If I had to give our non-stripper staff a grade, it would be a D. Maybe a C- on a good day. Our wait staff is awful with a couple of gems, our kitchen staff is appalling with the exception of one cook, or barbacks are a fucking joke and our Doorgirls are next to worthless with the occasional flash of competence just to keep you guessing.
Us Floor Grunts are fairly professional as hosts, but seriously lacking in both cohesion and tactical security mindset and mark my words-one day it's going to cost us dearly.
Management waffles between totalitarian and completely ineffective which wreaks havoc with the whole "what am I supposed/allowed to do?" paradigm. Some days what was OK last week is now unacceptable and what is OK now was anathema last week.
It's maddening.
As I've stated before, the industry itself doesn't exactly attract Ivy League applicants, or people driven to work insanely hard to achieve a stated goal. It attracts the lazy, demented, alcoholic, and the delusional. Its ranks are filled with folks who are morally questionable at best and outright criminal at worst, with every stripe and species inbetween the two.
This industry is either a stepping stone to a better career, or the rut in which you will someday die. There's very little middle ground. The occupation inherently fuck's with your moral compass, making True North seem a bit vague and every other direction more lucrative.
It's a bitch and you're never, ever going to feel good about it. Unless you're a scumbag.
With all that being said, allow me to go into some detail about what brought this subject on, or, as I like to call it:
I WANNA BE A FLOOR GUY.
The barback position is probably the easiest job available at out club for the sheer fact that at least nominally, a barback doesn't have to interact with the teeming, swill-breathed masses lurching about the club. This alone is worth a substantial value because drunk humans are remorseless cunt-mollusks who taint everything they come in contact with, like a particularly virulent sea urchin. or the club's food.
The mere thought of having a job that doesn't ever require me to interact with a fellow human gives me a giant hardon. The thought of being a lighthouse keeper to me is almost erotic in it's lack of having to deal with another homo sapien. So long as I had internet or a sufficiently large pile of books and provided they catapulted some fresh meat onto the island every now and then, I could stay there indefinitely, most likely writing about how much it sucked to be a lighthouse keeper and about how great it would be to work in a strip club.
But that's just me. What I want to know is what are our barback's excuses? And how can they possibly think that anyone in their right mind would deem them fit for a job with much greater responsibility and trust when they can't even perform their meager duties with any skill, dedication or foresight?
Seriously, what's the job description for a barback? Simple. Keep the bar stocked. Wash the glasses. Fetch the ice. Cut the citrus. Empty the trashcans. Clean shit when the shift's done. Occasionally mop vomit.
Easier than beating a four year old in a fistfight.
I'm not saying the job can't be hectic and assbusting, it can, especially if you're good at it. I've worked with barbacks who were the absolute backbone of a bar, it simply couldn't have functioned without them, period. They are so good at their job that in a small place like The Town™, bars literally compete to get their employment. Not even kidding about that.
And then you have our barbacks, Gwinny the Dewlap and Lay-Z. Each with their own strengths and weaknesses. Mostly weaknesses. Like the shared inability to tie a garbage bag closed for instance. In an old fashioned way, I still sorta believe that a garbage bag should be tied closed by the person who harvested it for the dumpster God. Seems like a reasonable approach to an anti-spilled garbage philosophy, right?
I think we can all agree on that. Except for Gwinny and Lay-Z. They can't be compelled to do it. Or I should say that they have yet to be compelled to do it. That's gonna change very soon as I have now had garbage dump all over me from an open bag as I did the barback's job for them twice in the past two weeks.
The are now scheduled for a talking to. It will be unpleasant for them, but theoretically nonviolent provided they don't get too mouthy. If they do, things will rapidly deteriorate for them as we will be having this conversation in one of the two rooms in the building which is camera-free. To preserve the anonymity of the club, I'll refer to the room as The Box Of Pain and we'll say no more about it.
Comparative Strengths:
-Gwinny can recognize any major Sports celebrity and is totally up for blowing them although he'd deny it.
-Lay-Z can rap along softly with any song played in the club that features no real musical instruments in it.
-Gwinny......Shit. I got nothing else. I've been sitting here, completely stalled, trying to think of another credit or virtue I can attribute to Gwinny, and I'm kerfuckled. I can't come up with anything positive and I can't waste any more time trying for fear of saying 'fuck it' for the night and turning to video games or a halfhearted fap session.
-Lay-Z at least has a friendly countenance and seems happy to meet and greet people, which is good for a Floor Host, but unnecessary for a barback. Doesn't make up for his utter lack of competence in every other aspect of his job, but I was struggling for positives and thought I'd mention it as it is the last thing I could think of.
The common denominator among these two rats are that they've both asked to be promoted to Floor Host, the most venerated of the non-vagged*1 positions in the club. "Ha!" My Manager, Sir Hawkgaze Mecha-WarBrow XIII laughed, "Thine twaren't worthile to suckle the inner flanks o' mine swine, yet seek to tongueblast the coo I snaffled from the McCarthy's? Verily ye jest!"*2
This is not an uncommon sentiment among the male non-Floor workers. They see the money we make and they want to make it too. Perfectly understandable. When I was the cook at a club, even though I made good money, I wanted to be a Floor Host as well. They made more, plain and simple. Got more head too.
Considering we pay our cooks dick and they have to put up with stroke-inducing amounts of horseshit from our greedy, lackwitted wait staff, I can't blame any of them for wanting to be a Floor Douche. Anything to escape the thralldom of the kitchen...
This is as good point as any to segue into comments on our wait staff. They ain't gonna be glowing.
But I suspect you'd already guessed this.
Let me fix another drink and I'll tell you all about it.
So, we
I'll call her Cindy Curdbutt for purposes of this post. "CC" to her friends.
Apparently CC, who's all of 21, is the significant other of a convicted felon who is currently incarcerated. Why? Search me. Maybe because she's 21. We were all idiots at 21, even if we thought we had everything figured out. Admit it, you were an idiot. So was I.
Anywho, CC ended up attacking a former entertainer of ours who'd been fired a long time ago, but who had magically showed up in our parking lot right at closing time. It was like two playground rivals meeting at the swings at three o'clock. Winner gets the slides.
In this case the feud was over a Facebook picture of the inmate on the intruding bitch's homepage. This was ever a cause for war. Total warfare. Like try to ruin a bitch's ovaries warfare, end her ability to potentially breed wit yo man type of warfare. No skullduggery or showboating, just fistblasts to the cocksucker and tons of hair abuse. Like enraged weasels battling over nesting grounds, all twisty and savage, estrogenic-kill-rival-womb hormones overriding all common sense and dignity.
The whole thing happened in sort of I don't really care that much about it induced haze. First thing I knew a bunch of regular malingerers started shouting, "they're fighting, they're fighting" (praise Allah), gesturing wildly at this car parked in the middle of the street, one of them filming on his phone. I looked over at the car and what I saw was the passenger side door open and what I can only describe as a cartoon-dustcloud-fight kinda thing where you just see a random fist or foot poke out of the doorway.
So I didn't even know who was fighting and since it was in the middle of the street and not on club property, it fell neatly into the 'not my fucking problem' category. I told the malingerers, and I quote, "I don't give a fuck." And I continued walking my little stripper herd safely to their cars.
When I got back the fight had spilled out of the car and the girl on top was making a spirited attempt to maim or kill the girl on the bottom. "Still not my problem", I thought to myself, then realized I can't watch a murder take place that I had the power to prevent, even if it might make the world a slightly better place.
The cook of all people got there just before me and dragged the assailant off the assailee, while I stepped in and kept the assailee from chasing after her attacker when she got back up.
At this point in time I literally had no idea who the combatants were. The bloody, angry thing I was holding back looked vaguely familiar, but then again I've worked with an astounding number of skanks in my career and it could've just been that she had a common skankine appearance.
Long story short, since I've been typing for an unreasonable amount of time, the attacker turned out to be CC, furious with the aforementioned skank for posting a picture of CC's imprisoned soulmate on her ratched-ass social media page.
Cheeky whore.
And the result is CC got fired, thank the Hospitality Gods. she was as worthless as a scrotum on a supermodel.
All right. I just noticed that I've typed a gigantic amount of words this morning, by my standards anyway, and so I'm going to close with this, half of which I'd done while bored on the shuttle last night and half which I'll have to come up with right now in order to complete the list.
So, I offer to you, kind reader, a list of the Top Ten Reasons To Become An Uber Driver.
10) I get so lonely.
9) I like pretending my life matters somehow.
8) I enjoy golf and that says a lot about me.
7) It's a great cover for selling drugs.
6) I get horny from the traffic shaming I'm forced to endure. Can't cum without a car horn anymore.
5) I don't know how to drive but have always wanted to learn.
4) I revel in the Godlike power of traffic laws somehow not applying to me.
3) It's a great way to meet a rape-date.
2) I enjoy annoying people.
1) I fantasize about being curb-stomped by an huge, enraged shuttle bus driver who's seen one lack of hazard lights too many.
Be a courteous driver. Road rage is a real thing and I am an advocate.
Drive Pissed,
-The StripperHerder
*1 Pronounced Va-Jed, meaning female.
*2 He hangs out at RennFaires.
