I don't even know where to start tonight, I have so many topics to expound upon that it's going to be impossible to properly address them all. So in my typical slipshod fashion, I'm just gonna leap in feet first and hope for the best.
But before I get into the grim details, let me do a preface:
On most days, I hate my job. I, like any other dog, have my days. But really I dread every single fucking shift I have to go in there and the only reason I'm still at this place is because everyone seems happy to let me pilot the shuttle bus and thus remove myself from most interactions with all the tedious, enraging denizens of this never ending twatfest.
The thought of just getting myself fired and collecting unemployment for however long they're willing to give it to me seems pretty goddamn appealing. I could literally live off my credit cards for at least two years, with or without supplementary income, so it's not like I would be homeless inside six months. This would give me all day, every day to sit around in my manky underwear and pound away on my TV pilot. Which, if my survival depends on it, seems the only way I might actually get it done.
So that being covered, let's wade around in the turd pool, shall we?
1) DA MANAGEMENT
One of my biggest aggravations at the moment is the Manager I'm forced to work with 95% of my shifts, Sir Balrog Da Passive of Agressia II. The other "cool" manager (Sir Mellowtimes S'allgood V ) doesn't like me and since he's the one who does the scheduling, I literally never work with him. Ever. Which sucks because he is everything Sir Balrog is not.
Let me cite some of Sir Balrog's charms for those of you blissfully unaware of the entirety of the past four years worth of installments. Some of these are traits that he appears to be saddled with and others are but wee shit-cookies that I had to deal with tonight specifically.
TRAITS
-He takes FOREVER to close the club. Sir Mellowtimes can do the exact same job in one third of the time, no matter how busy the club was. One fucking third.
-He enjoys cornering the poor House Mom or some other unfortunate bastard in the parking lot when they're just trying to go home, and yak at them for a half hour or more. All of this being on everyone's time as we can't go the fuck home until he does his motherfucking job.
-This happens to me up to four times a week. Adding 4-6 hours onto my weekly schedule for no discernible reason, nor gain on my part.
-He's an escalator. He'll wade into a situation us Floor Guys have under control or at least made nonviolent, and start dropping racial slurs and insulting people, reigniting the whole keg of powder.
WEE SHIT-COOKIES
-We had this asshole tonight who was too drunk to even be allowed in the club, but got in anyway because...
OUR DOORGIRL IS A FUCKING WORTHLESS, SELF ABSORBED MENSTRUAL CLOT WHO SUCKS AT HER JOB AND SHOULD'VE BEEN FIRED LONG AGO.*1
Not only did he gain access the first time, he got back in four times after I had told him he was done for the night because our Doorgirl, Taco Bella, couldn't be bothered to stop Instachatting and Snapgramming long enough to notice the blithering drunk idiot I had escorted to the door multiple times, waltzing back in.
It wasn't like he was subtle.
The funny thing is, Taco Bella was only responsible for only three of those times which brings me back around to the original subject of this itemized tirade, Sir Balrog.
The fourth time I had to throw this guy out was because Sir Balrog gave him permission to go use the bathroom, obviously thinking "Hey, he's done everything else we've asked of him tonight, what could possibly go wrong?"
That's when I dragged the dude off the patio. Totally unnecessary for me to have to go to that extreme in my job because two layers of the other club staff couldn't do their's. I'm seriously getting fed up with this crap.
Nothing was said to the doorgirl. Nothing. Like she played no part, much less a major role in this fecal layer cake.
I'm getting fed up with this crap.
-If you're going to keep the club open later than usual to cater to less than 10 customers who aren't spending any money, don't you think it'd be a good idea to let your Floor Staff know about it? I mean you have a radio, we all have radios, we're just the push of a button away. It seems like something that I oughta know since I'm working the door.
Just sayin.
But enough about Sir Balrog. I have to strive to cover some other happenings, but I fear it's gonna be a pathetic effort, i.e. my average output.
Here, in no particular order, are things of suck right now:
2) THE RETURN OF METHALUMPS.
This stripper was a nightmare to work with and I've had the pleasure of doing so at three different clubs so far. This one twice, because we're stupid. A leopard don't change it's spots, and I'd bet that we find out that Methalumps hasn't either. The formula is the same; a sweet natured, repentant dancer who is on less meth than before as evidenced by her somewhat less bony ass. On good behavior protocols until the trigger is pulled and she gets all trollish and knuckle-dragging.
I'd wager 60 ounces of silver it'll happen with 3 months, and I thought carefully about that.
And while the optimist in me hopes that she has shrugged off her drug-demons, the experienced, cynical cunt in me thinks it's only a matter of time until she Hydes*2 all over the place. Probably with me at ground zero, knowing my luck.
If you'll recall, dear reader, she's the one that due to surgery, has nipples that rest on top of her tits, nowhere near the business angle of your standard booby. Any offspring might be forced to evolve giraffe-like necks to deal with the harsh geometry involved in feeding on such inconveniently placed milk nozzles.
I don't know, I'm not an Anthropologist. If that's even the correct profession to explain possible consequences with the awkwardly situated mammal-juice taps that Methalumps exhibits. When you stare. they become very creepy.
Shame, cuz she's pretty.
3) A FUSILLADE OF STRIPPERS
It seems like average to above average strippers have fallen from the sky lately, there are so many scampering about the club, looking to crop some green. I don't know what happened, but all of a sudden there are so many new dancers that I don't know half their names anymore. And with the repetitive nature of Common North American Stripper Names, I sometimes get confused, ambivalent even.
Since most of them don't tip the guy keeping them safe on the way to their car, (me), I can't be bothered to remember their names. In fact I love when I have to walk a stripper out who I've walked out several dozen times before, but who has never tipped me and I ask her what her stage name is even though she's told me many times before. Sometimes I even do it if I know their name, just to annoy them.
4) SELL ME WEED SO I CAN NARC YOU OUT.
Our former Soviet Bloc ice princess, Ivana Poutvainly strikes again. I really hate it when people who repeatedly do stupid things aren't punished for it, they're never going to learn without a little pain and scar tissue. Well, they're probably never going to learn anyway because they're stupid, but at least give them the chance is what I'm saying.
Let's get into this, comrade.
First off, this crazy Nezturkistanian bitch has the cook make her a "special" brownie. For the more innocent readers among you, a "special" brownie is a goody that's baked with weed in it. So you can get high without having to smoke anything. Apparently she doesn't even smoke regularly and was warned by said cook NOT TO EAT THE WHOLE FUCKING THING because ingesting rather than smoking THC will get you much higher, it just takes longer.
So Ivana receives her stony-treat and eats half of it. After a half hour she's not feeling anything so what do you suppose she does? If you're thinking to yourself "eat the other half?", you're correct. The dumb commie ate the other half.
Fast forward thirty more minutes and she's so high she is completely incapable of doing anything other than gripping the bar in terror and staring wide eyed at everyone, who are all now speaking gibberish.
Manager takes her aside and says "what the fuck is wrong with you?" At this point Ivana spills her guts and narcs out the cook which she assumes has Mickey-Finned her or something. So her and the cook get suspended and the cook ends up quitting.
Super cool.
But she wasn't done yet, oh no, she had plenty more stupid where that came from.
She wasn't back four shifts from her suspension when, on her way home from the club, she smashed her Beemer against a guardrail not a mile from work. When I say smashed, I mean totaled. That car was proper fucked.
So Ivana flees the scene and scoots her wasted ass back to the club. A Manager and Floor Guy convince her that she should go back and they run her up there. By the time they arrive the PD is on scene. When an officer asks Ivana what happened, she's says some guy she picked up from the bar was driving and that when he wrecked the car he ran away. The officer then asks her to describe the guy and pretends to write down what she says. The main point you need to know from here on is that Ms. Poutvainly said the guy was kinda tall, maybe 6'1" or so.
From the account I heard from the Floor guy present was that the cop let her spin her yarn for a while longer before stopping her and saying "Listen, this is how I know you're lying:
A) The passenger side airbag hasn't deployed and
B) Anyone taller than you would find it difficult to drive from where the driver side seat is placed. In fact it's the perfect distance for someone exactly your height."
"That being said" the cop continued "Without a witness or some sort of proof that you were the driver, I can't PROVE BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DOUBT YOU WERE DRIVING WHEN THIS ACCIDENT OCCURRED. So you get a Leaving The Scene Of An Accident charge."
Now some of you may argue that this was not, in fact, a stupid thing to do. A Leaving The Scene charge is way better than getting a DUI, and all of you thinking that are right. But let me tell you why I still consider it as rewarding the stupid. I consider it thusly because Ivana wasn't calculating this outcome, she just fucking panicked and didn't know what else to do. The fact that she got away with it irritates me to no end.
That's all I'm gonna say now because I'm getting mad thinking about it. If I'd had at least one positive interaction with Ivana, I'd be cutting her some slack right now, but the truth of the matter is, she's a class conscious, elitist spoiled brat who expects the world to unfold before her based on her specialness.
Meanwhile she stills sits on a toilet and grunts out used food just like the rest of us.
She's exactly the type of girl to complain about not making enough money and always being broke, but
That's Ivana. Our special joy.
5) WE. FUCKING. TOLD. YOU. SO.
Sir Balrog allowed a group of area business guys to have an informal meeting in one of our unoccupied champagne rooms for reasons known only to him. He wasn't charging them for the privilege because we were slow at the time and they didn't bring in any strippers with them. Probably because they wanted to actually accomplish something.
So I guess what happened was that our least savory waitress, whom I'll refer to as Ghetto Scumbag, told the two witless dancers (Pogo and Helga) to go in there. A few minutes later the Camera Troll alerted the Floor Staff that they were two Intruder Strippers in the room, wreaking havoc with any potential productivity.
So Floor Guy Seamus goes into the room and pulls the girls aside and tells them point blank, "This is a free room Sir Balrog is doing as a courtesy, if you stay here you AREN'T GONNA GET PAID." English doesn't get any plainer, folks. And seeing as how ONLY Floor Hosts can set up VIP rooms, not fucking drunk waitresses, the aforementioned dancers should have beat a hasty retreat.
I'm not even going to insult you by asking, esteemed reader "What do you think they did?" Because you all fucking know exactly what they did. They ignored the Floor Host, the only human they should've listened to, and stayed in the room for 2 1/2 hours.
This should've made them in excess of a grand but instead netted them nothing. Like they were told it was going to make them.
And they, of course, went batshit.
And at this point some of you more perspicacious and/or suspicious followers may be asking, "What's to say that Seamus told them at all? What if he just wasn't paying attention and didn't care anyway?"
And these are valid questions.
The answer is that of course he told them because he most certainly didn't want to deal with angry dancers who go all MTV reality show star on you when they don't get their way. But the second part of the equation is that Pogo can be a Platinum Level Tipper*3 when you help her out and might average out as a Silver Level Tipper when taken as a whole.
In the end, I found myself not caring at all. I believe Seamus's side of the story because that's precisely what I would've done except for the fact that I would've tried one more time after another 30 minutes or so, just to see if I could make them understand, possibly using crude drawings if necessary.
They both stormed out and I'll bet they won't be back.
For at least five days.
That is all. Picture time so you don't cry.
Mas Consternato
-The StripperHerder
*1 As a strip club we have a lot of strengths, our Doorgirl staff has never been one of them. It makes me think nostalgically of working at Anthony's Place of even Sheila's Shag Hut, where the Doorgirls were miles above anything we've ever had work at our place. Their DG's were fucking fearless, knowing they had the Floor Beasts to call upon, they owned the fucking Portal.
Our guardians are like "OMG! I didn't even realize he was wearing sweats! Oops!"
Or, "OMG! I thought you carrying him out in a full nelson was like, I don't know, some sort of male bonding thing? I don't know. I don't know about Bro culture. Tee-hee."
*2 Hyde: For any potential new readers among you, a Hyde is the ravening, soul-eating monster some strippers turn into when they've had too much of something. Kinda lie a Banner/Hulk thing. When a bitch hits her seventh Patron, she ceases to be a Jekyll and explodes into her Hyde-self.
Frequently violent.
*3 LEVELS OF TIPPING:
PLATINUM: Do I even need to explain it?
GOLD: Very good, like gold. We take very good care of these gals.
SILVER: We like you. We'd take a staff comprised entirely of Silver Level's if we could. If all girls were consistent but unspectacular tippers, us Floor Sloths would, on average, make more money.
BRONZE: Meh. Understands the concept but just isn't very generous, or is hard to get into rooms, or just isn't good at making money for whatever reason. Usually because she's not very attractive.
ALUMINUM FOIL: After the split you may get as much as a dollar. You know, on a good night.
BITS OF ENAMELED RAT BONE: Mostly given by strippers who are past their SELL-BY date, as opposed to strippers who are merely in their waning years who are more frequently Silvers or Golds. Usually the tips consist of whatever trinkets the ole gal might have on her or may be things handed down from her people, carved antler and whatnot. But every now and then a drunk Yoda-aged stripper will unwittingly hand you a small treasure.
For example I walked out Methusalina one time, a dancer who is literally over four hundred years old, and she drunkenly tipped me an antique Parisian Snuffbox which I subsequently sold on Ebay for $1,800.
SPIT: Occasionally tip one dollar. This is more insulting than tipping nothing at all because it says that she derives pleasure from just having tipped you 14.2 cents, which is what your take will be after you split it with six other Floor Grunts. This froths her truffle.
Spitters are despised. Don't make that feeble gesture at me, cunt. You need that 14.2 cents more than me, so you just keep that dollar. Buy some off brand Mac N Cheese for yourself.
CHOLERA: Not only doesn't tip, she actively tries to bugger our earning potential and often costs us money by some of her various scams and junkie bullshit. To be branded and driven from the village whenever the opportunity presents itself.
