One day a young stripperherder said to his dad as they were both eyeing a herd of strippers, "Hey Dad, let's run over there and smack one of those strippers!" To which the older stripperherder said, "No Son, let's walk over there and smack them all."
"If only I could smack them all" I think wistfully to myself. Well, not really all of them, but most. I feel most of their lives could be enriched by a nice, hearty bitch slap to their vodka-holes.
Tonight was a pretty frustrating night in some regards, which I will detail of course as I meander my way through this installment. We broke the cycle of sub $200 nights finally, but it was like pulling your ballsack through a kitchen drain; painful and very likely to leave a mark.
So let's get into it. Let's wade into the shallow, scummy pool of my discontent and splash around a bit. It'll be fun.
Things start off slowly of course. I wasn't even scheduled for tonight but had swapped a shift with a different Floor Host for what I assumed was a somewhat meaningful reason. Boy was I wrong. Turns out the Floor Snizz in question just wanted to go out with some other people from our club, an annoying dancer from another club and they were all going out to yet another club. All strip clubs, mind you.
I wasn't real happy to find out this was the resaon he needed me to take a shift for him, but I did it and that's that. What really fucked my goat was that I had to haul their worthless asses in the shuttle bus to this other manky-ass strip club that apparently smelled of unwashed socks and vaginal disorders. I did this hoping one of them might throw me a tenner for my trouble, but my hopes were as lifeless as a stillborn puppy.
Not one of my co-workers could be bothered to throw me a dime for my trouble. My fucking co-workers for crissakes. And one I was covering a shift for at that. Had our positions been reversed I most assuredly would've tipped the driver at least a ten if not a twenty. If for no other reason than the cab fare would've been more.
So, yeah, eat a pile of foreskins you conniving, cheapskate assholes. Or better yet make a hat out of them and wear it around so everyone knows you're a dick.
Fucking hell.
The next part of the whole 'tonight sucked' paradigm was when "Tom" and his buddy wanted to get a champagne room with 2 of our dancers for an hour. This costs a lot of money, but good ole Tom wanted a deal before he'd agree to the room. So I went to my manager, Sir Orville Bumrot Skippydoo VIII and asked if we could give a break on the room fees.
Sir Orville said that if they get 2 hours instead of one, he'd take half off the club's cut of the second room. So I go back to Tom with the manager's offer. Tom says no. He say's he's willing to do 2 hours if the second hour is free as far as room fees go. So I smile while I inwardly slay things in frustration and head back to Sir Orville and basically plead for him to agree to it so I could make some goddamn money.*1
With a put upon grimace Sir Orville finally agrees to waive the club fee for the second hour, saving Tom $500.
So...
Tom is happy.
The strippers are happy because Tom would've walked if he didn't get his way and they wouldn't have made $450 each.
I'm happy because I recall fondly Tom's benevolence and generosity
And the manager is unhappy, but who gives a fuck.
Well then imagine my delight when I see that Tom has left me a $50 tip. Just one zero shy of the last time he was here, but a very important zero.
Then, to add another fetid layer to this shit cake, the dancers covertly asked me to end the room an half hour early. I had no problem with this as I figured everyone's drinking and they were already in the room for 15 minutes while I haggled with the manager to secure the discount, so no one's really going to miss 30 minutes.
Ha! I was wrong in my assumption for the Everyth time tonight. Tom had apparently set his watch the moment I walked out of the room after he'd signed the receipt. I tried to sidestep this with the artfully constructed bullshit that my manager had insisted I count the time from the moment everyone had entered the room as a concession to his waiving the second hour's room fee.
Total lies like this work a surprising amount of the time, but not tonight. Tom stated that he had paid for 2 hours and that it started after he'd signed the receipt and that he had no intention of leaving before that time was up.
I said, "Hey, you're the boss Tom. See you in another half hour." There wasn't a damn thing I was willing to do otherwise. The girls were just going to have to do what they were paid to do, and although I realize that it is cruel and abhorrent to ask a dancer to actually earn her $250 an hour pay rate, I was forced to do just that.
So apparently the dancer-skanks held this against me because although they made over $450 each after they paid their House Fees, one stripper tipped out the Counter (i.e. the other Floor Guy working tonight) $4 and me nothing, while the second stripper stiffed both of us.
Both of them will pay dearly for this of course, but the promise of future vengeance doesn't mitigate the immediate fiscal sting and associated feelings of choke-a-bitchedness.
How's that for some fecal icing on an ass-fuck layer cake?
And then there's Destiny. That's actually her real stage name too. I'm breaking one of my narrative rules by using her actual dancer handle for the simple fact that:
There's a dancer named Destiny at every single strip club in America. Every last one. It's been scientifically proven, look it up.
So Destiny's thing is a LED hula hoop, as if there's anything sexy about a daffy, mediocre looking broad slinging a flashing hula hoop around in her despair soaked bikini. But the manager, Sir Orville thinks she's just great for doing something different in a world of apathetic booty shakers and pole-clingers. Maybe he's right but I am not fucking impressed and to judge by her lack of making any money beyond a few stray ones, no one in the room was impressed either.
Destiny leaves her hoop and her depressingly flat dorky shoes she wears while doing her bit in what we call Champagne Room 1, which is where I had to put Tom and his girls tonight. So I took her hoop and shoes and placed them in an adjacent VIP area which we call Cow Box 2. I didn't throw her stuff onto the ground or toss it carelessly over the Cow Box's wall. I reached over the wall, because I are all big and stuff and have enlongated arms, and place them in the Cow Box.
Well I guess the hula hoop must have rolled out the Cow Box and down its 3 carpeted stairs onto the floor. Destiny sees this and proceeds to flip the fuck out.
"Who the fuck did this? This thing cost me $500! I'll kill whoever did this!" Etc etc.
She comes up to me while I'm busy trying to do five things at once and starts interrogating me about her motherfucking piece of plastic. I amazed myself at this point by remaining sanely calm and explaining to her that I did it and it was pure happenstance that her round object rolled down some stairs, but that I didn't just throw it on the ground. I had put it in the Cow Box and obviously it had rolled down the stairs and that I was sorry-it was neither what I had done nor what I intended.
She just goes on raging at me until I get pissed off and tell her that she'd better take her attitude down a notch and start speaking to me like a fellow human being and not something she found swimming around the bottom of her toilet.
And I'll take this opportunity to point out three things concerning this whole situation:
A) There was no damage whatsoever to her fucking hula hoop
B) While onstage she had dropped her hoop twice during a performance where it bounced off the marble tip rail and then to the ground and it was fine. Therefore rolling gently down three carpeted stairs was highly unlikely to cause it much grief, and
C) If she paid $500 for this LED lined hula hoop then she's a cocksucker of an idiot because I couldn't find one on Ebay for more that $80. That's like saying you paid $70,000 for a Kia. If you did, you're a fucking moron and shouldn't be allowed to run around unsupervised.
The only consolation about this whole matter is that Sir Orville didn't try to make me apologize to her after I told her to go fuck herself. Which I wouldn't have done anyway.
I'm not doing pictures, I'm drinking hard and serious now.
-The StripperHerder
*1 The only reason I fought for this is because the last time Tom was at the club he did a room with 4 clients and 5 of our girls for 2 hours and tipped me $500.
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