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A Unpublished Turd I Have Polished Til It Almost Shines. Or, My Draft Folder Is Like A Refrigerator Packed With Leftovers


  The bulk of this post was languishing in my draft folder like a tub of forgotten yogurt that had got pushed to the back and was hidden behind some ancient pickles. I'd never given it a title and therefore when having a look at this folder, it just had the sentence, 'I told myself that I wasn't going to blog tonight, I was going to work on the fucking script'.


  So assuming it was one of the many, many "drafts" I have which consist of either a title or a sentence, but never both, I haven't looked at it in over three years.


  But I'm glad I did, there's definitely some classic Herder in here. I suspect it may have never seen the light of day because I was clearly shitfaced when I wrote it and upon sober rereading, it may have seemed a bit extreme.


  However, this has seldom stopped me from publishing anything. I figure the worst has already happened and I have nothing to fear but the scorn and hatred of the majority of the Earth's population, which frankly doesn't bother me much.


  I'd say this goes back to 2016-17. It's safe to say I was more than my usual level of angry with how the night went and for better or worse, here's what I wrote:







  I told myself that I wasn't going to blog tonight, I was going to work on the fucking script.


  But I lied and tonight conspired against me in any case.


  It all boils down to three simple words:


  

Daylight. Savings. Time.






  Or, in service industry speak: Bend Over Servant, You're Getting It Right Up The Arse.*1


  And we did. We did get it right up the ass. Seriously, words simply can't convey how utterly shit-filled the extra hour us poor hospitality slaves have to work on this idiotic convention of time. Why the hell couldn't DST happen on a Tuesday? Or a Wednesday?


  I'm guessing because of massive lobbying by the liquor and beer industries who thought to themselves, "Hey, one more hour a year to sell booze to already schnockered people? Fuck yeah."


  To us in the beer serving community, there's nothing worse that a Saturday night (Sunday morning) two AM becoming one AM again, like a time machine powered by vomit and fuckcuntery on a religious scale. Able to actually shift time so that we unfortunate few could know an extra hour of suffering.





  The main problem with tonight, and I'm gonna speak plainly here folks, was guys who got dances with our entertainers and then refused to pay for them.


  Let me expound on this a bit because I feel inspired by tonight's events to wax eloquent on the matter.


  If you're a dude who goes to a strip club and receives dances from a stripper and then decides not to pay for them for whatever reason, any one of the following things should happen to you because you're a mealy-souled rat fart of a human being. And if, God forbid, I ever get in charge of this land, these will be LAWS...



1) Your head gets sewn into a dead dogs' asshole with a clever snorkel system run from your mouth through the dog's body and out it's mouth so you don't suffocate to death before the canine carcass has a chance to really start decomposing. Being as you were bound hand and foot at the time, you'd have the option of spitting out the mouthpiece in order to try to eat your way to freedom, or you could just pay the girl the stated price for the dances she did and walk away completely dead dog free.



2) An incision is made in your scrotum through which a tasty trail mix is packed, which will hurt a lot. The better part is that after that, if you still refuse to pay what you fucking owe, some snug underwear will be placed on you and crammed with starving gerbils who will smell the trail mix and gnaw through anything to get to it.


  Shoulda paid for your dances, hair guy.




3) Your wife, sister, daughter or mom will be forced to grind her nonny against my loins in a degrading manner while I fondle whatever the hell I want as you watch, and afterward, I won't pay her for her time.



4) You are locked in a room for an hour with thirteen armored strippers who've been burned before multiple times by cheapskate little spuzzchuggers just like you. They'll be armed with 15" black rubber cocks and all you'll have in your defense is your weak, twatty little lies. Your time there will be painful, emasculating and possibly crippling if not fatal.


  And you'll deserve whatever you get, you vomitous wretch of a man. I hope you die in a manner that is anally related.


  Or you could just pay for your dances.



5) If you still refuse to pay, you'll be released on foot in a desert to run for your survival against all of us Floor Knights in sweet-ass post apocalyptic war-buggies. But we'll give you a spear because we don't want it said they we're not sporting chaps. My buggy has machine guns so I hope your spear arm is really good.....




6) You'll be slathered in consecutive layers of oatmeal which will be allowed to dry in between coats. The resulting body cast of no less that twenty two applications of hardened oatmeal will imprison you inescapably, at which point we release five hundred hungry rabbits into your cage, betting on how long you'll last when the majority of the oatmeal is gone. At which point we release the starving badgers....


  Or you could just pay for what was given. Seems like a pretty easy decision.



  And that's what passes for 'waxing eloquent' in this horrible blog. You should all be ashamed of yourself for reading it. I know that I'm ashamed for writing it.





  Process of writing this, night two...



  Had the same problem again tonight, fucking loser who wouldn't pay for two dances. The stripper was trying to get him for four, but the Counter said it was two, so that's what I tried to get. Since the club's legal team has made it very clear to us that we're not to get handsy with anyone unless they start it, we have very little in the way of options, especially when it's a matter of less that $100. The cops really don't want to be bothered with all the paperwork and are often busy at the time of night when this sorta crap normally occurs.


  Basically we can appeal to their better nature and try to work a deal for whatever we can get. This almost never works. Our ability to get the money is directly tied to how cooperative the customer feels like being.


  Until we remove the cameras from the front half of the club, this ain't gonna change.






  OK, back to 2020. Clearly I was feeling very uncharitable toward a few customers that night. To be fair our problem with this facet of the industry falls exponentially when we have a LEO working the door with us, but this post was obviously from the Dark Times.


  The Dark Times was a several year span wherein the municipality in which we operate decreed that no off duty officers in their employ are permitted to work at titty clubs anymore. Because it was bad for the image of the department of all things. Don't get me started.


  Every other booze den in the Town™ had cops working with their security staff on a weekend, but not if there were bare breasts involved. That was where the top brass drew the line. Tits. Go figure.




  So that bit o'cheese is what I'm going to allow myself to get away with as it pertains to accomplishing something.


  Victory is mine!





  I'm going to be republishing some more older material now that it makes no difference.


  I hope some folks enjoy reading about themselves as much as I did writing about it.



-Unky Herder






















*1 I realize that I've been writing in single sentences so far. It doesn't bother me but I know some readers may find it childish and regressive. And to those readers I say............kudos. It's time someone called me on my bullshit. Impactful or not...