I hate this blog site. It has no features worth mentioning. It constantly reminds me that 'hey, you have the numbers to make some money from advertising on your blog, click here for more details.' And when I click here, it proceeds to politely inform me that due to my content, there isn't a sponsor in hell that will pay to advertise on my blog.
Duh.
Add to that the huge glaring fucking problem that there isn't any "trash" folder where deleted content is sent. Therefore if you delete a post, either by design or by accident, it's fucking gone forever. It doesn't even ask you if you're sure when you click delete, in case you hit it by error, it's just gone for all eternity and there's fuck all you can do about it. That post ceases to exist.
That's what happened a couple of weeks ago. I wrote this charming StripperHerder take on the Goldilocks and the Three Bears fairy tale and it was good. Lots of violence, bloodshed and grief, which is as it should've been. This post was written exclusively for the generous 22 people who felt that my blog entertained them enough to merit donating to me in my time of need.
I wanted to reward these folks (you, dear reader) by giving them something that wasn't available to the general tribe of slavering Plight fans who, importantly, didn't donate money when given the chance.
But you did. I cannot express fully how flattering and humbling it is to have people willingly give me money because of the enjoyment my blog has provided them over the years. I guess this is an inkling of how professional writers feel all the time and I gotta admit, I liked it. It makes me want to write and this is the first time I've been inspired by something other than rage, disgust, murderlust or cathartic self loathing.
So I wrote this cute little version of the timeless story and figured out that if I keep it as a 'draft', I could email/FB the link to my donors without posting it to the ass scratching masses, which is what I did.
The problem occurred when I noticed I had accidentally posted it so that everyone could see it, thus ruining the original intent of the post, exclusivity*1. So without thinking it through and despite previous experience with wiping out content permanently, I clicked the 'delete' button and whoosh, it was gone before I'd even emailed it to half of it's intended recipients.
My bad, people.
So to atone for my idiocy, I'm writing this installment, which will be the exclusive province of you, my favorite 22 readers, for the next month. Then and only then will I toss it to the rest of the Herderheads, not unlike a freshly butchered elf to a horde of dire wolf riding goblins.
So let's get started, shall we?
WANNA MAKE A LOT OF MONEY?
Then open a company that makes insanely shitty but very pretty shoes designed primarily for use by strippers. You'll be so rich you could buy one of the Baltic States.
The shoes your company produce should adhere to the following standards:
1) Constructed 100% out of plastic and made by brown children with hideously disfigured hands from various blow-mold accidents
2) Heels no less than four inches and no more than eleven
3) Each pair should cost between $60 and $150
4) Shoes should ideally have a lifespan of anywhere between two hours and two months.
5) All of your products must be guaranteed for no less than a year
6) Your warranty call center should employ 0 people. Honestly it doesn't even have to exist. It doesn't matter.
7) Continued use of your shoes should, in a perfect world, slowly cripple the girl wearing them. No use should ever result in a lack of blisters or another degree of toe displacement. Maximum pain should always be the goal.
What brought this to mind for me this evening is when I volunteered to clean the dressing room. Normally I would never do this, I'd opt for the restrooms instead, but I overheard a waitress talking to the doorgirl about a bunch of poop smeared all over the floor of the women's restroom and was cleverly able to avoid having to deal with it.
When I got to the dressing room, stacked neatly next to the trash can was eight empty stripper shoe boxes. Fucking eight.
This meant that tonight alone, eight daffy bitches each paid an average of $80 each for a new pair of plastic slut-stilts which will likely break within a month or two, thus necessitating them buying another pair.
Stripper shoes. You gotta have em.
Worthless Fucking Doorgirls
Being a Doorgirl is the second easiest job in a titty bar outside of a barback, AND they have a much greater earning potential. I'd be shocked if our "primary" Portalbitch*2, Marissa, went home with less than $600-700 every Saturday she works. This is because she is a total fucking scam artist with a massive attitude problem offset by large fake titties.
The Doorgirl position is hands down the most thief friendly job at the club. No other position in this industry makes it easier to steal money from the club than a fucking Door-Whore. Ten guys walk through the door at $10 apiece? Ring up eight and next time you open your drawer to make change, pocket $20.
We don't allow sweats but for $40 you don't see them. If the same customer that bribed you to get in is later asked to leave, it's not your problem; you already have your money.
As long as you don't get too greedy you'll never get caught.
Essentially the job duties of a Doorgirl are as follows:
1) Collect the fucking cover charges
2) Weed out the too goddamn drunk to enter the club
3) Check ID's
4) Enforce the motherfucking dress code.
5) Call a Floor Guy to walk out dancers when they're ready to leave
6) Answer the phone
However if a Doorgirl works in tandem with a Host/Door Guy of some sort, her duties boil down to collecting cover charges, and sometimes, in civilized clubs, calling for a Floor Guy to walk a stripper to her car.
At most clubs I've worked at, this is the extent of a Doorgirl's job description. It can be irritating because of all the infantile horseshit you'll have to hear week in and week out. Dealing with drunk people is like working in a daycare center full of giant, moron asshole babies.
I'll have a Miller Lite please.
If given a choice, why the fuck would you willingly choose to drink Miller Lite? Or Bud Light for that matter? Seriously, why? There's never been a better time in modern history to be an Murrikan beer drinker, so why choose rat piss when beer with actual flavor exists in every nook and cranny nowadays?
It disgusts and appalls me how much Lite and Bud Light we sell at $6 something a pop. Or to a lesser extent, Corona. You shouldn't have to add anything to a beer to make it palatable, fucksticks.
It's aggravating. I don't even drink beer anymore, having graduated through diabetes college to a master's degree in vodka, a much more pancreas-friendly form of alcohol than beer. But when I did, I at least chose a default beer with a bit more character than rice-squeezins.*3
FrankenHeels
Listen girls, if you can't fluidly walk in high heels, just don't wear them, you look fucking ridiculous. I know gals that can do crazy shit while wearing six inch stilettos. I have no idea what sort of secret clown/assassin training program they graduated from, but they make walking on mini-stilts seem primal and inbred, a matter of ease and normalcy.
Then there's the mantid-like hunch-walkers I see tottering about the sidewalks in their black mini dresses, their silhouettes shaped vaguely like esses, staggering forward utterly devoid of grace or fluidity. Obviously having mastered neither the art of walking in heels or the concept of accepting defeat gracefully when it comes to something you never learn to do well.
When I drive the shuttle around I get to witness these awkward storks of womenkind, floundering down the sidewalks in shoes that are clearly mangling their feet and compressing their spines into premature dowager humps.
In regards to this I can only say that outside of gays, metrosexuals, foot-fetishists and eastern europeans, your average dude couldn't really care less what sort of foot-covers a chick wears as long as he finds her attractive. Your average 'red-blooded American male' isn't thinking all that much about feet, because why the fuck would you? What the holy hell happened to you as a child to ignite an erotic attraction to feet?
You poor bastard...
And this is where I call it quits. I'm middlin wasted and am going to be forced to cook something if I wish to gorge drunkenly on unhealthy foods.
Thank you sincerely for deeming my scrawlings worthy of remuneration. It means a lot to me.
Enjoy your VIP post. Hope it satisfies the 'Herder itch.
Corsa enHerderon,
-The StripperHerder
*1 It took me three attempts to spell that correctly.
*2 Portalbitch: Old English for 'Doorgirl'
*3 Budweiser uses rice in it's brewing process to shorten the brewing cycle. I'm not a brewer so I don't know how this all works, but I do know one thing, rice is NOT an ingredient in beer.
