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.

Get Off The Stage, Oprah. Or, Some Tips To Make You Look Less Like An Asshole. Or Even, They Stabbed It With Their Steely Knives But They Just Can't Kill The Beast.

         "She's eerily resistant to edged weapons, kinda like knifing a smoked ham.  Let's try the golf clubs."







  It's a testament to the delusions some women are bedeviled by that we have to suffer the occasional monstrosity on our stage. Mostly this is because of lawyers. You see, it's like the guy who sued Hooters because they wouldn't hire him because he was, you know, a dude. Totally hooterless and 100% wanged.


  Hooter's wants hootered and utterly unwanged hot chicks to be their servers, dudes need not apply. They can't come right on out and say this because of asshole lawyers and overly sensitive civil rights activists, but it's definitely implied.


  The same sort of parameters are forced on strip clubs as well, because if you deny a girl the chance to even audition, then any sort of attorney-spawned civil rights horseshit can rear its ugly head. You run the risk, however small, of a lawsuit every time you decline a dancer before even giving her an audition because no matter how you state it, it seems like you're saying something is wrong with her. Like she's too fat, or too skinny, or too ugly, or too black, or too fucking hideous to work there.


  Therefore a strip club manager is sometimes forced, against all reason and humanity, to let some sort of shambling leviathan wallow around piteously on the stage because it wanted to audition. Somewhere, deep in its wildly fantasizing psyche, it hallucinated that it was hot enough to pass for a stripper, yet it was wrong.

                                "No pole skills whatsoever. Unclean box. Do not hire..."


  



              Horribly, horribly wrong.






  To us seasoned Floor Veterans, it's kinda funny. We've stared butt ugly in the face so many times we're immune to the loathing and profound sense of discomfort these creatures spawn. The poor audience however, not having developed the plate mail-like apathy of jaded Floor Twats, cringe with an undefined feeling of hatred and revulsion and are not equipped to handle it responsibly.

                                 

                                          Armor Class 1/+18 vs. Loathsome Skanks





 Back in the old days of course, a manager could just strike a dramatic pose and scream 'Back ye unholy seed of Tartarus!' and throw some valium at it and it would go away. These days though, that doesn't cut it. Everyone gets a chance, everyone gets a trophy, everyone participates and is valued for their contribution.


  Even if their contribution was like a maggot sandwich dripping with elk jizz.

                "Sorry, we ran out of elk jizz so we put moose spuzz on it instead but it's not the same."





               Sucks to be us, people.








  

  So you want to appear less like a walking bag of rotting foreskins and more like a human being, eh?


  Well perhaps I can help you then. You see, I've lived and breathed service industry for the majority of my admittedly advanced years. I've seen all kinds of good people and many varieties of animated trash. The service industry lifers, like myself, are very attuned to assholery and what we call stinking, fucking liars. You can't get much past a seasoned bar staff veteran.




  We've heard it all.




  Therefore I am going to try to help some of you hopelessly dickheaded and idiotic gobshites by giving you some much needed advice. Try to take it to heart, I'm sure you're a sparkling example of humanity when you're sober but when you lurch into my club hammered, no matter how charming and amusing you perceive yourself to be, you're merely another dumb cunt.


  A worthless slurry of cunt with feet.


  So, in no particular order, here's some advice.



1) If you're trying to drop a name in an attempt to get into the club for free because you're too miserly or broke to pay the cover, then try to drop the right name. I had a guy tonight that asked if 'Tom' was working. I told him that no, Tom isn't working here tonight because he, in fact, works at a competitor club across town, not here.


  So not only did this guy and his group not get in for free, they got to look like total shitheads in the process.


  Get your facts straight. If you want something free from Apple, don't tell them your a good friend of Bill Gates.


  Fucking morons.

                             "Maybe you don't realize this, but I like know the owner.....John?"






2) Brush up on Strip Club 101. Industry standard for songs is between 2:30 to 3:00 minutes. It doesn't matter if the song is 15 minutes long, it ends at no more than 3 goddamn minutes. So requesting the live version of Free Bird will not get you a REALLY long dance, it will get you exactly the same length dance of any Rhianna song you care to name.

  And so by extrapolation, if you stay in the dance room with a stripper through 7 song changes, then it's safe to assume that you owe the bitch $175, not $25. Just because you didn't ask for 7 dances, doesn't mean you don't owe her the money anyways. Dancers don't do 'free' dances, trust me on this. It is your responsibility to either say 'no' when she asks if you want to keep going, or to stop her if she just keeps dancing for you into another song.


  This is a classic stripper scam called 'dance stacking' and although it is against the rules at every single strip club I've ever worked at, no one ever does anything about it. Some dancers rely on this to buy the crack and similac. They find some poor schmuck who's too drunk to make any rational decisions whatsoever, or some guy whose friends want to buy him a dance and then they proceed to dance for him for 30 minutes.


  Dude is usually happy as fuck until the girl says "OK, that'll be $200." Poor bastards and his poor friends.


  They'll pay. They always pay.

                                            "I am frightened. Have some currency."








3) If someone in the industry does you a favor, like getting your whole party into the club for free, tip that bastard. 


  Service industry people work for tips. A lot of us make under minimum wage because we earn said tips. Therefore if you want some sort of special favor, show your appreciation with a picture of a deceased President for fook's sake.


  Let me cite an example from tonight. I got a call from a group of people I used to work with from a different place to pick them up at a downtown restaurant and take them to the club. No problem I say and minutes later I'm picking them up and hauling their asses to the club.


  Yay! Titties!


 So I arrive at the club and then they're like, "Can you get us in for free too?"


 "Gosh yes!' I exclaim, it would be my special pleasure to get all of you bastards (who ALL make more money than I do) into the club for free for zero consideration whatsoever on your part. While I'm at it let's throw in a shot of Louis XIII for all of you and a couple of bottles of Dom, on me.


                                 "NO! DON'T TIP ME!"


  My $7.50 an hour is more than enough compensation for the ecstasy it gives me to be taken advantage of by some former co-workers. It is just slightly more awesome than being assraped with a tire iron.


  This is known as abusing our fucking friendship. It does not give me warm and fuzzy feelings towards them.






4) Bachelor parties. You suck, everyone knows you suck, you know you suck and yet still it is illegal to shoot you in the face or anywhere else for that matter. I don't get it.


  At it's best a bachelor is a mess with someone trying to steer it. At it's worst a bachelor is a loose confederation of completely wasted broke guys intent on destroying as many people's nights as they possibly can.


  Chaos with a bunch of legs.


  And for fuck's sake have some kind of communication. The most trying experience of any bachelor party's life will be trying to get everyone out of the club at the same time. It is virtually impossible in my experience and it doesn't matter if there were 3 guys or 30. It simply can't be done without frighteningly strong organizational skills. And even then it's like corralling squirrels; amazingly difficult and mostly unsuccessful.


  Let me cite you an another example from tonight. A group of 18-20 douches erupt from a giant, full size limo bus. Picture a Greyhound bus emblazoned with pictures of hammered dipshits and you get the idea. So these guys do their thing in the club*1 for about an hour and a half and realize they have just enough time for their bus to get them back to whatever hole they crawled out of before they get charged for extra time.


  So about 6 of them head outside toward the bus, clearly expecting the rest of the party to join them momentarily. This of course didn't happen. Therefore 2 guys went back in to try to flush the rest out. Over the next 10 minutes another 6 dudes stagger out of the club. They put their heads together and manage to count everyone and figure out they're still 8 short of a full bus.


  Then 3 more go back in to not only find the rest, but to locate 2 of the original 3 who went in initially to find the remainder of the herd. 15 more minutes go by and 5 more guys come out. So a half hour has gone by and they're still no closer to heading back home than they were when they first entered the club.


  Much thought is carried out by the side of the bus and it is decided 4 guys going back into the club to search for survivors is the solution. But they were wrong again.


  Now I'd like to take a moment to comment on the layout of our club. Despite what you're probably imagining right now, it is almost nothing like a Minoan Labyrinth. It does have more than one room, but that's where all similarity to a minotaur-haunted maze ends. Sometimes it can be hard to find a member of your party because he's in the back room smothered in stripper. But careful planning or a cleverly placed tip can find you anyone.



  So back to our doomed bachelor party. Let's recap: our heroes have been trying to leave the strip club for roughly 40 minutes and they still only managed to wrangle 12 out of 18 bros'. Here the saga gets a bit repetitive as the dumb fuckers keep sending in men to what amounts to the Bermuda Triangle for short attention span drunks and while slowly making progress, they are nevertheless handicapped by a clear lack of intelligent leadership.


  I absolutely shit you not when I say that it took this bachelor party 90 minutes to finally free all of their idiots from the gravity well of the strip club.



  It was sad, like watching kittens choke to death on fluffy toys.





5) This is more of a personal thing, but is obviously advice need by some people, mostly dudes.


  Do not, under any circumstances, feel it is OK to approach any other male (much less a bouncer who can hit you hard enough to maim 3 generations of your family shrub) and stroke his facial hair with a ball-massaging finger action and expect to beat off with that hand any time soon. This is a disturbing action and while I'm not particularly homophobic, I do have an aversion to being touched in a familiar way by people I don't know.


  So in short, sorry about that hand, dude. I'm sure there's no lasting damage although I bet it fucking hurts, doesn't it? I'm pretty sure you'll never even consider stroking another guy's facial hair like that again, will you? Therefore, a valuable lesson has been learned without permanent disfigurement.


  You should've tipped me for the wisdom imparted. It will save your hand and possibly your life one day.....

                        "Actually, in retrospect, there's probably going to be some lasting damage."







  Oh Yeah, We Fucking Well Stabbed It With Our Steely Knives, But There Was No Slaying This Embodiment Of Pure Bitch Evil, And That's A Fact, Squire.




  Some bitches can't be fired, it's a sad and entirely frustrating fact. Some dancers, no matter how many demons issue forth from their hoo-ha are apparently above justice and beyond the law.


  There is no rational explanation for this.*2 But it sucks. Just when I thought I had escaped the confines of a club where the strippers ruled the roost, I find that they, in fact, rule every roost. And only shotguns, flamethrowers and pitchforks will reclaim what they've usurped.

               A rare picture of a defeated Stripper without her makeup or animatronic exoskeleton.







 Meh. That's about all I feel like sharing today. Feck off noo.....




-The StripperHerder
                 


                   








*1 Their 'thing' being yelling "Titties" and spending no money.



*2 Other than blowjobs and surprise anal sex.

And God Said Let There Be Shit, And There Was, Just Like That. Or, Sell Me Some Military Equipment And I Will Eradicate Your Stripper Problem With A Minimum Of Fuss And Some Negligible Structural Damage.

  What a bunch of fucking bullshit...


  So here's the new reality at my club which is in essence the same reality I've been through at every other club I've worked at as well. The Floor Guys are basically the 'police' force of strip clubs, we do everything that doesn't require a manager passkey and yet somehow we're supposed to do more.

                        Club Desire's Floor Staff prepare for an especially ugly champagne room incursion.





  The latest conundrum is girls missing their stage calls, girls being late for their stage calls and sometimes girls flat out refusing to go on stage. The owner is pissed off about it and makes the managers' lives hell so they pass on the misery to us. Why aren't we making sure the dancers are on stage when they're supposed to be?


  Well, let's see.


  First off it's a goddamn Saturday night, which is basically barely controlled chaos at best. Everybody wants something and they want it now. Secondly the Floor Guy staff is spread pretty thin because we're already compensating for the dancers' total apathy about rules. What I mean by that is we have one guy's job it is on weekends to make sure the entertainers have pasties on at all times when they're on stage and that they're not flashing their hoo-ha's like a medieval rat-on-a-stick vendor.

               "Anally impaled rats! I have hot and tasty anally impaled rats here! Four pence a pair, mustard extra!"






 That's his whole job. He's not talking to customers, selling champagne, counting dances or finding out if anyone needs anything. He's making the club absolutely zero dollars because his entire night is 100% dedicated to making sure some daffy bitches don't get us shut down if vice shows up.


  While you read this, keep in mind that a lot of dancers are idiots.*1 They walk around in a semi coherent daze, high as fuck on something, daydreaming about penis or cocaine or shoes or whatever it is that occupies an idiots limited processing power.


  Other girls are merely manipulative, calculating cunts who know what the rules are and simply don't give a shit. They know how to work the system and any sort of collateral damage is just the price of doing business.

                                        "My bib is made from the flesh of an inferior male."







  In addition to this we have the guy counting dances who is chained to his location. We have the guy running around on the bus transporting groups of drunk dudes yelling "TITTIES!" to and from the club. We have a guy stuck at the door because the Door Girls are fuck-all useless at dealing with over intoxicated or problem customers and everyone else is usually running around like methed up terriers trying to manage the VIP rooms, bottle service, bachelor shows and deal with the usual problems that drunk people create; such as fights, vomit and assholes who don't want to pay for dances.


  

  We're pretty fucking busy is what I'm trying to convey.



  So what we really don't have time to do is hunt down dancers who are supposed to be on one stage or another because they can't be bothered to do it on their own. The DJ, who's voice is like a annoying deity within the confines of the club, warns them on 2 consecutive songs AND announces them when they're supposed to be on stage. It doesn't get any easier, folks. The only requirements for successfully making your stage calls are not to be deaf and the ability to physically find and climb onto a stage.


  That's literally it.



  Stripping, while it contains many hidden traps, is NOT a difficult occupation. It makes very few demands of a girl outside of her physical appearance.*2 Some basic math skills, say at a 3rd or 4th grade level will suffice. It's also nice to be able to read, but ultimately not really necessary at all. A lack of dignity, counterbalanced by an over inflated ego is not mandatory, but helps. The ability to walk, not lurch, in heels can be useful as well.


  So for us Floor Grubs to be chewed out for the dancers' inability to make it to stage on time is motherfucking unreasonable. Every other club I've worked at just


  
  Fined a bitch.


  And soon they learned. Provided the fines were enforced, that is. But here all a dancer has to do is moan and bitch and if that fails, turn on the waterworks. Strippers can cry on cue you know, and many men can't handle girlweep. I'm one of them. I see a stripper crying I head the other way, like she's got ebola or face crabs. I'm just not going to deal with it because they cry so often I'm tired of it.


  All the snuffling and the leaking and the drooling.....


  Therefore there's really no punishment for them not doing their goddamn job and now I'm getting reamed for not making sure they do their jobs. When in reality it's the managers' responsibility to fine a lazy bitch, money being the only thing strippers care enough about to actually influence their decision making. But the managers are terrified of fining a ho because they're worried she will just jump ship to one of the neighboring strip clubs, possibly taking some of her cartel with her. And they're scared of firing dancers because of the wrath of the owner who wants all the benefits of a sociopathic, alcohol-fueled cash machine working for him without having to deal with any of the consequences. That's what he pays managers for.




 Its a giant circle jerk and the Floor Guys are the ones who end up eating the cracker. It's aggravating.*3



  At any other job you care to name, even Taco Bell, if you refuse to do your job there are repercussions. At the Bell if you say to your boss, "I'm not making that Meximelt, motherfucker." then you get fired, plain and simple. If you work at a restaurant and you decide you're not going to wait on the table of Asians that's in your designated area because you think they're not going to tip, then you'll probably get fired too.


  But stripping as an occupation encourages a total disregard for authority and this is mostly attributable to the owners. You see, owners want to have as many dancers as they can possibly get, even if the club can't sustain that many girls. They also want these dancers to be somehow hotter than all the other dancers at all the other clubs in the area. They don't really want problem strippers at the club, but in reality, problem strippers usually make a lot of money for the club and therefore are a protected species. Like orcas.





  It's a catch-22. A self perpetuating cycle of tawdriness that consumes itself like decadent Rome, falling victim to it's own self obsession as it's influence over others grows. A tor of hubris that promises a fall that may not be so frightening in and of itself compared to the abrupt stop forthcoming...


  Like a full bowel sewn end to end, it's a never ending poop loop. And we're all along for the ride in exchange for cool cars, alcohol, some cash and the occasional blowjob.


  Gods help us all.











*1 Pretty sure I've covered this thoroughly. For further details read virtually any post in this entire blog.




*2 And even that is pretty fucking flexible depending on club and shift. Most of our day shift girls could scare the paint off a tractor.



*3 And by 'aggravating' I mean fucky-fuck-cuntshit-whoreblast-shitty-ass-fuckity-fuck-scrotum-punch-dickhole rape aggravating. I just didn't want to type that in the body of this installment because I felt it lacked class.