It's 9 AM, Do You Know Where Your Strippers Are? Or, Feces, Vomit, Urine and Jizz, The Four Horsemen Of The Tittypocalypse.

  I didn't get home until about ten minutes ago and it's 9:35 AM.

  It's been a long night...


  I'm glad that we'll cater to high rollers after hours provided they make it worth our while; it puts dough in my pocket and ammo in my cache. But at a certain point it becomes a zero sum game. After you pass a particular threshold, you just want it all to be over and you want to go home.

  It would be great to afford to throw away $10-15K a night in a club getting fucked up and having some naughty fun, but for Christ's sake, wouldn't you get bored of it? The same old thing week in and week out, drowning yourself in alcohol as strippers rape your wallet and tell you how great you are. How many of those same strippers would be there for you if the money runs out?

  Fucking zero. None. Nil. Nada. They are like parasites on an organism, if the host dies they move on to a new one. Yeah sure its a party while the dough remains, but once it dries up they will leave faster than a fat person attacks a buffet.*1

  I realize the whale in question makes really good cash, but nothing is certain in this world and I sincerely hope that he's covered his bases in regards to his future. He's a pretty cool dude and it pains me to think he just pisses money away as fast as he makes it because he's sure tomorrow will bring more.

  What if it doesn't?


  And he's got this girlfriend who (of course) she used to be a dancer. She's a skinny, big mouth, pretty bitch who loses all volume control, class and sense of decorum when she's drunk (which is all the time). I can't help thinking that she must be able to snorkel a volleyball through a fountain pen to make it worth this dude's while to keep her around. He's wealthy, therefore he could afford to have any girl he wanted, yet he stays with this combative, uncouth wisp who frequently gets violent and smacks him for no apparent reason when she's hammered.

  And she throws up a lot, which is gross.

                             "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah!"








  God bless him. A $2,000 tip is always a glorious thing....



  Which brings me around to:






   The Four Horsemen of the Tittypocalypse

                                    Don't be afraid. They ride Vespa's.






  Since the money's been really good lately, I'm hating my job slightly less than usual. That doesn't, however, extend to Saturday nights. Saturday nights suck ass. They are like dealing with 700 idiot children who are simultaneously whacked on Adderall and Seconal. Totally spastic yet unable to think rationally or care about consequences.

  It's maddening.



  And before I launch onto this tirade I'd like to put out this disclaimer:




  I have been insanely drunk many times before and have perpetrated a whole host of horrible, stupid things. Bad things. I made choices which have brought me great shame and self loathing upon sobriety and had me apologizing to numerous people and feeling like a fucking asshole.

  I've chased people around with giant cleavers, never meaning to actually chop them up or anything, but totally unconcerned with the fact that I was a giant, lurching wasted dickhead and any number of boozy scenarios could've resulted in a severed limb or a vast number of stitches.

  I've driven my car full of wasted idiots around suburban streets, taking out whole rows of mailboxes on purpose with my $500 hoopty-destructomobile.

  I threatened to beat the shit out of a guy who was trying to compliment me on my shirt, which was a product of a company I owned at the time and therefore a potential customer.


  The point is I understand doing really dumb things while drunk, but in public is not the place to do them. The vast majority of my enebriated malconductions were committed while camping out, or at a friends party. Some place where there was a containment zone for my idiocy, like friends and trees and stuff.


  
*2


  So it still for some reason boggles my mind how fucking moronic and just plain retarded drunk some folks will let themselves become in a public setting. Seriously if you haven't worked in the alcohol selling portion of the service industry, you have no idea and I can't fully convey the experience here.

  If you could just embed with me for a month, I could show you the dazzling peaks of human brainlessness, the murky depths of alcoholic degerneration and the besotted twattery of individuals who may very well be awesome people when they're sober, but are remorseless, felchful dickbags when they're drunk.


  I've given you plenty of examples over the last 3 1/2 years, but because new ones always crop up, here are some more premium service industry gems that I'll try to tie in to the title for no special reason.




Lord Feces. Usually Lord Feces haunts the toilets and bathrooms of the club, his indisputable domain. But sometimes He makes a surprise appearance in less conventional places and catches you by off guard. At the last club I worked at I walked into a utility closet and there was an unexpected smear of shit down one wall culminating in a semi solid pile of doodee. Thinking quickly I placed a broom in front of it and backed away slowly, thus making it someone else's problem

  Tonight Lord Feces manifested as a torrent of diarrhea from this customer's ass while he was getting a dance. It was messy, foul and not at all subtle. His grey slacks looked like he'd fallen in mud and the dancer almost went catatonic with horror. She went to the dressing room and just stood there screaming until the House Mom subdued her and threw her in the shower. She spent the rest of the night hyperventilating and mewling like a wounded kitten. Can't really blame her I suppose, she got spattered pretty good.

  I gotta admit, after 15 years in the industry, that was a first. I have faced off against Lord Feces many times over the years, like this time:


http://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2012/07/serious-argument-against-becoming.html




 But I've never been assaulted by him. Ambushed by antipersonnel poo? Yes. Actively stalked and attacked by SWAT poo? No.


  Poor girl.

                                                 Smells like freedom.









  Vomit. Hurl. Regurgitation. Calling Huey. Yickity-yack. You're going to get it no if and's or buts. People puke when they drink and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it but clean up and get them the hell out of the club before they barf some more.

  But sometimes it seems like it comes and goes in tides and if that's the case tonight was high tide. The floor was slick with vomit (exaggeration), knee deep in some places (estimation). It was definitely amateur night, out producing even St. Patty's day on the V-Scale. Gastro mayhem.

  Fucking unsavory.

           And here I was worried I wouldn't have to do anything repugnant tonight.






  

  Urine. Seriously guys, what the fuck is wrong with us? If the club didn't have a barback pulling janitor duty, there would've been a lake of piss under and all around the urinals. I like to bitch about some of the conditions I've witnessed in girl's restrooms over the years, but at least they don't normally pee all over the floor.

  I mean it's a urinal for fook's sake. If you're using it properly it's virtually impossible to miss. You can't just stand a yard away and hope for the best. Or, if you enjoy standing in a puddle of assorted other men's urine while you do your business, then by all means, fire away.

  It's deplorable what goes on in there.

                                              You're doing it wrong.





  Jizz. In this industry you will eventually find a used condom, or in a less optimal situation, fresh jizz stains on some furniture or a stripper's chin. It happens, you just have to live with it. It's best not to panic. You have to fight your way through the body's natural revulsion, summon your reserves of patience and fortitude and order a smaller Floor Guy to deal with it.

  It sucks but it's all part of the glamorous life of stripperherding.

 

                        A life of splendor and job satisfaction awaits!


                           



                     The 7 Hour Work Week.

  

  It's grueling how much some dancers work each week. They are committed, driven individuals who won't let anything stop them from nearly working a regular persons average work day over the course of a week. They push themselves to the limit and beyond, often clocking in as early as 11PM!

  Let me give you two prime examples of this dedicated work ethic, I call them Lt. A-Whore-a and Suckles The Dick Clown


  These two CDU's*4 usually straggle into work around 11:30 to 12:30 at night and do nothing but complain, drink, do coke and smoke cigarettes. They rarely do enough dances to cover their house fees and then they ask if they can do a make up shift instead of paying what they owe.

  Now here's the thing about make up shifts, at our club a 'shift' means 5 hours. Not 2, not 3 but 5. Five fucking hours. So the manages let them do a make up shift for the next day and low and behold these 2 idiots show up at 11:30. Since we close at 2:30, this is not a shift. The managers put up with this for months before finally laying down the law. I was told to charge them the appropriate house fee for the hour they clocked in and when the girls protested I explained to them that a make up shift doesn't start at midnight and that's why they have to pay an exorbitant house fee.

  I explained this to them several times, talking slowly and using very small words and apparently they still don't get it. So the boss just said fuck it. Charge them a $250 missed shift fee, payable before they're allowed to work. This has been going on for like 3 weeks now and the girls keep paying it.

  Now my question is how do girls who work maybe 6-8 hours a week and don't make any money doing it afford to cough up $250 2-3 times a week? Hmmmm....I wonder.

  Obviously the management feels that the money the club is making off the daffy bitches' missed shift fees offsets the risk the club runs by having these "strippers" pretty much openly prostituting themselves. I tend to disagree with management on this topic, but my opinion means less than nothing.

  Therefore I have to continue to put up with them, their shitty attitudes and their non-tipping ways until they either overdose or find a nice bridge somewhere under which they can whore to their heart's content.

  It's aggravating.



Have a Striptacular Day,
-The StripperHerder





*1 My personal best is 9 seconds. I didn't even order.




*2  I would like to take this footnote to tell you that at the time I wrote the preceding paragraph I had been sitting on Chairthulu for over an hour. Force of instinct rather than any actual sensation made me take a break to go piss, whereupon I fell on the floor because I couldn't feel anything below my waist and didn't even realize it because I'm drinking. I ended up dragging my cold, dead legs and glacial nether region all the way to the bathroom, not unlike a pale, ungainly walrus and peeing in the shower stall because it is much lower than the rim of my toilet and my prostate ain't what it used to be.



*3  It's 9:52 AM which is when my delightful new neighbors wake up and start yelling at each other. Screaming as communication may seem awkward and unproductive to some, but it is a culturally accepted norm in various segments of society. It has been and continues to be a moving experience for me.



*4 CDU: Cum Disposal Units

A Person With Only 6 Teeth Left Should Be Extra Concerned With Their Remaining Teeth's Well Being. Or, Just Because You're A Methed Out Stripper Doesn't Mean You Can't Act Like A Blithering Cunt.

                               



                    Common Courtesies







  I am a man driven by the simple ethos that you treat people the way you would like to be treated, until they give you a reason to treat them differently, of course. It's simple things I'm talking about here, nothing grand or far reaching.

  Turn signals and the proper use thereof for example, make everyone's life just a tiny bit easier when they're on the road. Holding a door open for someone. Simple, everyday courtesies can make the difference between a horrible day and merely a crappy one. If we all took the care to extend to a stranger the niceties you would show to a friend, things that take virtually no extra effort, the world would become, by tiny degrees, a better place to live in.

  Take Abraham, the Disc Jewky at our club. I've been sweeping the carefully placed toilet paper he uses to cover the seat at work into the bowl and flushing it for him for over a year now. 5 days a week for over a year. Why? Because as the first night shift Floor Twat to go in most days, I run around and do all the sweeping and restocking that the day shift guy couldn't be bothered to do even though he has NOTHING whatsoever to do all day.

  It's an inconsequential thing, sweeping ass touched toilet paper into the john using the end of a broom. It doesn't cost me much effort and only takes me 3-5 seconds. It didn't really bother me the first day and it really didn't bother me the second day or the tenth for that matter. But by the hundredth day I kept thinking to myself "If I was an emotionally stunted germophobe who actually gained some sort of comfort from the useless gesture of covering a public toilet seat with tissue paper, would I consistently leave my security barrier there, every day, for some poor bastard to push into the toilet for me, or would I just nudge it in there myself since it's my ass and there can't possibly be anything living on my ass that I could catch from the TP that was shielding it?"

  The answer, in my case, is that if I was delusional enough to think that a layer of toilet paper could protect my derriere from some perceived threat inherent in public toilet seats, I would indeed push it into the toilet myself when I was done for the simple fact that other people shouldn't have to do it for me.

  Don't get me started on germophobes in the first place. I figure their lives are already enough of a hell due to their irrational fears and nonsensical rituals they use to get by every day and certainly don't need me heaping more scorn upon them.

  Before I move on I would like to point out that there has never been, since we started keeping track of these things, a confirmed case of anyone catching anything from a toilet seat. Seriously, check it out. You can't find one.*1




  All this leads me to Roscoe P. Colbrain, our tiny, dentically challenged cook. Now I don't have much good to say about Roscoe in the first place. He's somewhat competent in the kitchen provided he doesn't get more than 4 orders at once. He is certainly possessed of the over inflated pride in his culinary skills that most would be chefs have and professes to take great pride in his work. His crowning achievements at this club were to get his signature burger placed on the menu*2 and to wrap vegetables in bacon and deep fry them and call them appetizers.*3



  In truth Roscoe is lazy, shoddy in his skills and ignorant of even the most basic fundamentals of culinary craft. He's a proven idiot who can't even drive himself to work like a normal adult American. He recently jizzed in an ugly girl he hates and now has a child with her which he has to support on his $10/hr paycheck.


  He also enjoys rap music.


  Roscoe has a problem similar to Abraham the Disc Jewky except Roscoe likes to leave his mop water in the bucket after he's finished mopping the kitchen, where it remains until I go to use it the following night and have to fucking empty the scummy, nasty water out before I can go about my nightly mopping rounds.

  Once again this didn't annoy me the first time, nor even the tenth time I had to do it. I just said to myself 'fucking asshole...' and got on with it.

  But since by the end of tonight I was feeling a bit frayed, finding last night's mop water waiting for me to empty it was like finding a fresh ring of Abe's ass paper.

  I took exception to it.

  I told the Manager, Sir Invariably Polenta IX that he needs to inform the cooks that emptying the mop bucket at the end of their shift is an essential component of them not getting their ass kicked by an enraged bear of a Floor Beast. I told him in particular to convey this to Roscoe, who doesn't have a lot of teeth left to lose and certainly doesn't need my fist abbreviating their already doomed existence.

  If I have to explain it to the kitchen staff I will not take great pains to make it pleasant for them. If I were armed with a 10 lb leg of lamb, I would feel confident going into combat against the entire cook staff armed with whatever kitchen utensils they saw fit to grab. I may need a few stitches when the dust cleared, but they would need necromancers.

  Then I would bread them and feed them to drunk strippers as 'pork bites'. Strippers will eat anything if it comes with enough ranch dressing.




  So in summary, be nice until someone gives you a reason not to be nice. If something is your responsibility, like a toilet paper life preserver one must create to poop in an alien environment or last night's downtrodden mop water, take care of it yourself. Grow the fuck up, look up 'empathy' in the dictionary and try to put it into the context of your life and properly use your goddamn turn signals.

               Mother Helen says "Be nice to each other or I will deliver the Death Palm to your femoral arteries."





Monaco the tweaked-out whorebag.



  Monaco is a tweaked out, bony, flappy stripper who regularly ingests enough methamphetamine to kill seven outlaw bikers. She is roughly as smart as an ermine, but doesn't nearly have as luxurious a pelt nor the charming demeanor of said mustelid.

  The Floor Axis hates her. She's mucks up the ecosystem with her tawdry whoooooriness. Tweakheads are unpredictable, misbegotten auto collisions*4 who only exist to plague the lives of Floor Apes and MisManagers everywhere. They are our penance for previous lives of misdeed and abuse of power, I am sure of it.


  I'm only mentioning her here because she's sorta in the title to this edition.






  What I'd really like to talk about now is my current computer chair dilemma. Yes, I have a computer chair problem which is vexing me.

  Confused? I don't blame you. Let me elucidate.



  You see I am a gigantic, shamelessly heavy brontosapien. Normal, commercial desk chairs don't work for me very long. They are not forgiving of my gravitational pull. They, with startling regularity, suddenly bend at a 45 degree angle and dump me on the floor.





  I am the Death of Chairs.




  So in desperation I bought a 50's era Swivel Stool With Optional Useless Back Support Illusion. It was designed by a man named A. Shugguroth for use against clerks and accountants and anyone else that was required to sit more than 15 minutes at a time. It is built to withstand a small but determined Apocalypse and can quite easily cope with my ponderous largeness.*5

   

                                     Strong enough to support most known species of Lummox.






  This hideous, tank-proof Chair is quite comfortable for roughly 5 minutes, which is how long I sat in it at the antique store I bought it at. After that a variety of painful symptoms develop and they sharply intensify the longer you sit in The Chair. I firmly believe that this Chair was crafted in an odd-numbered Circle of Hell and is most certainly powered by the souls of dead children. I am sure that if I went looking for this antique shop again, it wouldn't be there anymore and no one in the area can remember an antique shop ever being there.

  Lest you think I exaggerate, let me give you a painstakingly recorded transcript of an experiment I ran last week where I subjected myself to The Chair for 27 minutes straight and took notes on the experience.

  Don't try this at home, I am a professional Lummox and am built to survive dicey encounters with demon-wrought furniture. Even so I only write this after a lengthy recovery period.


  Reader Discretion Advised.




1 Minute in Chair: It's sturdy and comfortable, but I wish I could lean back without cracking my spine in half or falling onto my back.


3 Minutes in Chair: This will definitely not shatter under my mighty buttocks. I can't believe it only cost $25! Sure it lacks in lumbar support but that will just encourage me to sit with better posture.


5 Minutes in Chair: It could be worse and it only cost $25.



8 Minutes in Chair: Strange, but I can't feel my balls anymore and my taint is just a distant, icy memory. Wasn't this damn chair comfortable just a second ago? Am I going crazy?



11 Minutes in Chair: For shit's sake who made this fucking thing? How can numbness burn like napalm and what the hell is compressing my tailbone like a drop forge?



14 Minutes in Chair: Dear God, it hurts! IT HURTSSSS! Legs feel like firey dead things....won't respond. Thoughts shredded with suffering...can't think way out of Chair...



15 Minutes in Chair: Pass out from the excruciating pain. Sweet, blessed unconsciousness...



19 Minutes in Chair: Awake screaming to find the mewling, piss stained remnant of a man that lives in The Chair is me. Helpless and very afraid. I am going to die in this Chair.



22 Minutes in Chair: Ready to admit that I killed Christ for the mercy of death. Willing to admit to any crime, any unthinkable atrocity to just make the agony go away. I have purchased Chairthulu and it will wrench my soul from my pooper.



25 Minutes in Chair: Gibbering with pain induced hallucinations of the Spanish Inquisition. I smell burning flesh and rotted leather. I confess to being a Jew, a Cathar, a Muslim but the misery won't stop. My vision goes black I can hear a Vast Slithering as I pray for devourment.



27 Minutes in Chair: Death convulsions hurl me out of The Chair and into the refrigerator where as fortune would have it the freezer pops open and a bottle of Ketel One pours into my open, concussed mouth, revitalizing me on the brink of my extinction. I was super lucky.

                                      Obey The Chair. All hail The Chair. The Chair loves us.




  Sigh, guess I'm gonna have to spend some stripperherding money, or become paralyzed and have my soul eaten by something with tentacles from the Netherworld.





Long Live The Chair,
-The StripperHerder














*1 I'm not saying that I don't wipe a seat off before I use it. Dudes are notorious for pissing all over toilet seats that they were too lazy or inconsiderate to put up before they cut loose. Since I don't relish the idea of sitting on some other guy's dried urine, I generally wipe the seat off first. But I am under no illusions that this will do anything at all to eradicate lurking germs and bacteria, nor do I ever think about contracting a disease from a public crapper because I'm not a fear ridden fuckdrivel.



*2 Your basic Black n Bleu burger except his has grilled red pepper and comes on ciabatta bread. Wow.



*3 As if this is original, creative, innovative or he knew how to spell any of these words.



*4 Like a Trainwreck but a little bit quieter and more localized.



*5 And this is just a guess mind you, since I can't seem to find a scale that goes over 300 lbs, but I'd be willing to bet that I'm around 350-370 lbs right at this moment. Chairs hate me.

The Floor Guy Diplomacy Quiz. Or, Another Argument For Tipping.

  Dry your tears my Herderites, I'm back. I feel very, very sorry that I haven't been providing the Plight that so many of you rely on to get through the day. You have my sincere apologies and my promise to try and do better.

  What's been going on you ask?

  Well, let's see. My business partners fucked me over pretty good. Not in a crime-of-opportunity sorta way, but rather in a cold, calculated from-day-one sorta way. So the past 2 years of my life, including all the 70-120 hour work weeks have all been wasted. I basically built a business for them including customer base and distribution and all I got out of it was an assfucking that didn't include a free dinner first.

  I wish I could go into more detail, but there may very well be some litigation involved with this, so an explanation will have to wait for the wheels of justice to crush someone.


  Other than that I'm making very slow progress on a script that if it gets made into a movie, will be the funniest movie ever made. So if you're still alive in 30 years or so, look for it in a theater near you.


  OK, enough small talk. Let's get to the topic at hand which is Floor Guy diplomacy. The tenets of the following quiz actually apply to any industry where one is forced to interact with other humans in order to hack a living from the wilderness of life. I put my unique spin to some of the things I encounter within the titty club ecosphere, but elsewise it could be applicable to any number of other jobs as well.


  It's very simple. I'll provide a statement or question that I've run into at my job recently and a list of possible replies. You decide which was the correct response and I'll provide a list of answers at the bottom and we can all see how well we did.

  Ready?


  Then let's do it.





    The StripperHerder Diplomacy Test Version 1.0





1)  "I'm just not doing very well here anymore. Is it me?"


A) Yes, you're still ugly.

B) No, it's the customers, they've all sucked lately.

C) Everything's going to be fine after you get the face and body transplant and those personality injections.

D) Maybe you should ask that of someone who gives a shit.




2) "How does my outfit look?" (fishnet body stocking)

A) Like someone dragged up something long dead in a trawling net, gave it enough of a speech ability to be annoying and forced it to ask me stupid questions.

B) Kinda like a butterfly net full of random, bleached organs.

C) Fantastic. Don't change a thing.

D) Excellent, the crosshatchings of the fishnet really trick the eye into not seeing the 'hell awaits' written in stretch marks across the remains of your titties.



3) "Hey buddy! How you doin?" (People who frequent the club always like to think you're their friend, even when they've never tipped you a dime or done anything whatsoever to assist you in your quest to make a living, or are in fact, a scumbag.)

A) Just great, brother! How you been?*1

B) I've been secretly hoping that you had a previously undiagnosed and utterly hostile alien parasite living in your upper bowel region and that it would choose this exact moment to rend it's way out of your intestinal tract. That way you would stop talking to me.

C) I'm awesome dude because I realize not matter how mediocre and meaningless my life is, I'm still not you!

D) I'm morose. Give me money or I'll hit you with a table.




4) "What's Dewar's?" (I understand if you're new at something, you've got a lot learn and usually have to do it on the job. But really, come on. Learn your shit already. I had a waitress pose this question to me tonight when she asked me what 'deuce' was because someone had ordered a 'deuce and coke'. I told her they probably said 'Dewar's but that she should go and check with the customer. I was right and completely failed to point out to her that to my knowledge there isn't a booze called 'Deuce' and even if there is we certainly don't carry it and that I know this in spite of the fact that my job doesn't require me to take drink orders.)


A) Its a highly toxic aminac acid that instantly dissolves all living tissue it comes in contact with and can only be consumed by demons, intra-dimensional creatures of a diabolic persuasion and Bulgarians.

B) It's a blended scotch made from rejected barrels of various distilleries that are thrown together in an attempt to make them taste better and whose name recognition is mostly linked to the era before single malts ruled the roost. Understand?

  Sigh. It's scotch, honey. From Scotland.


C) Its a codeword for methamphetamine so if someone asked you for a Dewars and coke he meant he wants to speedball with you and possibly kill you in a tweak induce hallucinogenic rage. Or he just has terrible taste in drinks, one of the two.

D) It's an amazing costly premium cognac, but for some obscure reason many hipsters refer to it as 'Dewars', or 'Dewies'. So when you order the drink, tell the bartender they want a Louis and coke, that way she'll understand what you want.





5) "OMG! I lost something that is important to me! Help me find it, now!" (I'm usually fairly wiling to help a girl find something she drunkenly left behind because she's an absent minded stripper, even when they're not great tippers or have an unpleasant disposition/odor. But this one girl tonight has never, to my knowledge, given any of the Floor Serfs a single dime and ergo I felt not the slightest urge to help make her problem go away. 
                  She herself was very concerned with the whereabouts of her handbag thingy, so I suspect it's where she kept her coke.)


A) Holy Sweet Burning Baby Jesus! Fuck everything else I have to do, let's find your mislaid property! I will fucking slay another human being with my bare hands if they attempt to delay me finding your Lost Stripper Pouch of WhoreStuff!

B) I will help you find your drug purse if it will make you go away faster. You smell like an ashtray smeared with vanilla frosting that had jizz and tequila spilled in it.


C) Oh. Gosh. No way. Let me help you....oh wait. There's something coming through on my headset. I gotta go.*2


D) You are a delightful person to be around. Since I am paid hourly, I'll be glad to help you recover your casually forgotten property.




6) I have breath like an open mass grave and I choose or my own free will to sit right next to you and chat about innane bullshit even though you're clearly disinterested and seem to be appalled by some aspect of me. (We have a relatively new waitress and someday I'll remember her name if she lasts long enough. I've never really had the privilege of conversing with her before, but tonight we were kinda slow and the mellow manager, Sir Runs Loosely-Whatever, was on duty so I had the rare opportunity to sit down for much of a shift. Much to my everlasting joy she takes the seat right across from me and proceeds to blast me with some benign chatter bourne on the winds of pestilence and bereavement. 
                                 This girl, although extremely blond and cute, has the breath of a dying whale or a stump-toothed coprophiliac blowing bubbles at you.


A) Do me a favor and close The Gates To Hell. Now walk away and gargle some holy water then see a certified gastroenterologist and/or stop eating dead animal assholes.


B) I know for a fact that you're not going to understand what I'm saying which is why I'm going to say it right before I respond to some random emergency that's coming through on my headset: When you opened your mouth I thought to myself "This is what the guy standing right next to Pandora smelled when she opened that fucking jar."*3


C) Darlin don't take this wrong, but you could use a breath mint.


D) Your breath smells like a poorly appointed refugee camp. I am appalled.




7) I choose skanks! (This wasn't really a statement made to me tonight and in fact, is something I've never heard spoken. But I do witness it every night, guys ordering dog food when prime steak is available at the same price. Why would you pay for a dance from a wretched skank when you can get a hot chick who'll give just as dirty a dance for the same amount? Hell if I know...
                                                But occasionally, if I've been a good StripperHerder, some guy passing me on his way to the dance room being towed by just such a skank will leer at me and ask something along the lines of "Dude! How lucky am I?" Or, "Bro, how hot is this bitch, eh?" These are the statements I'm addressing in this next series of possible answers.


A) She's like Deep South trailer park hot, dude, you're just drunk and stupid. If her ancestors hadn't fucked each other exclusively for the past 5 generations, she might be OK, but they did and then the whole family developed hare lips and generational drug habits.

B) Bro, good choice! I can see you a dude of excellent taste and demanding standards. You're accustomed to the best things money (or crack) can buy and those benchmarks in class and sophistication show through in every decision you make! Well done, man.


C) STAND STILL DUDE, I'LL GET IT OFF YOU! Wait...what? Oh, that's the dancer you chose. From our entire available talent pool...My bad. Enjoy your dance.


D) Wow. Go on dude. You gots you a hottie, fo sho. I feel envy.







  I was going to do 10 questions but then I decided not to. I still have to address the second part of the title which is, if I'm not very much mistaken...







           Another Argument For Tipping






  Suppose, for the sake of argument, that you're a lowlife, drug dealing scumbag. I know you're not, fine reader, but just pretend for a moment that you are. Your livelihood is predicated upon a chosen trade, and a fickle one at that. But all that is a facade, your true income derives from slinging a variety of pills, coke and heroin to strippers and various other drunk entities.

  Even though you're pretty discreet and haven't been caught doing deals in the club, your secret is known to the Floor Scrubs and the local police as well. The local police that we know and who actually work at the club on weekends. The very same local police that you were filming while they were drinking bottled water at our club, letting them know that you're a prominent citizen and were recording their misdeeds as if they were doing something wrong.

  Now suppose you needed some special service only us Floor Guys can provide, something like bottle service, a champagne room or some club funny money. You decide to spend $595 on a bottle of French garbage and further decide that you didn't need to tip the Floor Scrub who made all that happen for you. Not a dime, just a heartfelt thanks.

  I tried to pay my electric bill last month with heartfelt thanks and was embarrassed to find they don't accept it.



  Now you can stop imagining that you're an asshole drug dealer. Now put yourself in my shoes. They're really big, so be careful walking around.

  The cops were understandably unhappy with the scumbag's actions, taunting them for no reason as they sipped water in an establishment that lays within their district. I was willing to help them because:

A) This guys sells shit that kills people. He's not a happy-go-lucky pot dealer who can bring you a dimebag upon request. He sells junk and shit that leads to junk to young, stupid girls who have expendable income and/or vaginas for lease.

B) The motherfucker can't be bothered to pay the Watchmen's tax, i.e. money for us to look the other way as he does what he does.


  So the dumb prick happened to get randomly stopped last night shortly after leaving the club and got charged with an interesting array of offenses which will keep his lawyer very busy and well paid for quite some time.

  That probably could've been avoided if he'd just played by the rules. If I had been busy making money, I wouldn't have had the time to notice when he left the club. It's best to keep the Floor Orcs busy making money whenever possible.




Viva La Booze,
-The StripperHerder










Answers to Quiz: 1) B,
                           2)C
                           3) A
                           4) Noah's Ark
                           5) 36.34 Centimeters
                           6) C
                           7) The Battle of Hastings, 1066 AD















*1 This is usually followed by me pretending to hear something in my earpiece and pretending to reply and then pretending there's something I have to go and do.



*2 It works with strippers too.



*3 It was originally a jar, not a box. I'm going to quietly assume you already knew that, learned reader.