Here's how my Wednesday went:
I strolled into work today at 6:55 pm, five minutes early for my shift. I knew Keen Kenny Dean was scheduled for today at 7 PM also and figured since he wasn't gonna show up til 7:30, that I should be on time so the poor, misbegotten Day Shift Floor Wretch didn't have to stay a moment longer then need be.
I came into work in a good mood, not sure why because things have been so bad lately, but I was in non asshole mode, which is somewhat rare nowadays. I spent my first half hour wondering about how my lighthearted mood was going to get destroyed, wagering on imagined scenarios.
5 to 1 odds had it at Asshole Customer
3 to 1 odds had it at Inconsiderate Fuckstick Drivers When I'm Running The Shuttle
2 to 1 odds had it at Misplaced Manager Rage
Even money was on Annoying Stripper With A Problem I Didn't Care About
As it turned out, Drunk Regular Scratching My Truck at 30 to 1 odds would've won the bet. A dark horse contender if there ever was one. But more about that later, I'm getting ahead of myself.*1
Now where was I? Oh yeah, Wednesday. Right.
So Wednesdays are when we do our monthly "Amateur" Contests. Not sure why we call them that, it's misleading at best, a bold faced lie at worst. The vast majority of the hopefuls that show up to these are just strippers from other clubs or migrant strippers. Maybe one in fifty girls is a legit amateur who, by her complete dearth of skills and awkward stage gyrations, clearly demonstrates her lack of experience.
Their twerking is like the convulsions of a dying sea mammal.
This was one of those Wednesdays. When we would open Pandora's Legs and see what was unleashed.
The results were.....predictable. A pretty blonde girl won. Shocking.
But there were other happenings in the club that night, like in the Men's Room. There was nearly a fight between a lone former employee and a group of Hispanic gangsters. We descended on the altercation and restored order because that's what we do: piss on fires.
So as we're getting things settled down one of the G's is just whizzing right on the floor. He's so drunk that he's trying to talk to his brother and is letting it fly all over the floor without having the slightest notion that he's doing it. I'm sure in his mind, everything was going where it should have been going.
Needless to say El Leprechauno had to go. I informed him of this and he flat out refused. Seeing as how I didn't want to get riddled with lead later on for a personal slight, I appealed to his brother to get him out of the club. I told him I'd prefer not to put my hands on his wee sibling if possible, because he's the size of a 12 year old child and because he's part of a family that I'm sure has murdered people before for lesser insults.
But easy way or hard way, his brother had to go.
He talked to (what turned out to be his OLDER brother) for a few minutes and then came up to me and said "Hey man I tried and he won't listen. Same thing as the last bar we were at. Do what you have to do." He gave me a nod which indicated to me that he realized his brother had fucked up and provided I don't stomp him into unnecessary amounts of cat food, his family wouldn't kill me in a drive by.
Good enough for me.
So I turned to his brother and said "All right buddy. Time to go."
"I ain't leaving..." had just cleared his mouth when I spun him by the shoulders so his back was facing me, picked him up in a full nelson and walked him effortlessly out the door. I scolded him on the way out too, for extra style points.
Oddly enough, he never tried to get back in the club, which is something nearly every person we throw out tries to do. He just skulked about, mumbling shit and yelling at the rabbits which populate our back lot.
Fucking weird.
What else happened? Oh yeah. I think Strider got fired. This is a story in and of itself.
Dedicated readers may remember Floor Guy: Codename Strider from this post:
http://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2014/12/to-move-up-to-my-weight-class-you-must.html
Well, here's the compressed saga of Strider, may he rest in peace.
Strider is one of those Floor Guys who dates Strippers. That's what he does. He's not a banger, who just bones as many strippers as he can get his wang into, no, he gets all intertwined with dancers, becomes their boyfriend and is faithful to them. For the most part. You know, like a guy. Keepin it out of the zip code for fucksake.
The contingency being that the stripper, who generally makes a lot more money than a Floor Guy, supports him. Paying his way through life with the promise of future recompense in some obscure field of art.
And that was his situation with a dancer that left our club when she broke it off with him after five years or so. And well, there's no easy way to put this, she broke him. Dude just fell apart. Started missing shifts, doing no call/no shows and getting all fucked on on the shifts he did show up for. Messing up VIP rooms, being 4 hours late and sleeping at the club because he had nowhere to go.
I tried to explain to him that he was letting her win. By going to pieces and failing to do things that every adult should be able to do on their own, without sponsorship, that he was demonstrating his reliance upon her and really devaluing his Man Card.
"Pull the thong out of your cabbage patch and fucking well nut up, dude" Is one of the many encouraging statements I made to him. But to no avail. He allowed himself to be destroyed.
I hope he lands on his feet because he's a legitimately good guy and I wish him all the best.
A lot of people ask me if I pull a lot of tail from the club, or suffer from chronic blowjob syndrome administered by horny twenty year old strippers. I always laugh and say something like "More than you could know, my friend" Or "Yes. My balls are perpetually raisin-like." But this isn't true. Yes I've done the nasty with some entertainers here and there in my career, we all do it to varying degrees, but it's not standard operating procedure with me.
And to explain why, I feel a list coming on:
1) I'm old. I just don't care anymore. It seems like a lot of effort. I sort of liken it to doing laundry in the 19th century: yeah sure you know someone with one of those sweet new washing machines, but they live 10 miles away in the next town over. So you have to hitch the horses up, load the laundry into the wagon, herd you six surviving children into said wagon and huck all that shit 10 miles over crappy roads to cut down on your wash time. Seems like an awful lot of labor just to cut down on your work.
OR, since you live by a river, you can just do what you always did. Sure there's a lot of hand work involved, but you can walk to it and there are convenient rocks to grind and smack your clothing against.
2) I've seen the carnage that can occur when the fuck buddy/girlfriend? thing goes all grapeshot on a guy. It's ugly and I don't want any part of it.
3) I've reached that point that I thought was ridiculous when I was twenty, namely, I've gotten to the point where if I can't have a rational, relevant conversation with a girl in a pre/post-coital context, then I'm not really interested. If you had told me this when I was twenty years younger I would've laughed and made an old person joke.
Now however I grasp the concept. Unless one happens to stumble into that perfect "All right you've fucked me and we've had our fun, now leave" scenario*2, at some point prior to and after sex, most girls will want to hang out and this will frequently involve talking. That's fine. I enjoying cuddling a gal who's recently made me jizz.
The problem inherent in this is manifold:
A) I have virtually no crossover in interests with a hot girl under 30.
B) I have very little patience for the ignorant or stupid.
C) Giggling is NOT punctuation.
D) Most of the strippers I work with who are anywhere within a decade of my age have between 3 and 17 children and I can't stand kids. I don't find their stupidity endearing, I don't find their antics cute and I definitely don't want to end up raising one. Especially one who is NOT the fruit of my loins.
My steamy loins.
E) I have nieces older than most of the girls I work with and the thought of going all fuck-badger on someone half my age kinda skeeves me out.
And finally. Our Dynamic Management Team really needs to pull it's head out of its ass. Like collectively speaking. They are decent at major decisions but weak as fuck about the fine details that can aggravate an already bad situation and endanger a fragile ecosystem.
Let me give you some examples, because if you haven't worked in the Service Industry, you'll have no idea what I'm talking about.
1) Scheduling. It's a thankless job, I know, I've done it before. A successful schedule leaves everyone feeling vaguely unhappy, across the board. You can't cater to to your favorites without some sort of backlash and you most certainly can't keep posting new schedules after they actually begin.
So if the schedule starts at 4 PM on Sunday, make a concerted effort to post the new schedule before that shift begins. It's really frustrating to not know if you're working in a shift that starts 8 hours after you've left you job. I've worked at many places that do the scheduling in 2 week increments, so I know it's possible to do.
What happens at our club is that the weekly schedule begins at 4 PM on Sunday but frequently it's not posted until some time on Sunday evening, forcing employees to call the club to find out if they are working that day. If I were a Door Girl at our club, I would be pissed at having to field a bunch of unnecessary calls about whether or not someone is supposed to be at work that day.
Seems to me that this is something that you might want to post on say Thursday or Friday night, like we used to do. But nowadays you're lucky to see anything relevant until it's already scheduled to begin.
Doesn't make sense. Shouldn't be that hard.
2) Make the cooks do work that cooks are supposed to do. I used to tip the cooks for everything I ordered in the kitchen, even if I cooked it myself because I didn't want food poisoning. Now, since we've made some changes security-wise, the cooks don't even have to take out their own trash. Now, not only do they not have to haul all their waste to the dumpster, they apparently don't have to even touch their own trash. The Floor Guys do it all.
So the fat lazy wretches can't even pull the trash cans that they don't have to empty to the kitchen door, nor can they break down their own cardboard boxes.*3 It's come to that. The Floor Douches do it all these days.
It's one of those things that wasn't annoying the first time, nor even the tenth. But after a year of it, I'm goddamn well fed up. I've never worked in a kitchen that had such low standards for the people who prepare the food. I realize we don't pay them a great wage but what the fuck ever happened to pride in your job? Clean something. Use the fucking date stickers. Thaw food properly.
It's not rocket science. It's shit you should know and do before you ever flip your first burger. To NOT know how to thaw food is to NOT be qualified to work in a kitchen as anything besides a dishwasher.
Unreal.
3) Stop hiring back dancers that got fired. This has never worked out in the glorified history of titty bars. They're still drunks, they're still junkies and they will still rip off customers and steal shit every chance they get because a whore doesn't change her thong even after the crust starts chafing her inner thighs.
It'll be Deja Poo every time. We know this. We've seen it a million times.No one changes for the better in this industry and if they do, it never lasts more than 90 days. If I could think of one opposing example, I'd be writing about it right now. Once a Hyde, always a Hyde.
That's about all I have to say at the moment. Check back in the next 10 days or so for something completely fictional, yet still centered on the theme of strippers. It'll be satisfying as fuck.
Until then, use the forks.
Your favorite Piece of Shit Uncle,
Das Herden Stripein
*1 I'm actually NOT going to tell you any more about this because all you need to know is that the motherfucker scratched my truck by dragging the side of his truck against it. Story over.
*2 Which are much rarer that erotic literature would have you believe.
*3 We've recently gone "green". By that I mean we're supposed to separate our garbage into recyclables and nasty organic shit. We even have special garbage cans for the purpose. So now, instead one one big dumpster, we have two smaller ones. One is for glass, aluminum and cardboard and the other is for much less savory things.
That being said everyone knows that a dumpster can hold MANY more cardboard boxes if they've been broken down flat rather than being left is a 'box' shape. But are our cooks or barbacks required to break down their own cardboard, such as in every other kitchen I've ever worked at?
Nope. The Floor Twats do it all now. And it's becoming really goddamn irritating.
