Before I get into the sordid details of my beloved Irish holiday, I thought I'd throw some facts and figures at you from other nights this week. You know, to build up the anticipation for some creative uses of the word fuck that will inevitably happen later on.
Since it's fresh in my mind, let's begin with Thursday night, bullet point style.
⤏I walked 18 dancers out last night. Walking out a girl at the end of the night doesn't just mean watching her from the doorway to make sure she stays rape-free. No sir, we walk all of our entertainers right to their car door, frequently carrying their inexplicably heavy stripper bags for them.*1
Often we have to deter lingerers in our parking lot from trying to talk up the girls. Usually a gruff, "she's off the clock, jizzsop. Come back tomorrow and talk to her when she's working and maybe bring some money this time" will do the job, but every now and then people force us to be more direct.
Of the 18 (I counted) gals I walked to their cars, 3 tipped me. This is what's known in the industry as 'fucking shitty' which is a technical term I don't expect everyone to understand.
I realize it wasn't the best of nights, but for fuck's sake, would a fiver kill ya? Who would you be more apt to tip, the guy who made you an extra hundred bucks, or the guy who blew the brains out of an armed mugger who had robbery as the most gallant of his intentions that night?
This job can be dangerous. Security people are attacked, injured and killed all the time, but you never really hear about it because no one gives a crap. Bouncers are dicks, remember?
⤏Speaking of tips...
America is the tipping capitol of the world. Tipping all sorts of professions is ingrained in our culture like no where else on the planet. (I'm excluding really corrupt, third world nations in this statement because bribes aren't the same as tips.) We're the polar opposite of most Asian cultures where tipping is seen as rude or unnecessary and just isn't done.
Us Murrikans tip everyone: waitresses, bartenders, taxi/uber drivers, hair dressers, valets, Subway sandwich makers, limo drivers, strippers, door people and everyone and anyone who puts a tip jar out. Since I am dependent on tips to make over $6 an hour, I tend to tip generously and in a wide swath.
Therefore when I go above and beyond my duties to make customers happy, I don't feel like it's too much to expect for them to show their gratitude in a munificent fashion. Fork over some goddamn cash you cheap, classless twat.
What happened was this. I received a text from the club to go pick up Shitmouth or whatever his name was and a party of 10. The bar they were at was literally a mile away, so it's not like it was a major inconvenience or anything, all very routine.
At least that's what it should of been, but Shitmouth was a real piece of work. When I pulled up to the bar he was at, he runs out and leaps onto the bus and starts yelling at me. Literally fucking yelling. "HEY MAN CAN WE STOP AT THE INSERT HOTEL NAME HERE AND PICK UP A COUPLE MORE OF MY WHOLESOME AND VERY QUIET PARTY?" IT'LL ONLY TAKE 3 MINUTES!"
"SURE!" I replied, getting into the spirit of the thing.
So he and his people climbed onto the bus and proceeded to yell and scream at each other for the two minutes it took to get to the hotel. Once there, Shitmouth staggered inside with a couple of his cronies while the rest of the party stayed on the bus, where they annoyed me with their full volume zoo shrieks.
Twenty three fucking minutes later, (I timed it.) Shitmouth comes shambling back to the bus, soaked in milky beads of semen.*2 I shit you not, venerable reader. Twenty three agonizing minutes I waited for this soulless prick, the innane cackling of his friends driving me slowly and inexorably towards horrific acts of violence.
SO finally he's back on the bus and then we wait for another 4 or 5 minutes for the final three members of the group to grace us with their presence. I was thankful it was only a 60 second ride back to the club because I was developing an acute case of murderection*3 with the whole situation.
In closing, the entire group shuffled off the bus, tossing me a "Thanks, buddy!" or a "Good job, man!" on the way out. What they didn't toss me at all was any form of currency whatsoever. Not a dollar, not a dime, not a peso, not a pretty seashell. One guy even had the notion that patting me on my head like well behaved Irish Setter was a fine idea.
What I said to him was "Don't ever touch my head like that again."
What I should have said to him was, "If you ever pat my head again like I'm some kind of service animal deserving of praise, you'll never jack your buddy off with that hand again you plaid shirted fuck."
This half hour ordeal would've taken three minutes if they'd just all been in one place, filed efficiently onto the goddamn bus and let me drive them the 5,000 feet to the club.
Not even exaggerating in the slightest, three minutes.
⤏A lot of people just suck. I realize that this is common knowledge, or at least it is if you're a realist, or have been pummeled into human hate pudding by the service industry, but I feel it bears mentioning again.
I have revealed in this blog before that we Floor Scum have to clean the club every night, the least pleasant job of which is doing the Dressing Room. The strippers are a catastrophe in a glitter bra. The heinous acts of hygiene, eating and fucking about they commit in that poor room are too numerous and vile to print in this upstanding blog. I'm here to inform and entertain, not revolt and disgust my beloved readers...
That being said here's a crude diagram of the bathroom in the Dressing Doom:
Notice how the trash is strategically located a mere five feet from the sinks? Even for a tiny stripper it couldn't be more than 3 steps. Three. Fucking. Steps.
Yet every night I'm blessed with the task of cleaning up this badger pen, there are always at least a dozen balled up wads of paper towel thrown onto the counter top and even more strewn across the floor all willy-nilly.
How much of a shitball do you have to be to just throw your nasty wads of who-knows-what stained paper towels wherever you happen to be standing when a trashcan is literally five feet away from you?
The answer is you have to be a big shitball to do stuff like this, and big shitballs come in all sizes.
All right, enough about all that. You want to hear how my favorite irrational holiday went, no?
That was the whole cunting point of this post, right?
Well, satisfying your abnormal hunger for tales from the oily, tawdry industry I work in is my specialty folks. It's what I do. So here's the grim details:
Tonight wasn't bad.
I realize that it's a bit anticlimactic after all the crying I did about the Douchepacalypse and whatnot, but it just wasn't anything at all like I was expecting. Nothing whatsoever like last year, which sucked huge amounts of flying custard.
This Fat Prick's Day was pretty mellow and we made almost $300. So really, I have nothing to complain about outside of a couple a normal stupid things that may well have happened without the aid of a poorly conceived homage to the Earth's favorite drunks.
This surprising tameness can be attributed to two factors:
1) The weather sucked and people didn't like it because they are pussies. Either that or they'd rather be dead than be caught wearing coat outside in winter.
2) Much more important to the chillness of the evening was the substantial amount of vodka I drank while driving the shuttle around streets littered with assholes and half digested reubans. Yes. I did that. I stopped at the only place in town I enjoy going to and had between three and five double vodka tonics. I wasn't really counting.
This isn't typical behavior for me, but I figured what's the worst that could happen as I piloted my land whale through a minefield of human rectalness. Death, I suppose. But it probably wouldn't be mine and chances were, even with a few belts in me, that it wouldn't be my fault anyway, so I got all "Irish" and shit.
Well on that disappointment, I'm done. I have other things to do. Important, meaningful things that will enbettermify the whole world and shitforth.
So fuck off.
Call Me Maybe,
-The StripperHerder
*1 Seriously. Why do they bring cinder blocks to work? Your average stripper outfit's weight is measurable in fucking grams and their shoes aren't much heavier. If you're to the point where you need 35 lbs of makeup, it's time to retire. I'm constantly baffled by the weight of some girls bags.
*2 OK, I may have embellished a bit about the spuzz, but I'm pretty sure he was doing blow and sucking cock while he was up there.
*3 Murderection: Lit Murder-Erection, also known popularly as a Kill-Boner, Stab-Stiffy, Death Helmet, Battle Rooster, Chaos Cock, War Bulge
