The StripperHerder Wastes Your Time And His With Groundless Gripes And Baseless Bitching Because It's What He Does. Or Ukraine Surpasses Russia In StripperHerder Readership. What Does It Mean To The Global Economy?

  It's amazing to me the kind of things I can find to waste time that would be better spent working on my movie script. Like writing this for example. Or playing Galaga and Elevator Action on an arcade emulator with a joypad that is awkward and frustrating to use, thus killing any actual enjoyment I might've experienced from playing them.


 

                                      Foolish Human, your controller is useless against us






  My neighbors are probably still wondering why screams of "Cunt!" and "Motherfucking Dickbag Jizz Eating Horse Twat!" were echoing through the hallway from my apartment a few minutes ago. It's a miracle I didn't break anything but I'm getting better at that, and getting into a baseless rage just seems like an awful lot of work nowadays


  So that being said, I'm going to explore things unrelated to strip clubs and my occupation in general that aggravate me. Why? Because I'm bored and seem to enjoy doing stuff that makes me no money over things that might actually make me wealthy.


  Fucking weird, huh?



  So let's jump in, shall we?




                           
                              Pop Culture
                                                 



  When anything starts to get really popular in America, I generally start disliking it. Since I have little to no respect for humanity in general and Americans in particular, I figure if a large portion of the population likes something then no matter my previous inclinations on the subject, it must suck. Into this category I can confidently throw things like beards, music, craft beer, cocktails, our national obsession with food, skinny jeans, eyeglasses one doesn't actually need, headphones, tattoos and designer anything.


  There's so much here to cover I don't even know where to start. So, in the continuing theme of this blog to avoid any kind of involved and cohesive narrative, I'll just break it down in one of my sorta famous lists.


Beards) So facial hair has become popular again for the first time since the 80's told us that a nice even face full of stubble was pretty fucking cool and the 90's convinced everyone that sideburns (in the face of all available evidence) looked good on a man. Now we have shows about facial shrubbery and get to look at all kinds of dudes more famous than us sporting some hairy faces.


  So like all things the public at large embraces, if everyone else is doing it, especially celebrities, then it must be awesome to do and will make you more awesome by imitating it. Nothing lower primate/ovine about it at all!


  Let me put it this way; for some reason many dudes feel completely comfortable approaching a total stranger and saying something like "Dude, you're beard is awesome!" because beards are now popular and no one thinks anything of it.


  But suppose a random guy came up to you and said something like "Dude, your eyes are enchanting!" You may feel slightly less OK with a statement like that because it would be weird.




Music) I realize that beauty is in the eye, or ear, of the beholder and at a base level I respect that. No matter how much I rail against the travesty that the American music scene is, there's a small voice in the back of my skull which acknowledges the right of anyone, anywhere to like whatever kind of music they wish and that my opinion is completely irrelevant on the subject no matter how much their musical tastes suck sloth cock.


  I blame this voice on either a tumor or an extradimensional entity who inhabits my brain whenever it can be bothered to do so. I don't enjoy listening to the voice, but will grudgingly admit that maybe it's right every now and then.


  It still doesn't explain, to my satisfaction, why large amounts of the human population will willingly, nay eagerly, listen to and enjoy music that sits like a hot, steamy pile of runny shit-pudding on the brain. Music that has nothing meaningful to say and requires very little musical talent to produce.

  Now before I go any further on this topic, I'd like to throw out a little disclaimer:

  I am forced by my occupation to listen to music. Forced I say. I have no choice and don't seem to possess the filters that some titty club employees have that allows them to virtually be oblivious to the ravaging effects of horrible music. I wish I did, but there you go.


  So having got that out of the way I hope that you, Venerated Reader, may have a more sympathetic ear for the approaching tirade.


  I respect musicianship above all other attributes when it comes to, you know, music and stuff. This is not to say that there aren't many bands out there comprised of highly skilled artists who nevertheless manage to churn out crappy music. Take the Red Hot Chili Peppers or Rage Against The Machine for examples. All the dudes in these bands can fucking play, but still I hate all of their music.


 

     Rihanna is the trifecta of musical torment: Hideously Overplayed, Not Particularly Talented, Cross-Racial Stripper Anthems.






  Part of this can be blamed on repetition or course. Listen to a song you love 50 times a week for a year and chances are that you'll be OK with not hearing that song again any time soon.


  I don't blame the artists for this, I blame the public. If, as an artist, someone came up to me and said I will give you ungodly amounts of money to make simplistic, repetitive shite that takes virtually no thought whatsoever to create, I'd say sign me up.


  But then again I wouldn't know a chord if it leapt out of a cave and savaged me, so what do I know?





  

                                                   "Argh! Are you a G Minor?"*1











Craft  Beer)  I love beer. I love drinking it, I love consuming it and I love pouring it down my throat. I like the way beer tastes but would never drink it at all if it didn't get me drunk. Being a high functioning alcoholic has it's pros and cons, chief among them being an utter lack of regard for the craft and art of creating alcohol.


  Oh I dabbled with being a beer snob back in the early 90's when the first microbrew revolution hit America and suddenly you could get any number of tasty, sophisticated beers that weren't Bud, Bud Light or Miller. It was like a whole new world for practicing boozers, full of flavor, character and a sense of superiority over others who stuck to their mass produced garbage-water. It was the first time in US history that the rest of the world took us seriously as a beer producing country, and I proudly waded in and drank a bunch of expensive beer.


  That was then and this is now. Today I mainly stick to Labatt Ice as my beer of choice for three reasons: 1) It's $3.99 for a six pack of 16 ouncers. 2) It's 5.6% ABV which provides a bit more kick than your average shit beer. And 3) It is slightly more beer flavored that anything else you can get for a comparable price.


  What bothers me about the popularity surge of craft beer is that it somehow becomes a badge of belonging to certain elements of society. Take IPA's for example. IPA's taste like gnawing on the side of a hemlock tree. They're bitter as an old nun's taint and flat as Kansas in every other flavor category.


  They fucking suck.


  But Jebus-onna-stick they are very chic at the moment if you happen to wear plaid shirts, brightly colored pants, retro jackets or a particularly gay hat.


  Seriously, if these are the advocates of IPA's then I can't think of a better reason to avoid them.



  

              Tastes like a Calcutta goat's yam-sack with layered hints of grapefruit and gently used latex gloves.







Craft Cocktails) While the idea of paying $20 something dollars for a drink that takes a long time to make sounds kick ass, I'll take a pass on it. I figure if I'm buying something that's really just hastening my death, I don't want to overpay for it. But if it's your thing, then run with it I say. Some sort of carefully prepared cocktail may very well be the tastiest drink I've ever had, but unless someone else buys it for me I'll never know because paying that much for a drink is fucking idiotic.

  I simply don't care if it contains fresh shaved ginger, locally grown fruit, premium liquor and the bartender hacked the ice cubes out of a giant block of ice harvested from an Icelandic cave instead of some made from an ice machine. Details like these are irrelevant to us HFA's. I don't drink to experience astonishing flavors, to have credibility within my chosen subculture, to say I've done it, or to feel a vague sense of smugness at my own coolness.




Tattoos) This one's probably going to irk at least a few of my friends who work in the tattoo/body mod field. Sorry, just my feelings on the matter which are as valid/meaningless as anyone else's. The bottom line is I don't like tattoos anymore and will probably never get any more ink.

  Once again pop culture has killed something I used to love.


  When I got my first tattoo way back in 1990, it was still a pretty uncommon thing to do to yourself. At that time only people with a rebellious spirit who were willing to put themselves at odds with mainstream America got tattooed. It stigmatized you, set you apart from the ordinary and if it couldn't be hidden under a tee shirt, severely limited your job prospects unless you happened to be a criminal or a tattoo artist.


  Nowadays however, celebrities and reality TV have shown us that getting slathered in ink is actually super cool and that you can sport full sleeves openly so that people will know that you're:


A) A super rad hipster in touch with all that is cool in America who in addition to being a walking doodle, probably owns many interesting and totally ungay hats.


B) An NBA player


C) Someone so edgy and atypical that you have to mimic what other edgy and atypical people do so the public at large will know what an edgy and atypical kind of person you are. Understand and respect!

  


  I especially enjoy tattoo trends, because it reinforces my point that humans are much more lemming-like than any individual human will ever admit. We're masters of self rationalization. We can look upon something stupid that a thousand other homosapiens are doing and can construct in our own minds a personally valid reason that we should do it as well.


  Tattoo fashion is a brilliantly illustrated example of this. Remember 'tribal' tattoos? Know anyone who's got one of those in the last decade? Didn't think so. How about asian symbols? So five years ago....


  Today's tattoos are much more well thought out. No, really. Stop laughing.


  My favorites are:


1) Angel wings: You saw some other silly twat with tiny, cherub sized wings tattooed on their back and thought to yourself, "I am going to get those imbedded in my skin too, but bigger and for much more meaningful reasons than that dumb skank."

                                    "That other girl is too thick-waisted to be an angel."





2) Memorials to the dead: "I am pretty likely to forget the death of someone very close to me, therefore I shall have a reminder of them etched into my forearm so that I will never forget them and so others can see that I've known someone in my lifetime who has died. Because that's instant fucking street-cred, yo!"

                                               "Shit. What was his name again?"






3) Anything on your neck: Nothing says 'parolee' like having a sweet neck tattoo. All of your peer group have one and they look fucking bad-ass, mowwa-fakka.

  

 Feathers look like loaves of French bread and Blessed is, for some reason, correctly spelled. 

                                








Headphones) How did we manage to survive as a species from 1997 when the Sony Walkman died out, until 2001 when the iPod came out? How could anyone manage to exist without constant and instant access to music? It seems impossible...


  But for four long years we did it. That and the rest of pre-1980 human history of course.*2


  Thankfully today we know that it's OK to be a self absorbed, distracted and hopelessly cool person who escapes social interaction by not being able to hear the world going on around us, thereby saving us from unnecessary human interaction while damaging our hearing in a totally cool way.


  Two dozen professional athletes in inspiring commercials can't be wrong...

                                  Secretly listening to Enya, terrified someone will find out.*3



  
  Thankfully these very same athletes are now letting us know that headphones with wires aren't cool any more and that to be more like them you must upgrade your headphones to wireless. Because being cool is sweet as fuck!

  





  Potential Gunfire And The Lack Thereof) This is kinda a long story so I'm just gonna go ahead and shorten the living shit out of it. If I had to get into every subtle detail of each time there was the possibility of gun violence rearing its ugly head in my occupation, I would spend a whole lot of time writing the words 'motherfuckah!' and 'Go ahead and skin that smoke-wagon and see what happens.'

                             "Are you going to do something or just stand there and bleed?"





  So to not belabor the point, we had a situation tonight where a customer lost the keys to his ghetto-wagon and after we exhausted every possible means of finding them for him, he got all hostile and stuff. We didn't let this bother us too much on the surface because there were four of us and I alone outweighed this guy by 150 lbs and he was unaware I was behind him as he threatened my fellow Floor Guy.


  Picture Great Dane vs Surprised Corgi and you get the idea.


  So after all was said and done the Floor Guy who got threatened wanted to blast the windows out of this dude's Hood Cruiser with my handgun at around 5 AM. I was willing to entertain the idea at first but realized that I was the only one of the three of us who could hit the asshole's vehicle at 150 ft which is how far we had to go to get out of surveillance camera range.


 At this point, despite my alcoholic impairment, I decided to do the responsible thing and declare the whole concept a bad idea. I don't own small cute guns that go 'crack' and 'pop' and wouldn't be noticed by the surrounding apartments. I own giant, death spewing shit-cannons that make jolly fucktons of noise and fire and put massive holes in stuff. Because...


     
  If I am ever forced to shoot something, by God it's going to stay shot.



 


  So we hid behind a parked Suburban and threw rocks at it until all the driver side windows had been broken, totally without gunfire. 


  

 Safety first.





  Well folks, that's it for this one. I apologize for the slow down in recent posting, but I have other irons in the fire and someday you may be able to enjoy one of them in a classy theater near you. Maybe even in 3D or TittyVision™!


  Until the next post I'd just like to thank all my loyal followers who stop me in the street and ask me for money and then tell me how much they enjoy my blog when I tell them I don't carry cash. It means a lot to me that you thought I was so good I actually made money from writing the Plight.


  Warms me bollocks at night.




Peace, Rihanna and Reasonably Priced Love-Substitute,
-The StripperHerder

                                               










*1 I realize that this is a horrible caption. I accept it. I acknowledge it. And most importantly, I embrace it.






*2 But who cares about that?






*3 Enya has zero street cred.

It's Getting Cold Out, Throw Another Stripper On The Fire. Or, Scientists Theorize That Semen May Cause Pregancies, Story At Eleven.

  This whole post is going to be about stuff I talk about on a regular basis, namely human stupidity and other shit that happens all the time at our club.




  Human stupidity is an unfortunate side dish you're going to eat a lot of when working in the booze slinging portion of the service industry. It is the curse of a vengeful God who is pissed off because you're able to make a living without intense and protracted physical labor, or the blessing of the Church.


  Now that being said, I'm going to offer up some justification for my hostility towards dumb people.


  I, myself, am not dumb by any means. I are actually pretty smart. I have the ability to learn anything at all that I am interested in without expending all that much effort.


  The problems in the path of my intellect, not unlike tree trunks laid across a bullet train's tracks, are as follows:


A) I'm not interested in anything that is practical, useful or could make me large amounts of money.


B) My intelligence is hampered by a healthy dose of poor impulse control, laziness and the inability to deny myself instant gratification.


C) It's easier to be smug about my intellect than to really apply it to something outside of trivia.


D) I am afraid of failure, therefore it's easier to just not challenge myself in any way rather than to venture and lose.


E) I hate 95% of mankind so I wouldn't want to accidentally make any kind of breakthrough that might benefit them.



  So stupidity is one of my all time pet peeves. I can accept ignorance I suppose, but I feel like the truly stupid should stay at home and work on being less of an idiot rather than going out among other humans and spreading their stupid-spore.






-The ATM: Listen, I know I've pretty well covered the ATM in at least 3 other posts I can think of. How can I possibly have anything amusing left to say about ATM's and the morons who try to use them?

  Well, I don't. ATM's aren't intrinsically amusing machines, they are not built with humor in mind at all. They simply give you money from your account when you perform a very familiar and simple set of tasks that you've performed thousands of times before. In fact here is a list of terms that don't describe an ATM whatsoever and may literally be construed as antonyms of the ATM experience for most people.

    -Baffling, Mysterious, Enigmatic, Confusing, Alien, Conundrum, Riddle, Mathematically Impossible, Fiendishly Difficult, Like Super Hard Dude, Lottery and Utterly Flummoxing.


  Let me take this opportunity to point out that there are only 4 possible ways to begin an ATM transaction, thus leading to a random 25% chance of getting it right on your first try, and leading to a 25% gain in odds with each successive attempt, unless you're a fuckwit in which case you could be there forever.



  The card can only be inserted into the machine in four ways:



-Mag strip up and to the left.
-Mag strip up and to the right.
-Mag strip down and to the left.
-Mag strip down and to the right.


  That's it. Four possibilities. There is no fourth dimension, no secret language and no esoteric alchemy involved whatsoever. Therefore if you feel like you've tried all four of these possibilities and you still can't make the ATM give you money, you're drunk-go home.

  I would never think to ask a stranger to help me use an ATM because that would be admitting that I'm a complete fucking lipdragger and I won't do that unless it's a close friend of mine (who already realizes that I can drink myself back to fetal stage). Seriously, in the annals of defeat, being vanquished by a bank teller machine ranks really high on the list of stunning idiocy. Children use ATM's.

  These conquered people will always make it seem like the ATM is somehow at fault, not them. The poor abused ATM will even spit out a receipt when it fails to yield money saying why it didn't give you any. All one has to do is read it for a valuable clue.


  Frequent drunk hurdles to successful ATM use are:


-You've gone over your allotted withdraw limit or exceeded the number of transactions allowed per day.

-You've asked for too much money. Most strip clubs have a transaction limit so that someone who wants an inadvisable amount of cash will have to do multiple transactions thus making the club more money through it's insane ATM fees.

-You entered an incorrect PIN code, you fucking retard.

-God hates you and so does everybody else.

                                                A world of infinite mystery awaits.

  



        More Stupid Stripper Tricks, Vol 17





-Champagne Room Ninja: At any club you care to name, the dancer gets paid a certain amount for a VIP room and the club takes the rest. If the room is $500 an hour, chances are the dancer is only going to get $200-300 of that.

  SO some stwippers think that they can just sneak into a room with a customer, have him pay the full amount for the room and keep it all. Like the Floor Gripes aren't going to notice. We may be big and simple, but we're not big and stupid...


-But the Manager Said: Sometimes a stripper will come up to you and say something horribly wrong sounding and follow it up "Insert Manager's Name Here said it would be OK."

  You fuckwit stripper. I have a radio. Your machinations cannot outrun a radio signal.

  Never stopped them from trying though.


-I'll Tip You Next Time: Yup, the check is in the mail. Payment is forthcoming. No seriously, I got you. Sure, Jesus is real.


  Based on these fleeting guarantees, I figure I'm owed $72,334 over the course of my career, give or take a few dollars. I keep telling myself I should keep a small notepad and pen handy at all times and always make a note when a dancer tells me this and make sure she sees me doing it.

  Not that this would help any.



 

And finally...I'm giving myself a medal tonight. It's not a medal for doing something great, it's a medal for not doing something terrible.

                                           First Prize in the Failure To Choke A Bitch category.



  "Don't you fail to choke a bitch every night?" you ask. Well yes, yes I refrain from throttling a loony cunt every single day I work, but tonight was something a bit special. You see we have this dancer named, I don't know, let's refer to her as Toby because she's built like a 12 year old boy whose parents inexplicably decided to ram some fake C cup titties into him.

  So Toby and some other daffy twat we'll call Stinky claim they did 5 dances for a guy and that he owes them $125 each. I caught the guy as he was trying to flee the club and said gimme me a minute and I'll get this worked out. So I contact the Counter to find out how many dances these girls actually did.

  Well it turns out the Counter was busy doing something else and had failed to count any of their dances at all so we had no proof as to how many dances this guy did or didn't do. Add into this equation that unless he gets physical with me first, I can't actually put my hands on him at all without opening myself and the club up for a lawsuit. So all the man had to do was make his way in a determined and nonviolent fashion out the door to sweet, sweet freedom and there was fuck all I could do about it.

  So taking into account all these facts, plus the added tidbits that stacking dances is (still) not allowed at the club and that Toby is a shitty tipper, my motivation level wasn't very high. I get the guy to agree to pay them for 3 dances each for a total of $150 and, having explained the situation to the girls, get them to accept payment for 3 dances. I get his credit card to run the club's funny money to pay the dancers.

  What I failed to mention is the upcharge on the funny money, the 15% the club tacks on to rape customers. I return to him with a receipt for $172.50, not the $150 he was expecting and he flat out refuses to pay the extra $22.50. As if somehow he wasn't still getting away with fucking murder, financially speaking. We finally convince the guy to go to the ATM (which to his credit he was able to use on the first try) and get $150

  SO at the end of the night the mismanager, Sir Oswald Cabbagemaster VII refuses to let Toby slide on her house fees, a paltry $25. Both Toby and Sir Oswald start screaming, she about losing out on $50, he about losing $25.

  I'd like to pause for a moment just to mention that I've seen Toby walk out with $500-1000 on many nights. Despite her lack of physical charms, she gets by on a latent pedophile gene some men obviously carry which makes them crave young boys but feel OK about it if the boys have breast implants.

  We're talking about $50 here folks...

  Toby of course resorts to tears but Sir Cabbagemaster was unmoved. She had to pay the house fee.

  Stinky for her part, rather than appreciating she was gonna get paid for some of the dances she did, rather than none, just got all shitty and said that if she had to suffer then everyone was going to suffer.

  Fuck you, Stinky.



 







  You know, I thought I was going to be done here, but I have a final gripe to add inspired by Stinky bitching about how she was raising a child all on her own and that men like tonight's asshole didn't understand how hard that is.

  Well I can sympathize, but only in a limited manner. What I'm really tired of is how some parents complain about how hard raising a child/children is. Fucking duh. Turns out it can be pretty challenging, huh?

  Who would've thought?


  My problem with all this is they make it seem like offspring are just something that happened, like your car breaking down, or the bus running late. Like they have no culpability in the matter whatsoever and we should somehow have extra pity on them for making poor decisions or a lack of planning.

  I've said it once and I will reiterate it because I believe in it strongly, it's no mystery how kids are made. They aren't dropped off by random watershed inhabiting birds and they don't just spontaneously appear in patches of leafy green vegetables. Accept a load of happy little sperm in your vagina without using birth control and you may just have one of the wee buggers start growing in you.

  

  Absolutely zero rocket science involved.

  
  So, why the fat hairy fuck should I feel some sort of extra sympathy for you because you didn't have to foresight to demand a load be pumped onto your face rather than in your hoo-ha? Just because you didn't have to presence of mind not to use birth control, or decided to have a child with someone who you didn't know well enough to realize he was going to disappear when you told him you were pregnant?

  I don't get it. 

  Ladies, I'm not exonerating men for responsibility here, far from it. But most of my experience in this area stems form females, not males, so I'm a bit biased and extremely fed up with women who think the world somehow owes them some sort of indulgence for being sexually stupid or irresponsible. Grow the fuck up.

  And while I'm on the subject of irresponsible breeding, why the hell would someone who makes $10 an hour, can't drive and indeed doesn't even own a car, impregnate a chick? Seriously, can anyone tell me? That's what one of our cooks did and he even managed to do it with a girl he really hates as an added bonus.



  I just don't understand the way some people think. I was listening to the radio a few months back and there was an interview with a sad Spanish couple. They were sad because with all the economic hardships and fiscal austerity measures going on in Spain, they couldn't afford to have a child. It was simply beyond their financial means.

  Well fuck, I thought. Move to America. Not being able to afford having children stops absolutely no one from doing it anyway. Don't worry about it, there's plenty of dumbshit taxpayers here, like me, who will help you feed your poorly thought out offspring. Continue your careless breeding, we're here for you.


 
  All that being said there is no fucking rules at all about how to proceed through life. It states, absolutely no where, that you are born, you grow up, you get a job, you get married, you have kids and then you die.

  There is no obligation to reproduce. If children are your idea of happiness, then by all means start squeezing them out, just ask yourself if you can support them first because I'm tired of paying for them.


  That is all. Hate mail can be sent to stripperherder@yahoo.com. I relish it.



  Fuck your couch,
-The StripperHerder

Are You Smarter Than A Stripper? Take This Test And Find Out! Or, "Gimme My Whuppin Stick, Billy. I Have To Go Into The Dressing Room After The Free Tequila Party."

  Strippers don't think like rational human beings at all. I've witnessed this first hand many times and just when I think nothing can surprise me any more, some dazzlingly stupid dancer will prove me wrong. They are faced with a lot of adversity when it comes to making good decisions and the industry itself discourages girls from gaining independence,


  In their quest to find a balance between being able to pay their bills and doing it in an industry that doesn't make them a drunk junkie whore, a dancer will encounter many obstacles. Chief among them are:



1) Dancers are often very young and therefore, naturally stupid. I was stupid when I was young, you were stupid when you were young and we (probably) didn't work a job that encouraged us to get hammered and naked for cash.


  Think how hard a time you would have adjusting to any other occupation after you were able to make 6 digits a year by getting wasted, sexually objectified and offered all kind of drugs.


  It's amazing that anyone gets out of this system alive or with a college degree for that matter.



2) Strippers don't pay taxes. They have tits and obviously feel that this is good enough. Entertainers on the other hand, do pay their taxes and that is because (in this context at least) they are smart strippers. Entertainers are the girls who use stripping as a means to an end, such as paying for college, or supplemental income that they invest wisely. They realize that claiming some if not all of their tips will count as provable income, thus raising their credit score and enabling them to obtain credit at non crippling interest rates.


  Strippers, as opposed to Entertainers, never claim tips and gripe about how they can't get a car loan for anything more than $2500 at 29% interest. All they see is the cash they make and they can't fathom how someone who makes as much dough as they do, can't get credit. Strippers also run a much higher risk of getting audited by the IRS and when that happens they get fucked. Proper fucked.



3) Strippers are frequently on a lot of drugs. I'm not talking about weed here folks, all of them smoke weed. I'm referring to hardcore, debilitating, soul ravaging drugs. Now don't get me wrong here, I believe each and every person has the right to do whatever drugs they choose to do whenever they want to do them, provided they are willing to live/die with the consequences of their decisions.


  I myself have done damn near every drug that didn't require a needle or crackpipe to do and have managed to come through all of it mostly intact (for all intents and purposes). I do however take exception to being around other humans who are whacked on heavy drugs and people doing drugs in my place of employment, so I get cunty about it whenever I get the opportunity to do so. I feel everyone should have the common courtesy to go out to their cars to do their drugs and not consume them in the club bathrooms.




  So taking all these factors into account, and others I haven't even mentioned, let's see how you fare in your thinking compared to the average stripper.



  Ready?









1) You've just made $1500 in a champagne room. Your rent is due, you have no car and your Victoria's Secret card is maxed out. You:


   

   A) Go shoe shopping!


   B) Pay the rent, save at least $400 toward a car and throw however much else you can spare at your credit card debt, while working as many shifts as you can for the next few weeks.

  
  C) Suck off your landlord for free rent, buy enough coke to kill 3 lead singers and binge out for the next week then spend the rest on your useless, unemployed boyfriend/bebbydaddy.


  D) Take 9 days off and return to work when you've spent all $1500 on anything besides your bills.







2) Despite you lower-than-average IQ you realize that you can't keep stripping forever. Although you don't really understand what 'exit strategy' means per se, you sometimes think that someday you might have to retire from the industry and will require other means of support. Your plan for that day is:


  
  A) To marry a rich guy, even if he's Arab.


  B) To overdose long before that happens.


  C) To have earned a Master's degree in a meaningful and well paying field from your hard earned and rigorously budgeted Stripper days.


  D) To get knocked up by an NFL Wide Receiver and get paid handsomely to raise his unwanted child.






3) You've been drinking a lot on the job lately and coupled with the unrelenting munchies you get from smoking idiotic amounts of weed and the resulting desire to sleep and watch TV that this engenders, you've put on quite a few pounds. You:


 A) Say 'fuck this, my livelihood depends on my attractiveness' and start eating better and going to the gym.


  B) Start doing meth because all the other meth girls are skinny


  C) Buy bigger outfits and pay someone to shave your coochie when you can no longer reach it.


  D) Just start dancing for black guys. Duh.






4) You're dancing for a guy in a private room when without any warning whatsoever he whips out his pecker. You:


  A) Smack it like a wayward child and tell him not to take it out again.


  B) Giggle, take it in your hand and offer a variety of sex acts for varying amounts of cash. State in no uncertain terms that you don't accept personal checks.


  C) Leave the room immediately and tell a Floor Host who will either issue a warning or throw the fucker out. Either way you get your money because the rooms are paid for in advance. 

   Move on to next customer.


  D) Wrestle it to the ground like an unruly ferret, punch the guy in his yam-bag and demand a tip.






5) Another dancer vultured a customer from you while you were on stage. You deal with this by:


  A) Confronting the poaching dancer at your earliest opportunity and tell her how having a customer stolen from you in an underhanded fashion makes you feel. Use lots of hand gestures and upward inflections.


  B) Corner the bitch in the dressing room and ruin her face with an aggressively wielded 6 inch heel.


  C) Make a huge fucking scene in front of the whole club. Be sure to use lots of profanity, threatening postures and tears. 


  D) Do the same thing to her and smile while doing it. Whenever practical, tip the Floor Guys to ruin your adversary's night-they delight in it and are devious and ruthless when in your employ.






6) The Manager just fined you for breaking a rule you were well aware of but chose to ignore anyway because for some inexplicable reason, you think you're the shit. You respond to the fine by:


  A) Crying to the point you piss yourself and then trying to hug the Manager when he rescinds the fine out of sheer disgust. It's not hard if you're drunk enough and you won't remember it the next day any way.


  B) Call the club owner and whine and complain to him and threaten to quit. Owners want lots of dancers working at their clubs and are therefore extremely receptive to your groundless bitching. 


  C) Pay the fine and stop being a tedious cunt.


  D) Completely ignore the fine and let the Manager know that you're completely ignoring the fine. Maybe raise an eyebrow or something to show your disdain. You know they always back down even as they tell all the other employees that they're going to fire you.





7) You've just attacked a much smaller dancer over $38 and it's become pretty obvious she's dead. You:


  A) Call the Japanese business man that you service outside of the club. He will take the corpse off your hands discreetly and for a handsome profit. When questioned claim ignorance about slain dancer's whereabouts. Remember to clean blood spatter first.


  B) Hide the body and contact your Uncle who is a high ranking Mobster/Aryan Brotherhood/Ghetto Kingpin/Archbishop and/or Russian/Latino Human Trafficker. Tip all potential witnesses generously and make sure to tell them about your Uncle...


  C) Try to convince the House Mom to help you stuff her body down a shower drain.


  D) Wash off the gore and go about your business. Pretty girls always get away with it.






8) A man who is clearly wearing a bullet proof vest under his polo shirt gets a dance from you. During that dance you:


A) Blow him immediately because he's law enforcement and your parents taught you to respect the police.


B) Offer him a dazzling array of sex acts for bargain prices.


C) Fail to do or even suggest anything illegal. Completely abstain from grinding your crotch against his like you're trying to start a fire.


D) Try to sell him cocaine.





  
9) Really bad strip clubs can be like a Supermax prison; the strippers band into gangs for both mutual survival and control of certain facets of the club economy. These various factions*1, like their correctional institution counterparts, can be extremely vicious when defending their turf. 

  Having learned that you inadvertently snaked one of the more feared Latina dancer's customer and she has sworn blood vengeance, you:


A) Flee town immediately. It's easier to just pack up and leave and start over again somewhere else than have to listen to rapid fire Spanish cursing and avoid dagger-like acrylic nails for the rest of your career.


B) Offer the Barbie Clan protection money. It's better than dying.


C) Bang the owner. All of your problems will just disappear.


D) Spike the bitches Patron with some rat poison. That will gain you respect in the yard.






10) Because you have a difficult time being original and enjoy the security, in and out of the club, of being a member of the herd, you decide to have the side of your torso tattooed with some deep, inspirational shit, yo. The message scrawled across you ribs and waist will be:

A) The names of your children and their birth dates. Because, you know, sometimes you forget about stuff.*2

B) The Serenity Prayer


C) Some crap about how sensual, mysterious and unique you are. With misspellings of course.


D) A list of high end luxury name brands.




  So, how'd you do?



  Since I'm not going to post the answers, you'll have to figure it out for yourself. Try some heroin maybe. It might make the answers more clear.




Gut Nite
-The StripperHerder





*1 Examples include: The Barbie Clan (With Assorted Non-Blond Extras), PMS-13: The Angry Latinas, The PsychoDyke Sisterhood, Eastern Eurotrollops, Drunk Loudmouth Italian Girls, The Needle Finger Janes, Association For The Advancement Of Plain Looking Bitches, SpeedShank Skanks, OG's (Old Gals)**


        **A brief study in strip club gang culture will be the subject of it's own post in the near future. Way too good to pass up.





*2 As if the stretch marks weren't a clue.

Conglomeration Post #9: A) The Situation In My Apartment, Which Is Just Fucking Horrible. B) Stupid Stripper Tricks, Vol. III. And C) How Being In A Strip Club Makes Everything More Valuable.

  I am a slob. It's not a fact I'm proud of, but it is indeed, a fact.


  I live in squalor, not because I'm too poor to give a shit or live in a third world country, but because I never clean anything. Finally bagging heaps of trash and hauling them out to the dumpster is what passes for 'cleaning' in my reality.


  And while I'm horribly embarrassed by the thought of anyone seeing the horrid, reprehensible shambles I dwell in, rather than actually clean it up, I just forbid any living creature entrance to it and go about my business.


  I'm somewhat ashamed to say that one of the few reasons I could use a wife in my life is to pick up after me and do obscure bits of tidying, such as vacuuming, dusting and I think it's called 'washing dishes'. Oral sex would be nice too, but is only worth it if I never have to do anything or go anywhere I don't want to, which has proven to be impossible in previous relationships.


  I don't do any of that housekeeping stuff but have become remarkably adept at circumventing the need to do them. For instance I only use paper plates and plastic cutlery. I always wear socks so random shit littering my carpet doesn't stick to my bare feet and I burn a lot of incense and use those outlet powered Air Wick thingies to combat the smell of neglect and ambivalence that dominates my abode.


  I figure my apartment is clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be happy and if it hasn't killed me yet, it isn't likely to do so any time soon. Therefore I just go with it...




  I endeavor to find holistic solutions to the problems caused by me slobbishness. For example I have a rice moth infestation in my apartment from when someone left a large box of free food sitting on my apartment stoop and I brought it in and ate some of it. The only difficulty I had with this free food is that it contained a bag of rice, which I don't really like very much and this bag of rice was inhabited by rice moth larvae.


  I didn't discover this fact until I had small, annoying moths zooming all over my apartment. I figured at first that they were just some seasonal aberration and would go away with the onset of winter. I was horribly wrong of course and the fuckers just keep multiplying and fluttering about.


  Its fucking maddening.


  So one day I got fed up and set out to uncover the source of these cocksucking moths. It didn't take long for me to look in the cupboard where I stashed food I wasn't likely to eat anytime soon so long as a Burger King remained open within a ten mile radius of me, and low and behold, there was the one pound bag of white rice crawling with tiny worm thingies.


  This bag was like an entire civilization of pre-moths. It moved. There were tiny malls.


  So, like any person who hates maggot-like organisms, I threw it away and figured that soon my moth problem would go away and I could again focus my rage on Russian poker players. Well, that was like 2 years ago and the moths are still here.


  I've started naming them because with the way my life is going, they're as close to a meaningful pet as I'm ever likely to get. Nevertheless I would enjoy having a moth-free environment again as they tend to fly into my eyes and mouth frequently and I'm kinda tired of that.




  So fortunately for me, my seasonal fruit fly invasion has proven clearly hostile to the moths; they don't get along at all. It is open warfare on a really small scale in my living space and luckily for me it's virtually silent or I would be forced to give a fuck or even take sides.


  Their aerial warfare is like watching a squadron of ME-109's descending on a flock of B-25s; brief, one sided and visceral.


  At this point the larger, fluffier fliers still appear to have the upper hand, but I don't think they'll hold on to it for very long. Have you ever tried to get rid of a fruit fly infestation? The little bastards are unbelievably resistant to almost any effort to destroy them. You can take their food, you can make your apartment cold as a penguin refuge, you can coat every square foot of your space in undiluted bleach, but still the wee cunts find a way to persevere and float around annoying the piss out of you.




  The best outcome I can hope for at this point is the the fruit flies conquer the rice moths and either we reach a detente, or I ally myself with the enormous population of spiders that inhabit every neglected corner of my abysmal cave and convince them to escalate hostilities on the fruities.


  I've thought about introducing bats to end my flying insect dilemma, but then I would need to install a larger predator into my realm to consume the bats and things would just spiral out of control from there. At some point I would need grizzly bears or orcas to balance my ecosystem, and quite frankly my apartment is too small to comfortably host those critters.

   So for the time being I live in a quiet, self contained battlezone.



   I feel like David Attenborough.*1










   So if you hang out in bars, or have a similar app on your phone then you're familiar with 'What A Mess', or 'Underwater Mess', both of which are games that feature an image jam packed with random items of which you must find a specified list of items.


   Don't know what I'm talking about? Then continue in darkness, you fucking Luddite and pray the world gets less technical. Good luck.



  To all of you who know what I'm referring to, here's the StripperHerder version of 'What A Mess'.





  In the following picture can you find.....?

1) A catfish

2) A pile of .40 caliber rounds*2

3) An outdated cellphone

4) A gay-ass Ed Hardy lighter that I found on the floor of the club

5) A holster for a 9mm handgun*3

6) The cure for ebola*4

7) A Taco Bell sauce packet

8) A waterproof pill container

9) A bible*5

10) A phone bill

11) A platinum ring*6

12) The recipe for a weaponized form of bleu cheese.*7

13) A pouch containing a toe bone of St. Herve the Bard and a petrified piece of the wolf feces it was found in.*8 Absolutely priceless to Catholics.

                        Stupid Stripper Tricks, Vol III




  Strippers can be shady as hell. I know that this is shocking to you, average reader and I apologize if it tarnishes the image of the happy-go-lucky, heart of gold stripper you often see portrayed in movies. I'm sure that for some of you finding out that strippers can be drug crazed, criminal scum-whores is like finding out that the Easter Bunny is a pedophile or that the Tooth Fairy carries a hammer and a strainer....


  But alas, it's true. They can be diabolical.




  So let's run down some of the more typical stunts in their bag of twicks. It should be fun.




Just Passing Through: Migrant strippers are a nuisance species which plague the industry not unlike locusts plagued ancient farmers. The roam from city to city like a vampire bat flits from cow to cow, stealing nourishment from the local villagers.


  Migrants are a pain in the ass for every single layer of the strip club shit-cake. They are generally pretty good looking which is how their evil works. They can descend upon a town and work at a different club every night, burning their bridges behind them without a care in the world. A frequent scam of theirs is to audition at a club and work there that night only, but to tell the management that they'll be there all weekend. Thus when they sneak out at the end of the night, having tipped no one because they'll never see them again, and having skipped out on the house fees they owed, there's no repercussions for them at all.


  JPT's also take a bite out of the regular staff's pocket garter by stealing dances from them. The regular staff is there for the club on schedule (for the most part), so to hire itinerant strippers is kinda a shitty thing to do really. They have no allegiance to the club and no interest in making friends or a positive impression.


  They play the system and they win.


  If managers were smarter they's make these girls pay a 'deposit' house fee, refundable at the end of the night provided she pays out accordingly. But I've never seen that happen and probably never will.


  This are a dumb industry.



The Bait and Switch: Two girls come through the door wanting to audition. One is really hot and the other is.........not. The girls make it clear that they are a duo, the usual excuse being because one girl is the other's ride, or some such nonsense. Even if this is the truth, it will always turn out that the ugly one has the car and legal right to drive.


  Well, you want the hot girl on your staff so despite your deep, tormented misgivings you hire her, and by extrapolation, her overweight hobbit sidekick. The manager who's been around the block a few times recognizes at this point that he's probably going to be saddled soon with a dumpy halfling in a thong which creates a cloud of discomfort wherever it's unnaturally large and hairy feet take it.


  Sans hot friend of course. She's moved on to helping one of her other equally repugnant friends land a job.


  Baiters work on the same principle as Migrants except that they may be willing to stick around for a few more days to make sure their much less attractive friends become firmly entrenched in the new club's flesh. Like some kind of arboreal parasite. Then they flee and leave the dumpster behind.







        How a Strip Club Makes things more valuable





  I used to work with this bartender. She was hot as fuck and mediocre at bartending, but to most clubs hotness is valued more than competency so she was able to keep her job despite the fact that Stephen Hawking would've been  more effective behind the bar.


  Her go-to move when she was drunk and thought a customer was attractive was to reach across the bar and rip his shirt open. I don't know why she did it, apparently she figured this would make her seem highly desirable to said club patron and would get her laid or something.


  A lot of guys let this go because she was a hot chick and she had just ripped their shirt open and I'm sure that many of them ended their night with their penis redolent with her vaginal fragrance.


  It was a win-win.


  But a few guys took exception to a bartender destroying their clothing and complained loudly to the managers. "This is a $200 shirt and she just ruined it! I want the club to reimburse me!"


  In other instance I've had guys come up to me complaining that they'd lost $4000 earrings, or a $10,000 watch, or a $6000 bracelet. I act concerned and then go out for a smoke because I don't care in the first place and more importantly, don't believe them in the second.


  Yeah, your $35 K&G shirt is suddenly worth $200. And your faux diamond earrings jumped to $4000 value the second you walked through the door. Everything becomes more expensive the moment you walk through the doors of a strip club and the conniving strippers have stolen it from you.


  It amuses me to no end.



A) I don't give a fuck if it cost you $10 or $10,000. Go eat a dog cock. If you actually cared about it in the first place you would've never lost it or let a deranged titty beast destroy it.


B) If you're dumb and materialistic enough to pay WAY too much for something that has no intrinsic value in a real world situation then you deserve to lose it. Stop being an elitist twatburger.


C) In all my years of hearing customer complaints of this nature, strippers were involved in about .30% of the cases. All the others were just a drunk customer losing stuff because he was drunk. In the cases where his shirt WAS ripped open/off by a stripper/bartender, it wasn't worth anywhere near $200. It was a Steve Harvey at best.


























*1 Except bigger, fatter, drunker, angrier and 100% less British.



*2 You're wrong. The pile in the photograph are .45 ACP rounds. You suck.



*3 Wrong again! That's a Taurus Judge holster. You still suck.



*4 Just to the left of the westernmost crackers.



*5 The bible is a bunch of worthless paper, don't you see it?



*6 It's poking out from underneath the crappy gum.



*7 Just in case the French get uppity again.


*8 St. Herve the Bard was a blind storyteller and historian reputed to have traveled with a domesticated wolf, and indeed he did. But one particularly harsh winter the wolf decided it wasn't quite domesticated enough to not eat Herve and decided it was just wild enough to survive that winter.**


       **This is all true, look it up.***



                   ***Well except for the part about the wolf eating him, I'm made that up. That doesn't mean that it may not be true however, the records are pretty vague...

We Are Only As Powerful As Management Allows Us To Be. Or, The More I Let Strippers Get Away With The More Money I Make, So Management Can Gargle A Squeeze Bottle Of Bear Jizz.

  It's a funny, sad, cyclical little world the strip club. Each can pretend that they're different in some way from all the others, but really they're all the same. There are basic equations that must be observed or a club hasn't got a chance at competing, much less surviving. Facts must be acknowledged, certain conventions must be accepted and the poor, misbegotten management team has to deal with several facets of reality which aren't going to change no matter how hard they try.


  If they try...


  Chief among these is the fundamental truth that the majority of strippers are on lots of drugs.*1 Heavy, addictive, debilitating drugs which would cripple any effort at maintaining a 'normal' job, like a secretary, nurse or professional MMA fighter.


  Another is that the Floor Guys will only deal with a certain level of apathy from the mismanagement before they just say 'fuck it', throw their dignity on the ground like a soiled gauntlet and proceed to become unrepentant pimps. Most of us Floor Louts would love to work in a clean, crime free environment bereft of whoring and drug snorting, but have learned from experience that you can make better money by wading into the filth and getting your soul all cruddy.


  On top of all that is that the Owner will be breathing down your neck about every little thing, most of which contradict each other. Examples of this include:



1) "I want the most dancers on staff of any club in the area, but they can't be ugly or gross in any way."


2) "Sure I know that this particular stripper is a whore and a drug dealer who is selling narcotics to a third of the rest of my staff, but you can't fire her because she makes a lot of money for the club."


3) "While I'm completely ignoring my previous statement, I don't want my liquor license endangered under any circumstances. See to it. Without firing a bitch."


4) "I'm going to yell at you for for stuff I know nothing about, so get used to it. I'm going to stress you out and get mildly aroused doing it. If I come into the club during day shift and there is some patchwork nightmare shuffling about on stage then I will demand you fire it instantly. However if I'm safely ensconced in my nuclear-proof mansion 5 states away and see that my day shift dancer count has gone down by even one I will immediately call and berate you for firing something I would have insisted you fire had I actually been there."

"This will be unbelievably frustrating to you but I don't care because my signature is on your paycheck."





  This is the serpent-eating-it's-own-tail reality of the titty club business. You have to have dancers. You can't be too hard on them or they'll go elsewhere and you can't let them run roughshod all over you or soon they consume you and everything you love, shitting out a trail of broken dreams and sundered hopes on their way to whatever it is they seek.


  Getting between a stripper and what she wants is seldom a place you want to be. They are ruthless, manipulative and utterly without goodwill or mercy when the next Coach bag or eight ball*2 is on the line.




  That being said, it is galling yet amusing to me when the management team calls together a company meeting to outline new or revised rules of operation that they have no intention of standing behind outside of maybe a few days. They will rant and rave and maybe even have a power point presentation about things that have to change in the way the club runs. They will feel extremely good about how the meeting went and the dynamic new attitude they have instilled in their staff.


  They may even go out for drinks afterward and congratulate themselves on a meeting well executed, objectives realized and a new direction embarked upon.


  But this is all bullshit. A big steamy pile of self serving ass discharge that means absolutely nothing outside of them being able to say 'synergistic'.


  Nothing will change for more than 72 hours. Three days seems to be the memory limit of most managers and then everything will revert back to how things have always been.*3


  This always happens. Usually after some minor catastrophe like a fine from the state, or a liquor inventory coming up a few bottles short. The point is to annoy the shit out of your underlings and subject them to a Dog and Pony show which wastes their time and will result in no lasting change because you haven't either the will nor support to enact it.


  But this is, beyond counting the money and filling in the columns, the purpose of a Manager. To boldly lead the team into extremely temporary changes and just as boldly run away into standard practice and pretend change was never on the agenda or had been mentioned at all.




  So for the leadership of the club to approach the Guild Of Stripperherders with complaints of lax enforcement, is sorta funny. They expect me to prick up my ears like a dutiful hound and spring to my masters commands, teeth flashing and manhood magnificently erect as I bring down a full grown female stripper who's on enough crank to fund a Hell's Angels chapter.


  But this old dog has been tricked way too many times to just throw itself into a fight it can't win for a master that doesn't really care. I've snitched on so many dancers over the years; for meeting customers after work, for leaving with customers, for selling drugs, for doing drugs and in my experience, nothing ever happens.


  Management can talk a good game but when all is said and done, they fail miserably. This puts the FloorBortions in the position of both relying on the girls for income and being expected to police them at the same time.


  This doesn't work at all unless the powers that be back us up every now and then.



  So we Floor Ghouls walk the fine line between the Sorta Mighty Managers and the Seemingly Omnipotent Strippers. It sucks, but when you learn to ignore the majority of everything that's said to you by anything with a mouthhole and just get on with doing your job, it all becomes simpler and less stressful.



  You'll never feel good about being a Floor Grunt and you get used to that. At best you're a well dressed thug-in-waiting who sometimes mops up vomit and fecal matter and has grown hateful of two legged mammals. You nights are tormented by Rhianna and AutoTune and the cackling of wasted entertainers quaffing liquor like it's Kool Aid while butchering the English language.



  You are insulted, lied to, challenged and second guessed at every turn. Occasionally you get punched or hit on the head with a random object. On really special nights, you might even get a weapon pulled on you.


  Whatever.


  You deal with it and wait for the night to be over so you can go home and drink the shame away. Shame is very alcohol resistant but if you have any future in the industry whatsoever, you find that you are equally shame resistant as well.


  Or you don't make it.




 If you want pictures, put them in yourself. This isn't a 'See Dick Run' book.
-The StripperHerder













*1 The term 'majority' can mean anywhere from 51% to 99% depending on your level of cynicism.



*2 An eighth of an ounce of cocaine, not a billiard ball. I figured I'd mention it for the more innocent among you. Just in case...



*3 Trust me. I've been through so many of these that I could script write them for the well meaning managers.

Stripper Meta-Types. Or, 'The Wild, Wonderful World Of Strippers', Narrated By Morgan Freeman.

  Classifying different kinds of strippers can be a real challenge because depending on how drunk and/or messed up on drugs they are, you may get several completely different strippers inhabiting the same body on any given week.


  This brief study of dancer meta-types will attempt to shed some light on the varying species of stripper you may encounter withing the strip club ecosystem. Please bear in mind that even though most strippers have been domesticated to some degree, you will eventually cross paths with a wild stripper if you frequent clubs often enough.


  While wild strippers are clearly a danger to everyone and everything around them, even apparently docile dancers can go all rutting-moose crazy on you at the slightest provocation. When in doubt remember these simple rules for interacting with a stripper you're not familiar with.


1) Always use caution when approaching or tipping an unknown stripper. Assume she's feral and work your way down from there.


2) When tipping a girl on stage it is recommended that you simply place the dollar on the stage in front of at first, rather than tipping in the garter or thong as this allows the stripper to become acclimated to your presence before you actually dare to touch her. They can be skittish and unwittingly put your eye out with their deadly 6-or-more inch spike heels when spooked.


3) Sometimes you should let them smell or lick your hand first.*1




4) Baiting reluctant strippers by pouring a small amount of tequila on the stage is not only frowned upon, but is indeed illegal in many states. Shame on you.


5) When introducing yourself to a stripper, point to yourself and say your name slowly and then state again it monosyllabically. "Hi, my name is Bryan. Brrrry. Annnn." Most strippers can usually grasp this within 3 or 4 tries but sadly their retention rate is less than 3% over the next 5 minutes.


6) Strippers who have been at it a while are exceedingly good at reading body language. In fact they rarely listen, care or indeed have any idea what you're talking about. They receive the majority of their information by tone of voice and body movement.


  Kinda like zebras.









                         Stripper Meta Types






  The Mantid: Mantid strippers are easy to spot because of their hunched over posture. Their heads stick out over their chests and their upper backs are unnaturally curved, forcing the shoulders down and inwards. As a result of years of this horrible posture, their titties are generally kind of weird and slightly down-pointing.


  Mantids are terribly insecure and have appalling body image. Their entire condition is created by years of trying to fold in on themselves and thus be less noticeable. They rarely wear excessive jewelry, have piercings or much in the way of tattoos and generally just want to left alone and given money to either talk or go away.


  See also: Self Hating Stripper, Depressing Chick and Forlorn Boobies

                                                  Can you spot the Mantid?






  The Harpy: All harpies are drunks. They also usually possess very poor eyesight which is why they rely on echo-location to navigate the confines of whatever club they are currently haunting. Harpies are easy to identify by their loud screaming and mad cackling laughter. At first glance it appears they are merely haggard alcoholics staggering around trying to glom drinks, and they are.


  What isn't so apparent is they use full volume vocalizations and the resulting echoes to find their way around since they are blind drunk and have the visual acuity of a mole to begin with.


  Harpies are generally older dancers, most of whom are destined to die in fiery car crashes.



  See also: Braying Snizz, Shrieking Sheila, Bitch That Shutteth Up Not (biblical) and Yappy Mouthed Horror Train

                              Rare daylight picture of a Beach Harpy. Indigenous to Florida.









  The Jekyll*2: A kind hearted, soft spoken stripper who is pleasant to be around, non annoying and all in all more naughty than whorey and more girl-next-door than jaded-street-predator. She is a smiling, delectable little treat to have perched on your lap.


  Then she drinks her secret potion*3 and disappears into the bathroom.


  What emerges is a screeching, violent whirlwind of rolling eyes and slurred insults, interspersed with multiple counts of assault and battery. The tiny waif-like creature who was, seemingly just moments ago, parked on your lap and chatting lightly about stuff you don't give a fuck about is now a raving, spittle-spraying monster bearing down on your good time like a malevolent iceberg stalking an unsuspecting ocean liner.


  When a Jekyll goes into Hyde-Mode, nothing in its path will escape unscathed. A fully transformed Jekyll would kick an infant down a gully or throw a baby raccoon against a brick wall without the slightest hesitation if it had the gall to try being helpful.


  Floor Turds everywhere has learned that the only desirable way to deal with a full blown Hyde running amok in your club is to flee in the opposite direction and spew misinformation madly. So when the frantic radio traffic starts coming in like 911 calls reporting Godzilla, you calmly say into your radio "Sorry, I'm on the shitter, man." and hope no one with a radio saw you running out the kitchen door.


  The only things that differentiate a Jekyll from a Harpy is about 20 hard years in the industry and the weathered-oak like countenance this produces. That and the fact that Harpys are drunk before they even walk through the door whereas Jekylls have an incubation period, like a virus.



  See also: 'Fuck! What is that bitch on?', 85 lb She Bears, Rage Gollum and 'It was attractive 3 minutes ago...'

                   "I received no attention as a child, that's why I bring a chainsaw to work."


  
  
  
  The Weeble: When a dancer's guts protrudes farther than her breasts, she is known as a Weeble*4. Weebles desperately need to either lose some brat-belly or get some implants because her current shape, although more aerodynamic that the classic hourglass shape, is gross.


  Disgust and prank dances will only get you so far in this industry. At some point you either have to make a change or quit.





  See also: Unfortunately Breasted Cheesesteak Gobbler, Drive-Thru Lizard,  and Chubby Skank

                                             Shoplifting Weeble.

                                                   
                                                            




The Medusa: Seriously, what the fuck is up with this bitch's hair? It looks like a completely different organism is choosing, against all reason, to dwell on a bitch's head. Medusas' hair gives you the impression that if you, for some inexplicable reason, were to bring a litter of cute, frolicky puppies into a strip club and a Medusa were to sit opposite from you at a table, then the puppies would suddenly disappear one by one into the mass of aberrant protein the lives on the stripper's scalp.


  There would be unpleasant crunching sounds, possibly some mewling of small animal pain, and the Medusa would look at you and burp.


  If you value your freedom and sanity, only look upon a Medusa in the reflection of your cell phone's screen.



  See also: Fright Weaved Ghetto-Beak, Bad Hair Year, and Drunk Bitch Who Got Rained On Then Tazed.

                                            A Medusa in the pupal stage

  


  The Fawn: Like in the brutal world of nature, Fawns don't last long in the wild. They either grown into adults, or they are eaten by predators and therefore subsumed back into the ecosystem; cycle of life and so forth...


  Fawns are easily identified by their total and utter lack of stage skills. They bumble around on the stage trying to mimic a more experienced stripper's moves and are pathetic and demoralizing to watch. They also tend to cling to the pole and rarely stray from the comfort and safety it provides. It's like alpha male of their herd, nothing can possible go wrong in its presence...


  They are not so much stupid as they are incredibly gullible. Any Fawn who manages to stay in the business eventually develops either what passes for intelligence in the right light, or a rodent-like cleverness that is just as good for dealing with the drunk twats they feed off of.

  See also: Three Day Lifespan, Larval Druggie, and Veal

                              "I'm going to last exactly 3 days in this industry."







  The Dust Bunny: Amazingly stupid. You cannot even believe she got this far without a crash helmet and a an ID that says "Just Barely Not Retarded, But Treat As Such Just To Be Safe".

                                            "I'm working on a degree in vacuuming!"







  Dust Bunnies are the vacant eyed backbone of any strip club's workforce. At any given time at least a third of a titty shack's dance corps will be Dust Bunnies, whose very existence proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that there is indeed a higher power and he sorta likes us. Because if it were a crueler being, strip clubs wouldn't exist and these poor, cerebrally challenged muff-cretins would be either dead, property of a fiendish Arab oil baron, or U.S. Senators.


  Here is an example of advanced Dust Bunny dogma:



  A) I work with a dancer who thinks some girls have grotesquely enlarged inner labia that dangle below the general vuval area because the have been fucked too much. They (or at least this one stunning example) believes that having sex too often will stretch the labia minora to the point it looks like there should be plates in them.


  I explained to her that while I don't have a vagina and all the related bits, that I was pretty sure that getting fucked all the time didn't have any thing to do with it and that it was, in fact, a genetic thing. If your Mom had giant crinklies, you're probably gonna have giant crinklies too.


  I cited an example of course, although I'm sure it had little impact on her beliefs. I told her to look up a porn star named Nina Hartley.


  Nina Hartley was one of the first porn stars I ever.......enjoyed pornography to. That was damn near 30 years ago. She recently returned to porn when the whole "Milf" thing went all crazy a few years back and is back to doing porn again (if she ever stopped, don't really know). And guess what? Despite the insane amount of cock she's had over a very long career, her naughty bits still look pretty much the same.


  So if she hasn't developed drag-lip yet, it's a fairly logical conclusion that excessive screwing doesn't cause it. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.


  She countered by naming several porn stars I've never heard of*5 who apparently have unruly inner labia. I told her that I was almost positive that I watch more porn than her and while I agree that by my very exacting standards of pretty poonage, more girls than not have some degree of extraneous inner lipage, but that frequent sex has nothing whatsoever to do with it.


  I failed to convince her of course, but she's an idiot so who cares?



  See also: Thong Algae, Dumb As A Spoon, and If She Could Only Think With Her Breasts

                                                  Nina Hartley in the 80's.

                                      Nina Hartley nowadays. More curves, same clam.





  So there it is. I feel like I'm done writing now.


  Tune in next time when I touch upon the subjects of dealing with an insane manager and taking the highway to the danger zone.



May the Porn be with you,

-The StripperHerder















*1 I might be confusing this action with dogs, I sometimes make that mistake. Sorry, no one's perfect.





*2 Otherwise known as well.....the other guy. If you don't know who I'm talking about, then please stop reading this blog immediately and go read some classics for fuck's sake.





*3 Patron, chilled with lime.




*4 Weebles wobble, but contrary to popular belief, they also fall down.**




      ** If you don't have the slightest idea what I'm referring to here then you are either:

   
                A) Under 35, or


                B) Foreign


Which are equally bad.




*5 She claims to watch a lot of porn. Ha. Fucking amateur.