"Why didn't I go to college?" was a question that weighed heavily on my mind tonight. Why couldn't I have just have sucked it up and got a bachelors degree in some virtually meaningless field like communications or supply chain management? Then maybe I could've been something fulfilling like a telemarketing manager, or the guy responsible for making sure a tarp company had enough grommets to keep producing tarps.
Oh what a glorious feeling that must be. Alas, I wouldn't know. I herd strippers and drive drunks around in a shitty limo bus for my bread which is about as fulfilling as a mugful of powdered smegma. Then when all the drunks are gone and the strippers have been herded into their four wheeled engines of terror and death, I get to clean the club even though we supposedly pay a cleaning lady to do that job.
We got our asses handed to us tonight. Nothing we could do, no speed we could achieve our duties with was enough to keep up with demand. We were shit-fucked busy. Busier than a cocaine fueled hamster orgy in a giant barf splashed Habitrail.
The Town kicked us in the balls continuously and mercilessly for six hours and wouldn't stop until we forced every last wasted prick out the goddamn door. I've never witnessed a titty feeding frenzy quite like it before and I hope to never again. It was like a truckload of nipples dumped into a piranha tank, frenzied and disconcerting to watch.
If the club didn't make 30 grand tonight I'll eat my sweat soaked underwear and then blow a rottweiler.
Thirty grand in one night makes it almost seem like we're in a real city. For our pathetic little market, thirty thousand dollars is heroic money. Fucking heroic, I say. Every single employee from the lowliest spooge-mopper to the lofty managers busted their asses tonight.
It was total carnage, capitalist style.
"So you all made good money" you simper. Well in this case you'd be wrong. Busyness normally doesn't equate to more dough, and in fact this is usually not the case. To illustrate this, eight out of my ten best nights in the industry were on a slow weeknight when just the right whale came in and was landed by just the right dancers. Poof! Money happened.
Volume, in our little corner of the world, doesn't translate to bigger money. It just means we put up with more bullshit and vomit for less cash.
We sold over 60 champagne rooms tonight. That's right, 60. Considering an average Saturday night is around 25-30, I'd feel justified saying that the owner is happier than a pedophile in a daycare center. So it leaves me wondering why the Manager, Sir Belligerent Enema Handmedown III was such a despicable fucking asshole tonight.
"What did he do?" you ask. Well it will be my privilege and honor to tell you, dear reader.
He was, generally, a giant chancre sporting dick. I can say that and know what I mean, but as outsiders to this shameful business, I will enumerate the worst of his offences and let you be the judge.
1) This is my favorite. I was working the door which is my usual position after we stop running the shuttle bus. I am the largest Floor Creep, therefore I am the face that greets each and every drunk cunt that makes its way to the club after 2 am.
So I'm sitting there doing my job when I see someone I used to work with but haven't seen for a couple of years come through our door. The cover charge at this point is $25 per person but I tell the door girl that I got this guest and the person they're with, that they're in for free. This is because I know this customer is going to spend a few bucks and getting them in for free is the least I can do.
Well Sir Belligerent sees me do this and gets all shitty with the door girl as to why these two people were let in for free. She and I both tell him it's because I allowed it and that all responsibility falls on me. He starts raging about free entries, a measly $50 when we've had around 150 people pay that cover on top of a stellar night.
Then he makes the poor door girl pay the $50 out her own pocket.
She tells me this and I'm completely floored. Sir Belligerent regularly allows a flow of Euro Trash in for free because they speak the same heathen tongue as him. These arrogant cocksuckers never spend any money but stand around and harass the dancers to come home with them, or as they put it "Get in the sports car!" Or, "I fock ewe su goot, bay-beeee!"
So for him to charge her, not me, for letting in two customers who actually had money and not turnips to spend, made my fucking blood boil. Of course I paid the door gal out of my wallet and not my tips and proceeded to get really fucking pissed about it.
What a colossally penile move to pull. On a night where we're breaking income records even.
So cunty....
2) Then when the all the wasted assholes were gone, the last stripper had been shoved into her rolling kill box and all the math is taking place, we Floor Tripes pay the Barbacks to do our cleaning for us. It's a win-win-win and I'll tell you why.
-We Floor Guys don't want to clean anything
-The Barbacks love making extra money off us
-They do a WAY better job of it than we do
Therefore when the Floor Turds pay the peasant Barbacks to do their jobs for them, everyone should be happy, God knows that we are and they are for sure.
But somehow His Excellency, Sir Belligerent Enema Handmedown III, wasn't happy with this unholy covenent. He got really dog scrotum about it and reamed us like recalcitrant slaves, spewing invective on our soft and lazy nature.*1 Screaming at us that's it's our job even though we are purposefully terrible at it.
I mean seriously. Why the fuck would you care if:
A) The job's getting done better because Barback work ethic is 3 times that of the Floor Boreds.
B) You have two groups of employees that are happier with their jobs than otherwise would be, and
C) You achieved all this without costing the company a single red cent or yourself any effort whatsoever.
It makes you fucking look good as a Manager for chrissakes. You killed 3 birds with one stone by doing nothing more than keeping your rotten, shitty temper to yourself. By doing and saying nothing you've made your workforce happier and your club cleaner for zero cost.
What a fucking asshole.
You'd think a man who just broke every earning record for the club would be in an indulgent mood, I know I would be. I would've bought every goddamn employee a round on the house and told them how proud I was to have a team like this that had stared rampant assholery in the face, punched it in its dick and taken its wallet.
I would've been proud of my hiring decisions and started planning what I was going to do with the earning bonus that I was about to receive.*2
But that's just me. I'm a silly old fashioned man mired in attitudes of the past obviously.
I would've completely failed to stomp on the backs of my support system.
The back of my shirt does not say 'Welcome',
-The StripperHerder
*1 You know, the guys whose hands had handled two thirds of the money that had just run through the club.
Yeah, those guys. Because we sucked or something.
*2 I.e. What kind of new gun I was going to buy.
