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.
God bless him. A $2,000 tip is always a glorious thing....
Which brings me around to:
The Four Horsemen of the Tittypocalypse
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.
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.
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.
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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.
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
