Mmmmmmmmm, Taste The Quality. Or, Happy Memorial Day, Degenerate Stripper Style.

  This is going to be an insanely small installment, but it needs to be said.


  Had a dancer tonight who felt that a customer owed her $20 more than what he paid her. He was pretty drunk and she's a greedy bitch so the truth of the matter could be anywhere in between. This poor bastard was back on leave from the Middle East where he's serving in Afghanistan.

  When he balked at paying and accused her of lying, she stated:

"I hope you die over there."

  Wow. I didn't even know what to say except to apologize and attempt to give the guy a free pass on the measly $20*. But he declined, paid the bitch her money and left the club.


  God bless ya, soldier. You're a class act.

  Thank you to all the Men and Women of our Armed Forces, past, present and future for securing the freedom we all take so blithely for granted.

  The price of liberty has always been blood, bless those who shed it for us.


  Zoomies, Squids, Jarheads, Grunts and Puddle Jumpers......Thank you.




  Glad To Be An American If Its Still Legal To Say That,
-The StripperHerder





*I felt that maybe punching her whore face was too much, but a boot to the brat chute might've been justified.



  

How Do You Say 'Asshole' In Latervian? Or, It Won't Get Better If You Keep Poking At It.

  Them: "Hey buddy, where can I get some change?"

  Me: "I don't know. Did you vote for Obama?"

  Them: "Seriously dude, I need some one's."

  Me: "I'm not sure. Where could there possibly be a cash register in a bar?
         Did you try the men's room?"

  Them: "Really?"

  Me: "I would try the bar. They have cash registers. I believe cash registers have
          change in them."

           "Its certainly worth a shot."



   This happens to me nightly. Some drunk guy wanders up and asks me where he can get singles. It never fails to amuse me while I inwardly hope this guy doesn't have kids he passed his inferior genes to. If it seems like even a slight chance he might throw me a couple of bucks, I'll run to the bar and get it for him, but usually I just say "bar" and point at the bar which is inevitable 6 feet away from him.

  Some people are just plain stupid and nothing can fix stupid*. If you're born stupid, you're going to remain stupid and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it. I suggest working out and following a strict diet for folks of the stupid persuasion; just because you're as sharp as a tampon doesn't mean you have to look like shit too.

                                                 "You gonna et that skunk?




  That being said, many underintelligenced people have made huge successes (successi?) of themselves. They didn't let they're lack of brain power hold them back and neither could me.

  Hell I have a higher IQ than at least 3/4 of the world's population and I still barely get by. I know plenty of people dumber then me with WAY more dough than I'll probably ever have.

   My retirement plan consists of dying young. That should tell you where I'm at financially.


                                     




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


  Apparently, if you come from some insanely small Eastern European country and then come to America, it seems like a freedom and cocaine filled Disneyland that you can just pillage and laugh your way through on a trail of mucus-soft white slave trade money.

                                   "I vish for you are to bringing us ze black danzzers, yes?"



  And you know what, good for you. Spend that Tretzakistan/Latervian hooker money. Yay! Bundles of it! Mercedes for everyone!

  Just keep your diminutive, gropey gypsy hands the fuck off the girls, you underbred little fucks.

  Apparently you're not from good peasant stock cuz you're all tiny and shitforth. Go find some tiny women and get on with making the human race smaller.

  I'm surprised you didn't bring goats for currency.



  Its no surprise this guy's your President.

                                                        "Bathe her and bring her to me."







                  Meanwhile, at the Hall of Justice...






  You know what else I really enjoy? I totally dig when someone who I gave years of my life in service to talks shit behind my back. No, really, its great.

  I got word that a former employer of mine made the following statement in regards to me:

  "Yeah, that guy cost me a lot of good girls." Meaning that dancers had left his employee because they hated me.

  Seriously? Name one. I triple dog dare you to name a single girl that quit your club for the sole reason that I worked there. And even if you can legitimately come up with a name, they quit because I was enforcing your rules, not because they hated me. (Although there was a small minority who did, I'll freely admit that.)

  The worst part of the whole deal is that I defend this guy all the time. I constantly run into people at this club who know me from the old place and they invariably ask me which place I prefer to work. I tell them flat out that I make more money where I'm at now, but I much preferred the old club because the owner actually cared about his employees. You weren't just a number on a list of names there. He knew you and he looked out for you. He's generous to a fault if you're in his good graces.

  I definitely miss that. Where I'm at now I haven't spoken 2 words with the owner and I'm certainly not under any illusions that he gives the slightest tiny shit nugget about me. I am grudgingly tolerated because I mop vomit with the best of them and know not to stick my dick in the stables.

                                       (Simulated picture. Actual author penis not to scale.)

 


  It saddened me a bit and then I got over it. Despite the fact, I'll still tell anyone who inquires the same thing, I'd rather work for a guy who knows my name know and at least a little bit about me, than a guy who refers to me a Part #0647.

                                  The barcode tattoo is in a specialized wave-reactive ink so
                                      I can be fired instantly from my boss's iPhone.

  What are ya gonna do?
 -The StriperHeder



















*Thank you Ron White.

I Don't Think I'm Properly Attired For This. Or, Welcome To The 3 Story Pig Shredder, Son.

 

  Like many higher end strip clubs, the Floor Bastards at my club wear tuxedos. Is it trite? Yup. Is it cliched? Abso-cunting-lutely. But there it is. I wear a damn tux at work.

   A tuxedo is a highly specialized set of apparel. There are several occupations where it is very appropriate to wear one. A secret agent for example always wears a tuxedo. A Head Waiter might wear one. And of course, a bouncer at a pretentious strip gentlemen's club.

                                            "I find your saggy pants distasteful, cretin."

 


  Here however is a short list of occupations where a tuxedo doesn't work.

  Landscaper. Riot Cop. Mover. Interior Fucking Decorator. Painter. Janitor.

  You get the idea. If management wants some dirty, sweaty goddamn work done around the place we have barbacks who are dressed in cargo pants and black t shirts.

   What's that you say? You have a massive filthy nonworking cooler to move? Well by all means get some guys in tuxedos to do it. Let the sweat and grime really work into those expensive duds and then let the poor bastards wearing them marinate in their own perspiration and self loathing for the rest of the night.

   Yeah. That's a fine idea. Let's do that.

                        "Drag this from the basement to the attic. Then bring it back down when you realize  
                                          its never going to fucking fit through a tiny fucking hatchway."




   Listen, I'm a team player. Even if it seems sometimes like I'm on my own team. Even though I know that my current job doesn't give 2 shits about me, I can't help it. My parents, damn them, raised me to do whatever job is in front of me to the best of my abilities. Therefore I don't mind doing some of the manual labor stuff around the club for my staggering hourly rate of $6.25 an hour, I really don't.

  But for fuck's sake tell me ahead of time so I can dress in my regular crappy street clothes, not in my quasi-pricey tux.

  Its not rocket science...


  And while we're on the subject of lofty intellectual stuff, allow me to explain a very simple premise.

                        As with coral snakes, Nature has evolved ways to warn of impending dicksnackery.




  If you decide to go to a strip club then presumably you're already expecting inflated prices on drinks and pretty much everything else too. But if you roll up to a titty bar that looks from the outside to be a Tudor castle with fountains and sculptures and giant naked bronze chicks, you really need to consider if its the right club for you.

  Details like these might mean that this club in particular might be too expensive for you. If you'd rather leave the club, drive ten minutes to downtown in search of an ATM that doesn't charge $10 like ours does, then you're definitely at the wrong place.

  We had a guy do this tonight. Broke motherfucker.

  Generally we call these people tourists because they're just here to see the sights. They'll nurse one drink for a couple of hours and ogle all the titty they can before we sweat them to buy another drink. From a club perspective they are fuck-all useless and on one wants them here.




   Strip clubs, like casinos, have evolved over time be be the perfect fleecing machine. It has all the ways and means of a regular bar, (watering booze, short pours, short changing etc etc) plus a whole bunch of other tricks unavailable to non-titty bars.

                                 The presence of truly great tits has a detrimental effect on men's 
                                                  math skills. Suddenly $6 beers seem reasonable. 


 

  For example our dancers are independent contractors. They pay to work here. So depending on what time they want to show up, they can pay anywhere from $35-$110 to work on any given night. (Its amazing to me how many people don't know this bit of trivia)

  As I mentioned before we charge $10 for the privilege of using our ATM to obtain money to spend at our club. Yup, $10. And we set a single transaction limit of $150. So if you want $500 of your own money, you have to pay us $40 to get it.  Or you buy some of our club funny money* which is even more expensive and you can't even buy drinks with it.

  We have 2 bathroom attendants. You'd think they earn a small wage or work strictly for tips, right?

  Nope. They actually fucking rent the space off the club. They, just like the dancers, pay to work here. And they make damn good money too.

  Valet parking. Too lazy or important to walk a few extra yards? Pay a complete stranger to park your car and retrieve it when you're ready to go. Basic service is $8 plus tip. Out of that $8 the club gets half for every car parked.

  The club takes a portion of the DJs' tips.

  The club takes a portion of the Bartenders' tips.

  The club takes a portion of the Barbacks' tips.

  The club takes a portion of the Floor Mammals' tips.

  The club takes a portion of the Champagne Girls' tips

  The club takes a portion of the Door Girls' tips.

  The club takes a portion of the Valets' tips.



  The gross profit margin on a case of Anheuser-Busch beerlike swill is roughly $120 and we sell the crap like there's no tomorrow.

  We sell bottle of vodka that cost us $20-25 for $300. The mark up on champagne is 800% or more depending on vintage.



  See the elephant? I'm sure the owner makes money from the club in ways I don't even know about (but possible theories include:)

  -Stripper Ranching: Mostly Russian and Eastern Eurpoean stock I would imagine. Good genetics at bargain basement prices, easy to afford diet of vodka and Adderall.

  -Thong Buyback Program: Club buys back used thongs and sells them for insane profit to virgin, manga obsessed, perverted Japanese guys.

  -Stripper Turd-o-Cams: Perhaps the reason the plumbing in the building is so bad is not because the owner used substandard everything but because the delicate poo capturing cameras built into the toilets can't handle the water pressure required for a proper flush.

  Certainly food for thought.








 The Strip Club is like the shark of the booze shack world. Perfectly adapted to eat customers.

                                                      "Back off my customah, bitch!"






Thank you for your adhesion,
-Танцор верблюдов








*Like Monopoly money but for tits instead of titles. We have a 20% upcharge for this service and while you CAN take it with you, like faerie money, its becomes worthless at closing time on the day you bought it. So if you don't spend it that night, you might as well have just burned your money.
   
       

You Can Have Your Drink When You Can Pry It From Our Cold, Dead Fingers. Or, Shut Up And Play Another Rhianna Song.

  Our club's bar system isn't designed for efficiency. You can take efficiency and stick it right the hell up your own ass. You will get your drinks whenever the waitresses can be bothered between smoke breaks.

 Our bartenders are, for the most part, very good. But The System™ is designed to account for each drop of booze and every penny of cash and all the safeguards and processes in place to protect the owner's every last farthing* make it impossible to get a mixed drink in under 15 minutes on a busy night.

  Sometimes you haven't even seen a waitress in 15 minutes.



  Your drink will take much longer than that.



  (In this situation I would walk my giant ass to the bar but its surprising how many people are too lazy for that. They'd rather sit and complain to a Floor Douche about the shitty service than sully their hands getting their own drink)



  Here is an approximate timeline of a random table of four's drink order/acquisition process:



  12:32 Finally get table, argue briefly over who's going to sit in which stain on which chair, sit down.

  12:41 Waitress finally arrives smelling of Newports and Red Bull.

  12:43 Waitress finally understands drink order and sets off in search of the bar.

  12:47 Waitress can't find bar. Opts for another cigarette and decides to try again
            after smoking.

  12:52 Tiny determined Waitress finally finds the bar in a sea of other people's
             lower backs and places order with bartender.
         
  12:53 Bartender receives order.

  12:54 Bartender initiates Order Fulfillment Request #417 and slides her ID card.

  12:55 Master Computer acknowledges order #417 prompted by Bartender's
            card slide. Master Computer requests retinal scan to confirm  Bartender
            identity.
            

  12:56 Bartender complies and the Master Computer verifies retinal scan. Drink
            order passed on to Central  Processing Center in Maguppi, India.
            Central Processing Center approves transaction and sends back
            Drink Approval #639

  12:58 Drink Approval #639 appears on Bartenders screen. Bartender ignores it
            as she tries to fill the tidal wave of bar customers who weren't as
            patient as our example table.

  1:06 Bartender finally fills Drink Approval #639. Waitress no where to be found.

  1:09 Waitress finally returns looking for Drink Approval #639.

  1:10 Waitress forgets which table it is for.

  1:15 Frantically waving people at table turns out to be the very same people who
          ordered Drink Order #417.
          
  1:23 After returning from smoke break, Waitress complains to Floor Mammoth
          that the table in question didn't tip.
       
  1:23 Floor Mammoth shrugs.


  That's pretty close.


  We have these things called Champagne Servers. Or in Floor Guy code, Cunt: Sentient. Their job is to handle champagne service and to take care of the back rooms. This means they can make some pretty big money which I assume they use to set up mobile meth labs.

  Most of my time on the floor is spent trying to find one to do her job.

  Its fucking maddening.

  Their names are Moonpie and Zongo-Zongo. They look like, in no particular order, a methed-out bipolar goth queen and an extra from The Road Warrior. They are contractually guaranteed 27 smoke breaks per 8 hour shift.

                                                    "I'm smoking. They can wait."




  Apparently the Champagne Girl and Related Trades Union has a powerful lobby. There's no other reason for them to still work here.

  Except for the possibility that no one else wants to...




   And this brings me to The DJs.

  What can I say? I love at least 2 of these bastards and yet they complain as loud as us Floor Maggots, but don't have to do any of the following things:

  -Clean up puke.
  -Clean up the coagulated blood puddle of a wounded patron/staff/dancer. Its like an afterbirth after its congealed for a few minutes...
  -Fight bachelor parties.
  -Complaining customers (Shut up. I know you deal with complaining customers, but not nearly as many as we do)
  -Plunge toilets that have been clogged with toilet paper and then shit on top of. This generally only happens in the girl's bathroom.*
  -Break up stripper fights.
  -Sweep broken glass, dropped food, vomit, dead strippers, shanks, needles and broken hope from the floor.

                                                 DJ Androgynous hits the floor!




  Sure they have to put up with ISB, or Insane Stripper Bullshit, but so do we. We just make about 5 times less doing it than DJs do.

  I hope this helps keep things in perspective for a friend of mine. Dude would give you the shirt off his back and not even ask why you needed it. But he is understandably fed up with his job and, much like me, drowns his hatred for it in soothing, welcoming alcohol.

  Alcohol never says "I told you so."



  DJ Abu Gharib and DJ Angry Tattooed Protestant. I love you guys. Don't leave me with The Sanjay Kid. I....I couldn't take it.




  Fuck it. That's all for you now. You leave. You leave now. No pictures.


  No make me use bayonet.



  -The StripperHerder



  *An English coin worth one quarter of a cent. Presumably these were used to purchase such things as: an apple core, a quick whiff of some knickers, a nub of coal, a seagull's asshole,

  *Seriously. The girls bathroom is a motherfucking trainwreck compared to the men's. Fucked up shit goes on in there.

Happy Cinco de Go Fuck Yourself. Or, Heroin Ravaged, Overfed and Astoundingly Stupid-We Have Them All!

  Fuck you Corona beer. I blame your undrinkable swill for the surge in Cinco de Mayo awareness. Advertise the living fuck out of your piss flavored Mexican gutter wash and make your average American idiot feel the need to go out and be exceptionally stupid on yet another meaningless day.

  What happened on the 5th of May that makes it so special to those south of the border? Ya got me. I don't give enough of a shit about third world holidays to even look it up. Maybe its the birthday of Pedro Gutierrez, history's greatest landscaper.

                    Pedro's greatest work: the view from the back of Ethel McMurrow's back porch, downtown Detroit.




Or possibly its the anniversary of the death of history's greatest catholic candle maker.

                                         'Tormented Gringo Salvador' By Alvarez Sanchez






  I don't know and I couldn't give less of a shit. Its a day people are supposed to drink substandard beer* and run around being drunk and obnoxious just because a company told them to.

  I don't care for it one bit. No sir, not one bit.

                                                  I don't fucking believe you.

  A friend of mine raised the point that, and I quote "Celebrating St.Patrick's Day makes even less sense." And while I agree with her on the basic premise, ie celebrating any particular day whatsoever makes very little sense to me, especially Christian holidays which I find to be mere Annual Bullshit.

  I do disagree with her on the one point that St Patty's day is an Irish thing and I am, ancestrally, roughly 50% Irish. If I cared to I could probably trace my family back to frightened villagers who got raped by Vikings.

  Therefore if I were into anything that could be described as cultural, I might give a shit about this. But the fact of the matter is I hate St. Patty's day even more just because its been around forever and few days, if any, will ever rival it in the annuls of bouncer hatred.




  In related news, our special for tonight's bullshit 'holiday' is 25 cents off normal price.


  Seriously, I'm not kidding you. We normally charge $5.50 for a Corona, but today, if you act now I can get you that Corona for a mere $5.25. (.25 surcharge for a slice of lime)*

  Fuck you, customers.



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




 Our team is awful. I gotta say, taken as a whole it's really bad. There are some gems to be sure. We absolutely DO have hotties. But then we also have some creature features that range from merely off putting to fully troglodyte.

                                                       "Yesssss. I do bachelor partiessss. Issssss my spessiality...."

  At this point in the narrative I realize I have to skew off on a tangent. I need to enlighten the average reader of this blog, IE someone who has never worked in a strip club before and probably not even in the Hospitality Industry, as to how a perfectly operated strip club works.

  (This is ambitious because there are a metric fuck-ton of variables. What the perfect formula is in Las Vegas may not be a good formula for Lexington, Kentucky. What works in Denver may not fly in Passaic, NJ. Therefore I will base all opinions on what I think would be perfect for The Town in which I operate.)


  A perfectly run club is one which operates like a finely balanced 426 Hemi motor that's fueled by douchebags and shits out clouds of money. It makes so much money that every layer of the strip club ecosystem is saturated with it. Everyone makes some dough. Everyone is in on a hustle somewhere.

  The dancers have to work within this framework. They have to know their place. The numbers, based on a fictional club with 100 dancers (just for ease of math/and considering the locale) should look like this:

10/100 Need to be world class by anyone's estimation. Nova hot. Way beyond mortal man's reach.
30/100 Need to be 9's or 10's for you to have any credibility, however small, of being a quality club.
40/100 Can be varying stages of the Ravagement of the Stripper Lifestyle
20/100 Will be the absolute carp of the titty world. Bottom feeders who smell and taste nasty. No amount of garlic butter will mask their failure.





  And this is where I lose interest and make a dangerous pilgrimage for whatever fast food might be open.

  It could be a MechMuffin, it could be a OccupyBurger. Who the fuck cares? Only assholes care about what their friends think they eat. I'll eat from the sidewalk.



  Tell a foreigner about me.






-The StripperHerder










*Any beer that needs something added to it to mask the taste is not worth drinking.

*I'm lying about the lime surcharge, but not the pricing.

Heroin-It Does A Body Good. Or, I Want My Hair To Look Like 2 Stillborn Poodles Laying In A Pile Of Corn Husks.

  "Her track marks wove a seductive pattern amidst the garish red lights, intertwining sinuously with poorly rendered tattoos upon her loosely hanging, malnourished skin folds. 

  What a hot fucking slut."*

  The above of course was written by some kind of deviant sociopath* who likes women to look like Miss Auschwitz 1941. The kind of girl where if she ate a single kidney bean you would immediately be able to tell. The kind of girl whose emaciated body is somehow able to metabolize alcohol at superhuman levels and who regularly drinks enough booze on a Tuesday night to kill 5 Russian sailors and a medium sized dog.

  But wait, there's more.

  Take that 70 lb dancer and ram 2 quart bags of silicone over her sparrowlike ribcage. Then reinforce her lower back with adamantium because there isn't a chance in hell this starving blond scarecrow will be able to stand up under her own power without her porous,child sized spine splintering.

  We can make her Better. Sluttier. More listless.

  We have the pharmocolgy...

 This pic came up on pg. 2 when I searched 'Bionic Stripper'. Supply any amusement you thought to obtain from this caption from your own imagination.
  








  And then there's Fluffy.

  Fluffy is a waitress.

  Fluffy is fluffy.

  Fluffy's fluffy hair is fluffy.

  Fluffy are not so smart.

  Fluffy are very fragile.

  Fluffy not so very motivated.

  Widdle Fwuffy is easiwy confoozed then cries and quits.

  Surprise! Fluffy's back!

  Fluffy needs 18th smoke break of the night.

  Fluffy sounds like Rod Stewart with tuberculosis.

            "I'm sorry, I know I should have pasties on but as you can see, my inflatable chicken just blew up."












  The Official Soundtrack to 'Plight of the StripperHerder: The Movie'.


1) Rhianna "Umberella" (When I picture humanity as a whole dying off, this song is always in the background and suddenly extinction doesn't seem so bad)
2) Rhianna "Any Other Song She Has Done" (Seriously. Any other song. Judging from the frequency I have to hear this woman's music you would figure she's responsible for 75% of the Earth's musical output.)
3) Lady Gaga "Bad Romance" 
4)  Far East Movement "Like a G6" (Since I'm not a rich R&B star, I always assume they're referring to the Pontiac)*
5) LMFAO "I'm Sexy and I Know It" (Its easy to be a rock star when your Berry Gordy's son and have outrageous hair.)
6) Journey "Don't Stop Believin" (As long as lonely, monied middle aged men still frequent strip clubs, this song will never die)
7) Another Rhianna Song (Yup. Bitch is popular with the tittied)
8) Kesha "Random Song About Sucking Dick" (Pick one.)
9) Lady Gaga "Poker Face" (This song would play while some dancer didn't even change expression as she was banged from behind in a champagne room.)
10) Nicki Minaj "Super Bass" (This song would play while something ghetto was happening)
11) Any Disturbed Song. (What's the difference?)
12) Buckcherry "Crazy Bitch" (Because this song makes a statement of intent. 'Yes', it says, 'I fuck good enough to make God cry. But I will poison and destroy everything good in your life to the point you have to kill me or yourself to end the torment.')
13) Any Nickelback Song (I SO fucking hate you Canadian cocksuckers. I should've killed Chad back in '99 when I had the chance. Douche. Argh fuckitty fuck.*

                                                     Face of the Destructor revealed



                               



               The Top 5 Insults I've Used In The Last Year



5) "I do not accept your goat!"

4) "Do you play miniature golf?"

3) "I sense a disturbance in the Force!"*

2) "I've had hemorrhoids with more developed genitalia than you!"*

1) "I READ AT A TWELFTH GRADE LEVEL MOTHERFUCKER!"

                            "See Dick run. Dick runs fast!"









 I don't use asterisks correctly. I'm way too angry for proper punctuation.  One must deal with it or give up hope on the motherfucking awesomeness that is my


 Blogasaurus Rex.



   May its bones confuse our descendents.





Derelictions,
-The StripperHerder










 







*Excerpt from the essay "What I did with my disposable income last Summer." By Ronald J. Fukinluzzer Jr.


*I had originally written 'sick fuck'. I try to upgrade now and then during editing, depends on how drunk I am at the time.**

**I'm only a third of a bottle of vodka in right now. Its early.


*In the off chance you haven't seen this yet, It is a great parody of this horrible fucking song. Its nerdriffic.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=54VJWHL2K3I

  "I be hackin them all up.."



*I decided to write 'argh fuckitty fuck' instead of pounding my fists into the keyboard, howling and flinging my feces about in frustration at not being able to fully express through words how much I despise this band.



*You had to be there.


*I was drunk.