FUN STATS: I'll do them later.
And through the magic of lazy writing and sloppy editing, here they are:
-Number of dancers living on borrowed time who continued to exist, against all odds, since my last post=
All of them. I know. I'm shocked too. Females are resilient, dude.
-Number of times someone else in the past month, besides me, has swept the entrance area of all the assorted detritus accumulated nightly by the drunken scum who haunt this place=
Twice. I was out of town and our Manager, Sir Snafflin Coobeastie XII probably did it himself rather than tell an underling to do it.
Ostrich Style!
-Number of new DUI recipients since my last post=
Three. Bitches rackin em up.
Two out of three are girls I walked out to their cars personally. I only feel a vestigial stirring of remorse about this. One might argue that it's part of a Floor Guy's job description to stop hammered dancers from reinforcing Darwin's theories on evolution when they leave the club, i.e. killing themselves before they can pass on their genes.
I argue that without the legal ability to bear hug their tiny asses and carry them back to the club, which would be SO easy, I merely have to offer and/or suggest a cab, or to speak in modern terms, an Uber -at least three times. It's like a magic spell that legally gets me off the hook. If I were to pick her up and haul her back into the club, against her drunken will, I would be up for several felony charges should she choose to pursue the situation.
And, through experience and bitter hindsight, I now trust most strippers about as far as I can throw them through plexiglass, which isn't far at all.
Charmingly enough, I am an employee of the club, and as such the club is legally liable for my actions. This is an important reason why the recent trend in stripper-employment is all "Private Contractor" as opposed to "Bitch works here", Private Contractors carry much less legal liability than 'Bitches who work here'.
-Number of customers maimed/injured by one of our contractors since my last post=
Zero. At least physically. I'm sure some mental damage has been meted out but it's not my problem nor am I qualified to diagnose it.
All right, enough of that horseshit.
Right now I'd like to talk about the infamous service industry fuck you, the One Dollar Tip.
The concept of tipping was conceived to reward those poor bastards who had to deal with drunk cunts in exchange for paying their rent and feeding their wee babbies. From there it has branched out to encompass all kinds of services and it is primarily an American thing. Folks from the good ole U S of A are the tipping kings of the world.
No one tips like a Murrikan.
That being established, let's move on.
The Stiff vs. The One Dollar Tip
Stiffing people, or tipping absolutely nothing, can mean one of the following things:
1) You're an inconsiderate jizzstain, or
2) You honestly didn't realize that it was customary to tip that particular person/occupation.
I was guilty of this when I was in my late teens/early 20's with my barber. The haircut was $10 and that was what I gave him. I was completely ignorant that this was an job where tipping is sort of expected.
I feel bad about it to this day.
But at least I wasn't a One Dollar Tipper. This says:
1) I'm an inconsiderate jizzstain, or
2) I'm well aware of the fact that I should tip you but have decided that whatever effort you put into making my life more enjoyable is only worth a buck. It's a garbage move and I'd rather they not tip at all than toss me a buck.
I had a group of maybe 30 loudmouthed, cokehead foreigners the past two nights and each time one guy would hand me a crumpled dollar bill. The first night I had to split that Washington with six other Floor Grubs, for a total gain of a bit over 14 cents for me.
Tonight I had a four way split, which meant I got to keep a shiny quarter all to myself.
I think they might've been Latervian. Voting for Dr. Doom every four years because no one else ever runs against him.
Super Fun Happy Drunk Time, Sponsored By Ivana Poutvainly, Russian Drink-Twat, Level 43.
I really wish we could fire people at this place. I don't know why it's so hard. It's the polar opposite of virtually every other titty bar I've worked at where getting fired was as easy as looking at someone the wrong way. It's abso-fucking-lutely amazing how hard it is to get fired from this Nipple Hut.
I guess the management team here would rather put up with the idiot practices of some of its employees rather than have to go through the hire/train process with new people who may or may not suck just as much as those they're meant to replace.
Ostrich style leadership in (in)action!
Our Russian Booze-Slinger, Ivana Poutvainly is the purest example of I can think of to illustrate this.
This loony menstrual sock will serve drinks to anything, no matter how obviously obliterated it happens to be as long as they are a few rubles in it for her. She will sell booze to someone lying on the ground and mumbling about Camaro's. She'll sell drinks long past when she should and in inadvisable amounts, like ten beers for one guy thirty seconds before we have to pull alcohol.
No effing problem comrade, just toss her a few bucks so she can continue to buy idiotically priced items to try to mask the utter and complete emptiness of her soul from the rest of the world. No one notices that you're a worthless, vapid douche-hole when you wear a Gucci dress and $1200 boots.
I've written about Ivana in this blog before, multiple times in fact. She makes all Russians look bad and they should send a Spetsnaz unit to eliminate her with extreme prejudice. Remember when she got a weed brownie from one of the cook's and when she ate the whole thing, against his advice, she freaked out, couldn't work and promptly narced him out to management, resulting in them both being suspended two weeks.*1
Or how about when she wrecked her expensive German sedan against a guardrail less than a mile from the club and ended up getting off scot free from a DUI charge.
SO tonight one of our more disturbing dancers, Vulcana, got extremely hammered. This only happens 50% of the shifts she works, so we were all taken by surprise.
Here's the inside deal on this though, the parts not obvious to someone outside the stripperherder industry:
A) I had heard the DJ "call off" Vulcana about an hour or so before I heard the gravelly tones of her wasted vice grating out from the main bar. Being "called off" meant the dancer had informed the DJ that she was leaving and that he should take her off stage rotation.
This means she should've taken her skunked ass to the dressing room and got ready to leave. Once girls call off here, they're not allowed to be on the floor anymore, much less parked at the bar throwing more booze down their suck-hole.
B) Vulcana is CLEARLY intoxicated, but small details like this have never stopped Ivana from serving up more drinks and it certainly didn't this time either.
C) I watched the booze-hag pour back her drink which was something clear with lime in it, probably a vodka tonic. I tried to catch Ivana's eye to give her the "cut this bitch off" sign, but she steadfastly avoided making eye contact with me. I went to find the Manager, Sir Smedly Snotmyproblem XI and told him that Russia's greatest treasure was over serving again and that the world's 6th oldest stripper was a wasted fucking mess who was getting drunker thanks to Ivana's utter lack of conscious.
D) When I returned to the main bar, Vulcana was just setting down a shot glass with a few drops of some sort of brown liquor in it. Clearly Ivana had poured her another shot the moment my back was turned.
Ivana steadfastly refused this of course, whining that she cut people off all the time, which she does, all of them crappy tippers. But Vulcana knows how the game works, she tipped Ivana handsomely and therefore could blow lines of meth off the bar for all Ivana cared.
I think it bears mentioning that if we'd breathalyzed our dear soviet bartender, it would have turned out that she too was drunk, just not as drunk as Vulcana...
Let's see what else?
Fuck it, let's get into this new guy they have working in the kitchen which they've given two of my bus shifts a week to. He's his own whole thing.
Christ, where to start?
Let's do the basics.
I'll call him Malvio. He's of some sort of South American descent, used to work out a lot but has clearly let that go for the past couple of years. He has the expressionless face, uncomfortable levels of eye contact and bland demeanor of a serial killer and he enjoys twisting people's words to mean what he wants them to mean, rather than what was clearly intended. And he lies a lot.
In other words, he's fucking creepy as hell.
I feel a list coming on. Please bear in mind while reading this list that this dude has only worked here three weeks or so.
1) Kitchen experience.
Obviously lied on his application. He has never worked in a kitchen and it is painfully obvious to anyone who has. Doesn't. Know. Shit. Doesn't know how to cook a burger. Doesn't know how to cook chicken. Doesn't know how long fries take to cook. And this my friends is only the beginning....
Training in this kitchen isn't very good. Our culinary team members don't do anything very good. That being said they have shown Malvio how to do a lot of stuff, he is just completely incapable of learning it. Rather than getting into enough detail to fill 30 pages, let me give you this one very critical example.
The dreaded Temperature Log.
This fiendish practice requires a kitchen employee to check and log the temperatures of the various coolers once a shift. The onerous task forces the unfortunate cook to look at a two digit readout on an LED screen and then write it down on a sheet of paper with the date and time.
Fucking grueling.
Malvio has stated that he doesn't know how to do this because he was never shown how it's done. In fact Malvio wrote a six page explanation of the things he doesn't know how to do because the staff never trained him how to do them.
Not even kidding you, not exaggerating for comedic purposes. Six fucking pages.
Among these pages were things like the Temperature Log Crisis, and these other gems:
-Checks burger temps by cutting them in half
-Doesn't know how long our french fries take to cook
-Doesn't know when chicken is done
-Thinks pepperoni goes UNDER the cheese on a pizza
-Thinks raw chicken wings take four minutes to cook properly
-Doesn't know the difference between romaine and iceberg lettuce
-Was never shown how to make a quesadilla, one of the most challenging dishes on any menu
-Doesn't know what penne pasta looks like
-Has no idea what the main ingredient of alfredo sauce is
-Can't tell shredded parm from shredded mozzarella
-His third shift in he calls and reports the kitchen to the Health Department. The kitchen he works in but yet has no idea how to do anything. Health Dept does an inspection and gives us a glowing report
Shitcicles. You get the idea. It went on for six pages.
The other side of this is that he also drives the bus now on two nights a week, two nights where a certain large, dimpled ass used to sit, doing a much better job of it if I do say so myself. He also has very deranged ideas of how a bus driver for a gentlemen's club should dress.
His notion is something like this:
Again, not even kidding you. He showed up for work on his first day with a sport coat over some kind of spaghetti string 80's musclehead shirt with a fucking bowtie on. I would've never thought to make something like this up. He has since come in with the same sport coat and NO shirt, yet still with the choker bow tie.
Reports I've received from bouncer and valet friends at other area clubs assure me that he drives around with a blazer and no shirt, plus bow tie.
He's a meltdown, which is much more tit's up than a trainwreck.
Has already showed up on the dancer creep-o-meter. Multiple complaints. Dude stares like a psycho and whatnot.
I am changing the name of our management team from Laser Falcon to Ostrich Thunder Alpha.
Make a note of it.
Have a terrific night,
-The StripperHerder
*1 They BOTH still work here. Ostrich-style!
