Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Iron Maiden
Of all the seasons I hate Summer the most. When I was a kid I loved it of course, no school, later bedtimes and whatnot. But now, as an irritable middle aged fuckstick prone to sweating for no apparent reason, I honestly cannot describe how much I loathe this season.
WHY does it have to be so hot? There is no part of my genetic makeup that was conditioned to exist in anything over 75 degrees and even that for only a few weeks until Summer ran out and a better part of the year came around. My predecessors were all folk who were perfectly suited to living in a temperature range of 0-50 degrees for 90% of their life. And when it got too hot, there were glacier fed streams all over the damn place to cool off in or, failing that, at least some enemies blood to smear on their skin to keep the dreaded Fiery Eye from burning their milk white flesh.
I'm talking about Vikings here, dear readers. My bloodline descends from Celtic tribes that were thoroughlyraped by interbred with Vikings, tribes that didn't run fast enough when they saw some square sails on the horizon. Being as neither of these peoples were renowned for their resistance to sun and heat, they eventually produced creatures like me; total heat-pussies and sun haters.
I prefer it to never be over 70, overcast with lots of rain and thunderstorms and suchforth.
WHY does it have to be so hot? There is no part of my genetic makeup that was conditioned to exist in anything over 75 degrees and even that for only a few weeks until Summer ran out and a better part of the year came around. My predecessors were all folk who were perfectly suited to living in a temperature range of 0-50 degrees for 90% of their life. And when it got too hot, there were glacier fed streams all over the damn place to cool off in or, failing that, at least some enemies blood to smear on their skin to keep the dreaded Fiery Eye from burning their milk white flesh.
I'm talking about Vikings here, dear readers. My bloodline descends from Celtic tribes that were thoroughly
I prefer it to never be over 70, overcast with lots of rain and thunderstorms and suchforth.
90 degrees plus with a swamplike humidity doesn't work for me. And it doesn't work for our industry either.
The club has been S-L-O-W lately. There was a month or so period where it seemed like we were picking up steam and this culminated in the week where I made a fuckton of money in two nights and then......Summer ripped open it's top and offered up her juicy bosom to the masses. And they suckle like angry piglets, greedy yet happy so long as an easily accessible teat is in the offing.
I hate them so much I wish I had a bigger font to write it in.
Here's one specific thing that annoys the living shit out of me: our club is open later than all the others, on the weekends only. It's been almost 10 years we've had the same hours: open til 3 AM Sunday through Thursday, open til 5 AM on Fridays and Saturdays.
It never changes.
EXTREMELY SIMPLE, NO?
Nope. Complex.
I say complex because I'm normally the "walk-out" guy, I escort the majority of the dancers to their cars when they leave in the wee hours. So I have to deal with the never ending stream of people pulling into our parking lot at 3:30 AM on a weekday thinking we're still open even though they've done this three hundred times before and we've never been open a single time UNLESS IT WAS A FRIDAY OR SATURDAY.
They somehow fail to make any sort of connection between the instances of us being open or closed, or if there could be any sort of pattern involved that may be discernible to the average drooling fuckwit.
Tonight was a prime example of this . Being a weekday, we closed down at 3 AM, like we have for the past 2600-something weekdays. But as I stood outside the club waiting for grumpy, annoyed strippers to be ready to walk to their highway death machines, I had to turn away an endless stream of jizz-brained would-be customers who figured we're open til 5 AM every night despite any supporting evidence.
Boozed up useless clit-warts who would order wings and Red Bulls and fail to make their presence worthwhile, from a business sense if nothing else, if they could only figure out our baffling business hours!
I literally turned away twice the number of customers as we had in the building when we closed, two thirds of which are pretty much regulars of one degree or another, who just assumed or hoped we'd be open til whenever they could be bothered to show up.
I.E. when the other strip club they were at closed too.
Fuck y'all with a porcupine, ass end first.
Maybe this isn't something to brag about, depends on your perspective I guess, but I know when all my favorite businesses open and close, because in some specialized ways, I'm not an idiot. If I regularly patronize a business, usually a Chinese food or pizza place, but in less common circumstances my local hardware store or Ma and Pop grocery, I know their fucking hours.
It ain't quantum physics and a bit of the good ole Trial And Error should've cleared the matter up for anyone who's not a yambag-dragging-beet-farmer.
For fuck's sake.
Here's another facet of cunt-brained behavior that drives me insane: in virtually club or bar there will be choke points, or "bottlenecks" in old school lingo. These are the narrowest points in a building, usually a hallway leading somewhere or something to that effect.
So where do you think inconsiderate, situationally oblivious people hang out in the club? In the wide open space offered on our patio? In the normally uninhabited billiard area of the club?
Huh-uh. The stand in clusters in the hallways, forcing each and every person to squeeze by or have to say "excuse me" to get through. This aggravates me to the point of horse-rape. Get the fuck out of the way you fucking mouth breathing snatch-hagglers.
I'm done with being polite with these walking chancres. I just yell "Move" and bull my way through them and if they don't like it, they can file a complaint with my Manager who will likely laugh at them.
I'm very charming.
But enough about morons. I should've called this blog Plight of The IdiotHerder for as much as I discuss human stupidity.
Let's talk about Strip Club Regulars.
It's a whole thing unto itself.
Regulars come in many varieties; the Nomad, the Baiter, the Lurker, the Whore-Whisperer, the Fetish-Twat just to name a few. Ninety percent of these species are useless to us Floor Hosts. They either have no money or are unwilling to spend what they do have, thereby making them utterly invisible to the Floor Yaks outside of maybe a brief, cursory handshake.
So let's meet some of the patrons I regularly encounter in the execution of my duties.
Wendell: Awkward, socially inept lonely guy, classified as a SAW even though he's of an age where he could be considered a SLOM Mk 1*1 Comes to the club for dinner frequently, but never talks to anyone. In my opinion Wendell is likely a serial killer who's chosen NOT to prey upon any of the club's dancers because he likes our quesadillas, or a cat-rapist who's building up the gumption to rape a human female and is planning it out very carefully.
I could be wrong, but doubt it.
Owen: A classic example of the Nomad species, Owen just goes from club to club and says "hi" to all of the people he met from going around to all the clubs and saying "hi" to people. He has no money, but doesn't really need it. He's such a fixture on the club scene of The Town™ that he never pays a cover despite the fact that he never spends a dime.
After a while, Nomads become like extras in a movie scene. You let them in for free because they make the club look busier than it really is.
The are special effects.
Jubal: One of our regular Fetish-Twats who could be cross-classed with a Whale on a good day. Pretty generous when drunk. We Floor Grubs refer to him as The Flatland Strangler because his thing is choking girls in champagne rooms. He's very polite and straight forward about it and has yet to kill or even slightly damage a bitch, and he's been at it for years. He has girls who are his 'regulars' who seem to enjoy a little light throttling with their outrageous income.
The point is that everything is consensual, mutually beneficial for all strata of the club ecosystem, and seems to leave all parties feeling pleased with the arrangement. He has lots of money to spend on his kink, and the dancers, the floor guys, the bartender, the waitresses and especially the Owner are happy to take his dough.
He's a freak with lotsa money, and we're happy to have him strangling various choke-friendly gals in our environs.
Chester: The name says it all. Chester the Molester. This creepy old fuck trawls the strip clubs searching for young women willing to exchange disturbing sex acts for currency. He's a lech and the only reason he doesn't bang junior high girls is because they fight and scream a lot and he isn't big nor strong enough anymore to overpower anything larger than an arthritic beagle.
We still allow him into the club despite the fact that we know his game because he will buy champagne rooms to test out a stripper's defense mechanisms and pitch his cash-for-droopy-member-pleasuring offer.
If it were up to me, I'd ban his conniving, pedophile ass. He embodies the DROP*2
Dee: Drug dealer. Not sure what he slings, I suspect weed and coke but he's incredibly discreet about it. I don't think he even deals inside the club, but merely meets his clientele here to arrange amounts and prices. I could be wrong about this, but if he IS slinging IN the club, he's slicker than a turd on teflon because I've never caught him doing anything even remotely suspicious.
Still, there's only one reason that the same group of 20-30 "regulars" gather at the club every goddamn weekend who haven't the slightest interest in spending money on the girls. They're either selling or buying something, or arranging to do so at a later point. Or maybe hoping to lure in some party strippers to exchange vag for blow.
When you've done this job as long as I have, it becomes very obvious. But getting management to do anything about it is always an uphill battle, even when it's in the best interests of the business.
Managerial fuckhats...
Sturgeon: Another big money regular who used to spend retarded amounts of money in the club. This was of course before he came under federal indictment for insurance fraud and medical malpractice.
Nowadays he comes in with big money friends who take up the slack for his asset-freeze and attorney-debt and buy him cocaine and over-the-pants-handjobs form our less wholesome entertainers.
The club has been S-L-O-W lately. There was a month or so period where it seemed like we were picking up steam and this culminated in the week where I made a fuckton of money in two nights and then......Summer ripped open it's top and offered up her juicy bosom to the masses. And they suckle like angry piglets, greedy yet happy so long as an easily accessible teat is in the offing.
I hate them so much I wish I had a bigger font to write it in.
Here's one specific thing that annoys the living shit out of me: our club is open later than all the others, on the weekends only. It's been almost 10 years we've had the same hours: open til 3 AM Sunday through Thursday, open til 5 AM on Fridays and Saturdays.
It never changes.
EXTREMELY SIMPLE, NO?
Nope. Complex.
I say complex because I'm normally the "walk-out" guy, I escort the majority of the dancers to their cars when they leave in the wee hours. So I have to deal with the never ending stream of people pulling into our parking lot at 3:30 AM on a weekday thinking we're still open even though they've done this three hundred times before and we've never been open a single time UNLESS IT WAS A FRIDAY OR SATURDAY.
They somehow fail to make any sort of connection between the instances of us being open or closed, or if there could be any sort of pattern involved that may be discernible to the average drooling fuckwit.
Tonight was a prime example of this . Being a weekday, we closed down at 3 AM, like we have for the past 2600-something weekdays. But as I stood outside the club waiting for grumpy, annoyed strippers to be ready to walk to their highway death machines, I had to turn away an endless stream of jizz-brained would-be customers who figured we're open til 5 AM every night despite any supporting evidence.
Boozed up useless clit-warts who would order wings and Red Bulls and fail to make their presence worthwhile, from a business sense if nothing else, if they could only figure out our baffling business hours!
I literally turned away twice the number of customers as we had in the building when we closed, two thirds of which are pretty much regulars of one degree or another, who just assumed or hoped we'd be open til whenever they could be bothered to show up.
I.E. when the other strip club they were at closed too.
Fuck y'all with a porcupine, ass end first.
Maybe this isn't something to brag about, depends on your perspective I guess, but I know when all my favorite businesses open and close, because in some specialized ways, I'm not an idiot. If I regularly patronize a business, usually a Chinese food or pizza place, but in less common circumstances my local hardware store or Ma and Pop grocery, I know their fucking hours.
It ain't quantum physics and a bit of the good ole Trial And Error should've cleared the matter up for anyone who's not a yambag-dragging-beet-farmer.
For fuck's sake.
Here's another facet of cunt-brained behavior that drives me insane: in virtually club or bar there will be choke points, or "bottlenecks" in old school lingo. These are the narrowest points in a building, usually a hallway leading somewhere or something to that effect.
So where do you think inconsiderate, situationally oblivious people hang out in the club? In the wide open space offered on our patio? In the normally uninhabited billiard area of the club?
Huh-uh. The stand in clusters in the hallways, forcing each and every person to squeeze by or have to say "excuse me" to get through. This aggravates me to the point of horse-rape. Get the fuck out of the way you fucking mouth breathing snatch-hagglers.
I'm done with being polite with these walking chancres. I just yell "Move" and bull my way through them and if they don't like it, they can file a complaint with my Manager who will likely laugh at them.
I'm very charming.
But enough about morons. I should've called this blog Plight of The IdiotHerder for as much as I discuss human stupidity.
Let's talk about Strip Club Regulars.
It's a whole thing unto itself.
Regulars come in many varieties; the Nomad, the Baiter, the Lurker, the Whore-Whisperer, the Fetish-Twat just to name a few. Ninety percent of these species are useless to us Floor Hosts. They either have no money or are unwilling to spend what they do have, thereby making them utterly invisible to the Floor Yaks outside of maybe a brief, cursory handshake.
So let's meet some of the patrons I regularly encounter in the execution of my duties.
Wendell: Awkward, socially inept lonely guy, classified as a SAW even though he's of an age where he could be considered a SLOM Mk 1*1 Comes to the club for dinner frequently, but never talks to anyone. In my opinion Wendell is likely a serial killer who's chosen NOT to prey upon any of the club's dancers because he likes our quesadillas, or a cat-rapist who's building up the gumption to rape a human female and is planning it out very carefully.
I could be wrong, but doubt it.
Owen: A classic example of the Nomad species, Owen just goes from club to club and says "hi" to all of the people he met from going around to all the clubs and saying "hi" to people. He has no money, but doesn't really need it. He's such a fixture on the club scene of The Town™ that he never pays a cover despite the fact that he never spends a dime.
After a while, Nomads become like extras in a movie scene. You let them in for free because they make the club look busier than it really is.
The are special effects.
Jubal: One of our regular Fetish-Twats who could be cross-classed with a Whale on a good day. Pretty generous when drunk. We Floor Grubs refer to him as The Flatland Strangler because his thing is choking girls in champagne rooms. He's very polite and straight forward about it and has yet to kill or even slightly damage a bitch, and he's been at it for years. He has girls who are his 'regulars' who seem to enjoy a little light throttling with their outrageous income.
The point is that everything is consensual, mutually beneficial for all strata of the club ecosystem, and seems to leave all parties feeling pleased with the arrangement. He has lots of money to spend on his kink, and the dancers, the floor guys, the bartender, the waitresses and especially the Owner are happy to take his dough.
He's a freak with lotsa money, and we're happy to have him strangling various choke-friendly gals in our environs.
Chester: The name says it all. Chester the Molester. This creepy old fuck trawls the strip clubs searching for young women willing to exchange disturbing sex acts for currency. He's a lech and the only reason he doesn't bang junior high girls is because they fight and scream a lot and he isn't big nor strong enough anymore to overpower anything larger than an arthritic beagle.
We still allow him into the club despite the fact that we know his game because he will buy champagne rooms to test out a stripper's defense mechanisms and pitch his cash-for-droopy-member-pleasuring offer.
If it were up to me, I'd ban his conniving, pedophile ass. He embodies the DROP*2
Dee: Drug dealer. Not sure what he slings, I suspect weed and coke but he's incredibly discreet about it. I don't think he even deals inside the club, but merely meets his clientele here to arrange amounts and prices. I could be wrong about this, but if he IS slinging IN the club, he's slicker than a turd on teflon because I've never caught him doing anything even remotely suspicious.
Still, there's only one reason that the same group of 20-30 "regulars" gather at the club every goddamn weekend who haven't the slightest interest in spending money on the girls. They're either selling or buying something, or arranging to do so at a later point. Or maybe hoping to lure in some party strippers to exchange vag for blow.
When you've done this job as long as I have, it becomes very obvious. But getting management to do anything about it is always an uphill battle, even when it's in the best interests of the business.
Managerial fuckhats...
Sturgeon: Another big money regular who used to spend retarded amounts of money in the club. This was of course before he came under federal indictment for insurance fraud and medical malpractice.
Nowadays he comes in with big money friends who take up the slack for his asset-freeze and attorney-debt and buy him cocaine and over-the-pants-handjobs form our less wholesome entertainers.
Emerson: Local service industry guy. Cook by trade if I'm not mistaken. I see him frequently and if forced to classify him, I'd label him a Nomad. He wanders from bar to bar, including all the strip clubs that are safe for a middle aged Pakistani man to enter. He enjoys talking to me about how none of the girls approach him when he's sitting at the bar and seems to suggest that if only they were to do so, untold riches may very well await them.
I sigh and make sympathetic noises but like most of my interactions with patrons, it's all bullshit. I've known Emerson for a decade and I've seen him get maybe three dances in that whole span. He doesn't have a lot of money and just wants hot chicks to sit with him and talk for an hour before he rewards them by buying a single dance, maybe two.
Beatrice: Large, loud but very friendly, aged lesbian. She looks like the leader of an all female biker gang; beefy, bleach blonde and always up for some fisticuffs. Beatrice hangs out at the club 3-5 nights a week, frequently riding her Honda Shadow in the Summer months.
It has saddlebags which I assume are full of dildos and guns.
She's a good natured ole gal, enjoys pulling impressionable young dykes-in-training from the club and presumably running them through their paces, sexually speaking. If there's a fight she's on your side, which is where you want her.
Her fists are bigger than mine.
The dancers love her and she's very protective of them, which has led to several altercations as Beatrice went all avenging angel on some rude dick who disrespected a stripper she likes. She hits really hard from what I've seen, and doesn't stop at one even if the dude is unconscious.
From a managerial standpoint we should probably ban her, but it may cause a stripper uprising and no one wants that.
You know what? It's a post. I ain't doin pictures and none of you will complain about it.
Yer "What If?" nightmare,
-The StripperHerder
*1 Socially Awkward Weenie and Sad Lonely Old Man, Mk 2, as referred to in this post:
http://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2015/10/the-stripperherder-guide-to-titty-bar.html
*2 See above linked archival post
