very well could've been a footnote, but I felt was worth mentioning in regards to my perspective on this topic.


  I have never waited in a line to get into a bar or restaurant because I refuse to do so. There are plenty of other places I can go and there is no food, drink or product that I'm willing to stand in line for like a steer waiting to be branded. I don't do standing in lines. Even when I still liked going out to bars, before two decades of the service industry raped and set all that on fire, I still wouldn't stand in line for a bar or club.


  The reason being that if you're the kind of person who will stand in line just to get into someplace that's going to overcharge you for everything, then you're a type of person I wouldn't want to hang out with in the first place.


  Fucking sheep.



  Just wanted to address that to all the ovines I see standing in lines a hundred yards long to get into some shitty nightclub. God bless ya, bah-bah.






Lastly I'm gonna close with the subject of closing. As in the end of business hours. To my knowledge and experience, there is no industry outside of the hospitality sector where "we're closed" doesn't seem to register with some people. They feel as if somehow we should just continue to accommodate them until they feel they're ready to leave even if they're not spending any money.


  The vast majority of patrons who come to the club late are people who don't really care if they're at a strip club or otherwise, they just don't want to go home yet, as customers they are completely worthless.


  And not only are the shitbags already in the club at closing time always a lingering problem, the amount of people trying to still come into the club after we're closed is fucking astounding.


  This shit doesn't fly at banks, law offices, fast food restaurants, government offices, retail shops, oil change garages, airports, home improvement centers, cinemas or the vast fucking majority of other businesses as well. When they're closed, they're closed and no amount of drunk pleading will change that. So why would it at a place that serves booze or titty or both?


  But bars and clubs? Totally different world, kiddo. People ask ALL THE TIME after the doors are locked and the lights are on*3 if they can come in. They promise they're going to spend money. Then when I quote them how much it will take, up front,  for me to let them in based on how many people in their party, they inevitably decline or demand illegal extras we can't do, like after hours bottle service. Those days are long gone I inform them, 'gone the way of the smilodon, me bairns" which none of them has ever understood.


  Turns out they weren't able to ball on even a pathetic, 10th rate Town scale. Mouths' writing promissory notes their wallets' can't cover and so forth.


  Assholes. Amateur assholes.


  Only a disorganized, spontaneous group of drinkers would ever dream of going out without a backup/post-last-call plan. How hard is it to imagine a scenario when you all may want to continue partying after the clubs close? Like, has that never happened to you before? Then God bless ya, teatotaller or early crasher....


  But if it has happened to you more than once and you still haven't developed the keen sense of designating a Plan B location properly stocked with shit to drink, then you remain in the Pee-Wees, laddy. That scenario happened to me exactly three times, two of which were my fault and the other a wuss-out on a promised hang out spot.


  But that was all before I was legally allowed to drink or purchase booze. After turning 21 this has never happened because it's astonishingly easy to plan for once you're able to acquire alcohol legally.


  You fucking amateurs.


  Bah.






A Tongue In The Bush Is Worth Two In The Hand,
-The StripperHerder












*1 Some of my more sharp eyed readers may come to the conclusion that it's fucking June and that me writing about strippers driving poorly in snowy conditions may seem a bit out of place. But it's not. Don't question it. Move onto the next paragraph, gentle reader. Forget what you've read here....


All is well.








*2 Her words, not mine. Step away from the keyboard slowly.....







*3 The strip club being the opposite of all other business in the fact that when the real lights are on inside, we're closed.

Italy Almost Tied With Amurrika For June Views, Author Stunned. Or, Some Archived Installments Offered To The Romans, Like Barbarian Tribute.

  I gotta tell ya, Italy's fucking impressive right now. There must be some kind of StripperHerder Underground there, spreading the gospel. My growth there has been unnatural in the nine years I've been writing this blog. Italy went from not-even-on-the-top-ten to 2nd place in a well established readership in something like 6-8 months.


  For me, who never promotes this humble blog anywhere, this readership spike is fascinating to me. Flattering too. It's nice to know that my brand of universal hatred and generalized loathing transcends national boundaries.


  In honor of my growing Italia fanbase, I'm going to re-publish two more StripperHerdrer CLASSICS.



  They are:



  https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2016/12/the-stripperherder-2016-year-end.html




  And




https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2013/10/stinkier-than-rancid-chutney-on-raccoon.html






  I hope you enjoy them. Thank you for pizza.




The StripperHerder

Mosser's Guide To Strip Club Fauna, Pt 2: The Denizens. Or, Saturday Night Scripts: A Selection Of Sixth Day Stereotypical Shitheadedness, Saturday-Related Shatnanigans*1 And Suchforth.

  Nearly as important to the functioning of a strip club biosphere as the Strippers, the denizens who inhabit the titty bar ecosystem are equally critical to a club's survival. In a perfect world all of the Regulars would be generous wealthy and classy guys who harbored no secret agenda of panty-sniffing, clandestine BJ's or renting various orifices for later use. But when was that last time you looked around and thought to yourself, "Golly. What a perfect world."


  That's what I thought.


  There are nearly endless varieties of strip club Denizens, all neatly subdivided by the esteemed Dr. Mosser into their Family groups, such as Drug Dealers, Regulars, Occasional Enthusiasts, Frustrated Pervs, Predatory Part Timers, etc etc.


  What I'll be detailing in my selections from the good doctor's work will be examples that pertain to my club, all the fair minded, generous types I deal with.






Lurking Larry's: They're like shadow people, they melt away at the approach of a Stripper, backing into a hole like a retreating meerkat. They aren't at the club to spend money or talk to pretty girls, they're far too socially awkward/psychopathic to actually talk to one of the Vagina-ed, they just like looking at them and thinking about whatever it is they think about.


  I've found it's best not to ponder too deeply on the matter, just be prepared to eventually hit one of them with a barstool when he finally goes feral on some girl he's been obsessing about.

                                                     "Stop. I have no money...."





Dayshift Daycare: We have a slew of Dayshift regulars that clearly have psychological issues who hang out at the club all day every day as if it was some sort of topless-staffed Halfway House. There's no cover charge if you get there early enough, maybe an hour or two after the shelter kicks them out for the day I'm guessing. I don't know what the fuck's going on with them, but so far they haven't caused any problems that I'm aware of. Still I'm suspicious.


  Now call me paranoid, but seeing as how there's ZERO security on our Dayshift, it means these obviously troubled folks can waltz in with whatever they want on their person, they certainly aren't gonna get frisked at the door.


  And some day I wouldn't be surprised if one of them went all stalky-stab on a dancer or anyone else who gets in his way or tried to stop him. Like a Floor Host. Like me.


  I'm sorta like a Panda Bear in fight. Yes you can stab me and eventually you'll cut something critical, but with a blade under 5 inches and stabs to the torso with me resisting, it'll probably take a while. But to further complicate survival scenarios on my part, I'll probably need a rest before my crazy-powered attacker does, thus meaning I'll more than likely just get hacked to pieces unless I can break his spine or neck quickly enough.


  I give it a 60/40 chance in favor of the blade wielding maniac unless I can get my hands on a bottle or a previously deceased stripper carcass to use as a shield/unconventional weapon.*2

                                                   "I will always love TIFFANY. Any TIFFANY!"
                                     







Eldertharios: A portmanteau of Elderly and Lothario, meaning an old pervert. Like a guy in his 60's or 70's still trying to buy teen poony. Or just look at it. Or buy panties that have touched it. Whatever. It's creepy and I don't care for it one bit. No I don't. Keep it to your browser, grey-dick.


  Doesn't help that it's a rare Elderthario that actually fucking tips. Most just want to grunt one out as cheaply as possible with the help of a drunk girl's thong, with or without her in it.


  Fucking despicable, but there you have it.

                                 "Why are none of your strippers in Girl Scout uniforms?"






Remoras: Small sucker-like losers that somehow attach themselves to Hotty-Shark Dancers. They almost never mate with these gals and are constantly forced to merely swim around while their hotty-shark is getting banged by much more aggressive and frequently criminal sharks. They're used to it.


  Remoras are often a default landing pad for strippers rejected by the latest guy to get sick of them. Remoras offer the refuge of a financial coral reef in exchange for the merest whiff of gangster-pounded pudenda and seem to enjoy hand laundering semen stains that aren't their own.


  Sad really. Seen it a million times. Always gives me a skeeve-chill.

                                           "Please let me eat you when he's done."






Rappers: Listen, I get it. You're a rapper and thus incredibly important and make WAY more money than me, which as we all know automatically makes you a better person. Please relate to me how much better you are than me based on income when I don't know who you are. I don't know rappers because I'm not a rap fan.*3


  Before you get all offended allow me to state that 98% of musicians from bands I really love could come to the club and I wouldn't know who the fuck they are either.


  I'm not up on shit. I like what I like but don't always look at pictures of it or remember shit if I did.


  Don't take it personal and things will go better for both of us. This is a great guideline for almost the entirety of the human experience:


              

                    DON'T TAKE IT PERSONAL*4

             "Yo dog, I'm Whyt Noiz, straight outta central Indiana. How you not know me, son?"






Gropers: Gropers are usually virgins. Doesn't make any difference how old they are, 21 or 81, what they all have in common is that they've never had their wang in a cooch, or to be fair, maybe once or twice in their miserable, lonely lives. Probably for less than thirty seconds in all.


  A groper's MO is to grab as much ass and squeeze as much titty as they can get away with for the price of admission and a tap water. Then they take the memory of the suppleness of said ass or titty home with them and savage their members remorselessly until the inevitable happens. These poor fucks have realized and more importantly come to terms with the fact that they have no qualities that the opposite sex might find attractive and therefore embrace the Groper ethos: grab her and then grab yourself, preferably with the same hand.


  I'm not opposed to this doctrine on a moral basis, I've been known to crank one out after having only gotten to second base with a girl. You gotta do what you gotta do. The difference is I wasn't groping a girl who made her living from being groped (mostly) and ergo I didn't feel obligated to tip the gal whereas a Groper should definitely tip the girl he's gonna fap to later.


  It's just the right thing to do. Consider it a rental cost for the spank-bank download it created.








      Amusing things I've heard from customers lately:






1)  We had this wee, passport carrying Irishman in the other day. He was shitfaced when he came into the club and I tried not think stereotypical thoughts about that. Anyway, I see him at various points in the night and I'll give the guy this-although he could've been outsmarted by bacteria at any point I saw him, dude walked just fine. I wouldn't have been able to tell he was drunk by watching him walk, which is normally a dead giveaway.


  But if he spoke more than a word to you, shit became obvious real quick.


  Like the time I was headed out to the patio to check things out and he was headed back into the club. He stopped me and said something like: "yer door's not working anymore, lad." Referring to the door he had literally just walked through.


  I replied that it was never designed to 'filter wee drunk Celts' and he just blinked at me, crinkled up his brow and walked away.


    It was very satisfying.

                       "Yer fookin dooor's unworkin, scrogglin. Best ya be seein ta it, soonish."











2) "Dis ATM not give me money. Why it not give me money? I try tree times, a-whooga whooga whooga."


  

  Hmmmmmmm, baffling. Let's look at the receipt for valuable clues, shall we? Ah yes, there it is.


  YOUR FUCKING CARD IS EXPIRED, YOU SHOT GLASS FULL OF CYST FLUID.


  I would submit to you that maybe more money is the last thing you need at this moment. That being said, let me help you obtain more dough, valued customer! Let's see what other credit cards you have it that stinky wallet and start thrusting them randomly into that bastard of an ATM.


  The ATM is the enemy who is withholding your hard earned money from you. The ultimate nemesis. The only way to achieve victory is to successfully pull out some cash. Make it cum money into your hand, you shitfaced sock-molester!

                               "Me PIN number is 'grunt-grunt-stagger-kill', me sure of it."







3) "I'm going to call my lawyer because I did not receive the totally illegal act promised to me if I paid for a Champagne Room. Gonna call the cops too."




  Think for one moment about the utter ridiculousness of that statement and tell me, dear reader, if that's something you'd actually do, think about doing or use as a threat against your perceived transgressors at the good ole neighborhood Slitty-Shack. Only a mongoloid-level drunk motherfucker could possibly think that it's either a good idea or that somehow it may work out for them and not cost them 10 times what they lost in the club.


  Listen, if a stripper says she'll blow you in a champagne room or that she'll bang you senseless for an extra $100, take it with a grain of salt you wasted, dickbrained sot. Prostitution, which fucking in a champagne room definitely qualifies as, is illegal nearly everywhere in Amurrika.


  This is the equivalent of calling 911 and stating to them that the guy you gave money to for an 8-ball of cocaine and a willing boy-child ripped you off, providing neither blow nor pre-teen and you'd like law enforcement to do something about it. How dare this guy not provide the narcotics nor pedophilia you prepaid for?


  What is the world coming to?


   'I pay your wages' and so forth you should tell them when you report the crime, they can relate to things like that. No seriously.


  Any attorney worth his salt would give you the following advice: "Give up. Chalk it up as a loss and for God's sake go home before you make things worse for yourself. I bill in 15 minute increments, you owe me $75. Goodnight"


  AND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS YOU HOLD SACRED, LISTEN TO YOUR LEGAL COUNSEL. HE/SHE IS WISE WHILE YOU ARE DRUNK AND/OR AN IDIOT.


  If they bill you $75 for this advice, you should tip them. By suggesting you walk the fuck away and make it into some kind of brolktale*5 you tell your drinkin buddies, they have done you a service, genius.


  But only if you choose to follow that $75 advice. It's up to you..


  There's always the hard way...





4) "Why you not have no girls with big booties? Best ho in dere couldna been a buck-sixty!"*6



  Different clubs serve different clientele. What one demographic considers attractive, another may not. There are many examples of this, in my experience, all across ethnic and socio-economic lines.


  None of these are rock solid realities of course, but they are generally pretty fair assumptions to make. You'll be correct more times than you're wrong, if you're a betting person.


  Although based in majority consensus over my 20 year career, These observations will nevertheless be offensive to the sorts of folks who probably shouldn't be reading this blog in the first place.



-Asian men, i.e. actual men from Asia as opposed to Asian-Americans, generally aren't interested in Asian strippers. They normally like blonde pale types, black girls or latinas. Who can blame them? Everyone likes something exotic, something different that what you normally see on a day to day basis.


-Indian men are much the same as Asian men, they like pale girls with rosy pink naughty parts because it's out of the ordinary for them.


-Black guys seem to like dancers with no upper limit of ass. A stripper could drag a Death-Star sized ass up on stage and as long as she could make it clap in a way that is seismically measurable, they'd be lining up to make it rain on her. There is no such thing as 'too much ass'.

                                        "Yo get that skinny ho off da stage!"






-Hispanic dudes tend to like white girls and hispanic girls.


-Arabic guys like anything with a vagina because they don't really consider them human per se. More like collectables you can jizz in that also do the housework.

                                              







  And all that horribly offensive shit being said, it's time to end this installment, for the good of mankind.



  Tune in next time when I talk about something I haven't thought about yet and hope I can finish in a timely fashion.



Until then, I remain

Your StripperHerder























*1 Shatnanigans: Past tense of Shitnanigans, or dumb -uckery that has already happened.





*2 Such as a Buckler-Corpse, a Cadaver Mace, a Meat-Heater, a Stab-Absorbing Puppet or a Gristle-Targa





*3 Listen here's the deal: no one in the 'real world' will take you seriously as a VIP of any sort if you brag about how much money you have/make, but don't give anyone any of it. Someone who has "millions" and likes to boast about it yet is a non-tipping cheapskate, is not a 'VIP' and never will be.


  If I was worth "millions" and I liked to brag about it, I would hand out $100 bills like they were fucking candy. I would ooze them like a snail travels on a trail of it's own slime because why not? Thousands of dollars don't me shit to me, ninja, I make that every four minutes, yo. I tipped 300 people a hundred dollar bill one night and it made their fucking day. They will ALWAYS remember me as one cool, generous motherfuckering celebrity as opposed to the average tightwad famous egomaniac who felt his presence was tip enough for any establishment.


  Like I can pay my fucking rent with apathetic celebrity selfie pics.


  Fuck you.





*4 As someone who takes a lot of verbal abuse as part and parcel of his career, let me pose a question to my general audience:

If I showed you a picture of someone you've never seen before and didn't know from Adam and asked you if this person's opinion meant anything at all to you, I feel like most people who say "No, I don't know this person and thus his/her opinion probably doesn't mean shit to me."

I may or may not be correct in this assumption, but I feel I'm close enough to 50/50 to stand by my following statement:

Then why would it matter if you met this person, whose opinion doesn't matter to you, face to face and they insulted you in some generic way. How is it different? They are posing an opinion, that you're a jizz-bonging sweat-shrimper who's looser than moose cooze on a hot day.

If their opinion didn't mean anything to you when they were just a picture, then why does it matter if they're juts a face in an asshole crowd?


Seriously, think about it. It all goes back to a basic FACT of human behavior i.e: on a one to one basis any person's words only have power over another person if said person allows it.





*5 Brolktale: A portmanteau of Bro and Folktale, or the lies you tell your buddies about sex you never had.





*6 Literal quote. Not making things up like I am sometimes wont to do. Customer expressed dissatisfaction with the perceived lack of portliness of our dancer corps. Like a 5'5 dancer who only weighs 140 lbs is somehow hideously emaciated and needs 80 lbs more of pure ASS. As if a perfect ass is so large and unwieldly that it needs training wheels or a cart to haul it around.


  Fucking get over it.