There are some creatures prowling our stage these days that wouldn't have even been allowed to audition back in the good ole days. Gals that a year or two ago would've only been allowed to work during daylight hours, lest they frighten any real customers away. Apparently the pressure from the owner to have more and more dancers has finally broken the Uber-Manager and now he just hires anything that can climb unto the stage under its own power and doesn't pass out halfway through her second song.
That's what it's come to these days, goblins and gorgons. Strippers so chunky they should be in a soup commercial, not spread in a thong with their unruly titties all akimbo on my goddamn stage. It's fucking embarrassing, people.
We used to be able to claim some sort of twisted strip club superiority over our rival clubs because overall, our stable of beauties was hands down the best in town. It wasn't even arguable.
Now however, we just wallow around in the same mediocre puddle all the other clubs play in, splashing our patrons with entertainers that appeal to the lowest common denominator. Sure, we still have quite a few A List ass shakers, but the bar has been lowered significantly to satisfy the owner's obsessive hunger for numbers.
As a result I've been forced to look at some really depressing titties lately, and it's been getting me down, I'm not gonna lie. Sometimes I feel like I'm in a nature documentary about the social lives of lower primates, where all breasts have evolved to point downward and hug the body, thereby allowing the primate to more efficiently cling to tree trunks.
Titties should be happy and perky, always looking at the bright side of life and striving to stare you in the eye. They shouldn't be beaten, drained and forlorn, swaying from a stripper's chest like two diabetes socks filled with a joyless and bland custard, brown brat-gnawed nipples tracing obtuse patterns on the stage while she twerks on her hands and knees.*1
There've gotta be standards. Letting every gross junkie that wants a job work here is not going to end well or ultimately be good for business. But if that's what it takes to satisfy the owner, then we're all going to just have to deal with it. Everyone gets a slice of the shit pie, and some of us will undoubtedly end up with an entire pie all to ourselves.
I hope mine has some kind of berries mixed in with the steaming fecal matter because I like berries.
But enough about hideous, shambling strippers for now, let me reveal some ways I can tell your band sucks without even hearing your "artistry".
A) You all had "cool" hair. The Johnny Depp circa Dead Man Walking, two man-buns and a vintage Kurt Cobain.
B) A bowler hat. One of you was wearing a bowler hat over his Johnny Depp hair.
C) Your expansive, "We've made this place cooler by our mere presence" vibe which you oozed like a 90's Persian exudes Drakkar Noir.
Pervasively. One might even consider using the term 'oppressively', although I probably wouldn't.
D) No one had the slightest idea who you were. Even when you told them.
E) None of you could fight. We found that out when one of you idiots (I'd bet he was the singer, possibly a bassist) wouldn't pay a dancer what he owed her because she wouldn't let him grope the fuck out of her while licking her neck and face like she was an animated Jolly Rancher.
In retrospect, maybe he was the drummer...
Anyway, this pack of hair ranchers came in early tonight and bought a few dances here and there, causing me at one point to go back to the dance room and warn to guy to tone down his groping. Then I went away on the shuttle and they ceased to be a problem for me.
Yay, shuttle!
But when I came back in an hour later to take a leak I heard shouting and when I got to the front door, one of my fellow Floor Bastards had the bowler hat guy in a full nelson and was throwing him through the door onto the pavement.
I had chosen a fortuitous time to make pee pee it appeared.
I wish I could say that the bowler hat guy sprang up and tried to charge my Floor Compadre and that I swept him up in a death clutch, the likes of which he couldn't escape from until his buddy paid the fucking dancer, but that didn't happen.
He chose, of his own free will, not to pursue further hostilities. Without even being aware that I was standing right behind him, waiting to stoop on him like a Lummox Raptor and carry him away from the fight like an osprey with an unwise salmon.
These are the reasons I know their band sucked. I'm not going to explain myself further because I've become bored with the topic. I know I'm right, fuck off. They're some brand of douche-rock, trust me.
Bellatina has made her presence known once again. I hereby shit you not folks, I have never been closer to murdering another human than I came tonight. I can't possibly convey what a cheap, shitty, delusional cunt this girl is without you actually experiencing it yourselves. Words don't cut it. They paint a vague picture at best, but that's not going to stop me from trying, BECAUSE I CARE.
Gimme a minute here, I'm rolling up my sleeves, taking off my pants and fixing myself another vodka and something.
There, I'm back. Let's dig in, shall we?
Bellatina, if you'll recall, is the white trash, conniving bitch that scammed some poor schmuck in an incident I detailed in this installment:
http://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-complicated-relationships-between.html
She is an adherent to the ghetto school of thought where the first one to stop running their mouth is the loser and her ability to acknowledge reality is nonexistent. Argh, I'm being consumed by hate right now and am having a hard time focusing on the story rather than smashing stuff and screaming my rage to the skies.
Let me get another vodka. That should help.
Fuck, much better. Let me continue.
This girl has become my new arch nemesis, stepping neatly into the void left by Vodzilla. But dear sweet weeping Jesus she makes me miss Vodzilla. In retrospect Vodzilla was like on old friend, I just didn't see it that way at the time. If I happened to be a cartoon dog, she would've been the amusing cat next door that gave my life some kind of meaning as we chased each other around, getting into overly complicated situations where one of us triumphed temporarily over the other. Admittedly it was usually me, but that was one of her charms; she'd just walk away when she was beat.
Not Bellatina though...
If I were to dip my balls in a vat of radioactive chemical sludge, she would be the mutant offspring of the glowing isotopes and the naturally occurring critters that live on my tater sack. But she would hyper-evolve into some sort of Gigeresque monstrosity that ravaged whole planets, consuming all life with her ghetto mouthed horridness and utter lack of moral feng shui.
If the Manager doesn't fire her this time, which I suspect he won't, I will take matters into my own hands. All the pieces are already in place, all I need is for her to show up again and for said Manager to allow her to work. It'll be her last day for a while because if you can't drive your car to work, then generally speaking, you can't get to work.
And that's all I'm gonna say about that.
FUCK THAT BITCH.
That's where I'm gonna end, humans. I cherish my small but loyal readership and hope you never have to meet Bellatina.
If I had more money, I'd put a contract out on that cunt.
Nubs you!
-The StripperHerder.
*1 I can't believe I just wrote that sentence. I feel sick.
