Ratty is gone, praise the Gods! It's like another stripperherder holiday, the day from hence forth we don't have to deal with her mouthy, drunk, white trash ass anymore.
Whor-elujah!
Its such a fucking relief. Trainwreck strippers aside, Ratty was one of the worst human beings I've ever met when she had a few shots in her. Which was every night she worked, of course. There are just some people who should never drink, they are clearly adversely affected by alcohol and yet it seems like those are the people who drink the most.
Ratty got all tanked up at work again and was out on the patio caught in the middle of some kind of drama which was escalating towards a fracas before the Floor Staff had to intervene. She's one of those people who when she hears something she doesn't like or someone says something rude to her, she is utterly incapable of just walking away. She cannot, under any circumstances, just chalk it up to the person being an asshole, which any place that serves booze is full of, and just go about her business. SHE HAS TO RUN HER MOUTH NONSTOP UNTIL VIOLENCE ERUPTS. IT'S HER CALLING, IT'S HER LOVE.
As a bouncer, I HATE these kind of people with a passion normally reserved for serial killers or rabid fanboys. Words mean nothing, the only ability to hurt you that words have is whatever ability YOU ALLOW THEM TO HAVE.
Seriously, get over yourself. In the big scheme of things you mean nothing, just like the rest of us.
I'm going to get into a familiar subject for dedicated Herder readers, namely, the dreaded ATM. Yes I realize it seems that sometimes I dwell too much on the cash machine and that maybe I've said all that needs to be said about it and trust me, I tend to agree with you. But every time I consider it a dead option for discussion, someone comes along who reignites my desire to talk once again about that wretched contraption.
One of the many, many unfortunate parts about working the door is that it's right next to the fucking ATM, so when some baffled twat can't figure out his PIN number, who do you think he goes to about it?
If you guessed the nearest club representative, which is the Door Man, then congratulations, you are correct. Every miserable taint-nodule that fails to receive money from the ATM comes to me, brow all wrinkled in consternation, about his problem. It's maddening.
So, what's my latest bitch? I'll call him Fagodread, a strapping 6'4" corn fed white boy with super lame braided hair. Mr. Dread was shocked, shocked I say that the cash machine charges a 10% fee to get your hands on your own money.
He withdrew $500 and was flabbergasted that he had to pay a $50 fee to get it. And naturally, he comes to the front door to complain about it. But here's the main thing and in my mind the most important thing:
This fucking machine tells you what it's going to charge you right up front and you have to agree to it before anything else happens. It can't do a damn thing unless you concede to it. By agreeing to the astronomical rate to receive your own goddamn money, you have abdicated any possible right to bitch about that cost. This is the equivalent of going to Burger King, ordering a Whopper, eating it and THEN going back to complain to the counter person about how much that Whopper cost.
Because I have as much control over what kind of fee our ATM charges as the average Burger King employee has over how much a Whopper costs. We don't own the magic money rape machines, we don't set the fees or fix them when they're broke, we pay a company to do that and all that shit is up to them.
And on top of that, why the living fuck would you complain about a decision YOU ALREADY MADE? Seriously, what do you expect to gain from it? Stop being a panty stain. I'm sick of it.
Speaking of panty stains, let's talk about some arrogant, piece of shit strippers, shall we? I mean, it's what keeps you coming back post after post right?
So we're rid of Ratty for the time being, I'm sure she'll be back and when she is I'd bet her 'grace period' of good behavior will last just slightly longer than this last time, if for no other reason than to lull management into a false sense of security over their remarkably poor decision.
That being said, allow me to elaborate of some other hot trash golems I have to deal with, shift in and shift out.
-STICKER: I've talked about Sticker before. She's smart as cheese, clever as a plant and about interesting as a dead pet. However she IS a hot little monkey and all kinds of dudes trip all over themselves to fondle her tits and ass as she "dances" for them.
Sticker was, not long ago, a sweet natured demure young lady who didn't seem at all cut out to be a stripper. I often questioned her career choice because she was so sheltered, dumb and gullible that I figured some Russian human trafficker would've scooped her up a long time ago. But instead, here's what happened:
-She turned 21 and therefore was now permitted to drink on the job. And boy did she take advantage of it. Joined the DUI club in less than 3 months.
-Her bestie, the ridiculously hot entertainer Beverly, is banging the Owner. So Beverly and her wee minion Sticker are, for all intents and purposes, bulletproof. They could shiv a bitch to death on camera and get away with it. Steal her shoes and whatnot. Maybe throw in some mild corpse disfigurement.
-She finally came to terms with the fact that she's a little hottie and is determined to mine it for all it's worth, no matter whose back she has to walk on to do it. As a result all the other dancers despise Sticker and Beverly. If these two conceited twats worked at Mary's Melee Chalet, the club I worked at before this one, they would've been beaten to death in the locker room by a hostile stripper gang long ago. But now, at this club? They piss on everybody with complete impunity.
The good news is that with their present lifestyles as money ravenous Hydes, their looks will fade prematurely and they'll develop the hoarse, unpleasant voice of booze-harpies and will probably die sucking off a horse on camera for an armful of smack or a Gucci knock off.
I calls em like I sees em.
The next "entertainer" I'm gonna mention is Glutina, the life support system for an ass. Good ole Gluty is a buxom gal with a butt that probably leads a life of its own when she's asleep. It's far and away the only interesting feature about her and it makes her a lot of money. There's a plethora of men out there who have no upper limits to their interest in booty and would be happy to bang a chick whose ass has to be forklifted around and thonged in sailcloth.
To me it's just too much booty for the frame. If I'd been referring to a six foot blonde who was one winged helmet away from being a Valkyrie, that much ass would be acceptable. A lot of woman needs a lot of ass. But a 5'3 mean tempered swarthy chick doesn't need that much ass at her disposal.
The problem with Glutina is not her giant ass, but I wanted to write a bit about it so I did. No, the problem with Gluty is that her boyfriend bangs a lot of other bitches. Bitches that she's aware of and who frequently end up at our fine establishment. Where Glutina gets all misplaced anger on them, how dare they receive her boyfriend's penis? Why didn't they try to resist more?
Apparently her boyfriend, an aspiring rapper, is free to bang whoever he wants since Glutina's been aware of several of his side pieces and all she does is take her wrath out on them, not her man.
Seems reasonable.
I saved the best for last.
I had a genuine Vodzilla encounter this past weekend. I know, I know, it's been a bit. Many of the younger generation of my readers believe Vodzilla is just a myth, a tale to frighten children with at night or take up blog space. I hadn't seen her in months and wasn't sure if she was still filtering oxygen through vodka or not, but there she was...
Again she bypassed the line of people and headed straight for me like I was a hapless model ship in a cheap Japanese movie. Our encounter went something like this:
VODZILLA: "Hey Steve! How ya doin?" Hugging me like a drunk Aunt.
ME: "Hey Vodzilla. Sir Hamblast*1 says you're not allowed in anymore. So, you know, fuck off and shit."
VODZILLA: "Wait. What? Are you fuckin serious? Call him up here!"
ME: "He won't come up here, but I'll try anyway."
I grabbed my lapel mike and pretended to push the call button. "Door to Hamblast, Door to Hamblast. Vodzilla seeks parley, advise. Over"
I cocked my head as if listening for a reply on my headset. When this had gone on for maybe fifteen seconds or so Voddy started to protest and I suddenly held up my hand in the time tested 'shut up bitch' position and cupped a hand over my ear, an obvious sign someone was communicating with me via radio.
I shushed her and said, "Sir Hamblast says fuck ye off. You'll never tread his domain again ye foul liquor lich!"
Her jaw dropped so fast that her double chin smacked the tops of her liver-spotted fake titties which absorbed the shock like two bags of damp concrete.
She stared at me for a mildly uncomfortable amount of time, as if her watery gaze could somehow douse my intense, burning hatred for all she stood for.
The she harrumphed off and said she would go to the club next door.
"What a blessing" I called after her. And truly, I was blessed. Stuffing that cunt twice in one year, it was to be savored.
I was going to write more but decided not to. No sense in challenging myself at this point. As a result some topics you may see in an upcoming installment may include:
-How managing this club is slowly destroying the people responsible for it.
-Floor Guys stood accused....and were vindicated. Story at eleven.
-Floor Guys still get reamed for transgressions, yours truly caught in the drift net of general Floor Guy laziness which I have oft bemoaned.
-Hookers invade a strip club: someone's gonna get fucked!
All the above sounds very intriguing doesn't it? Fuck yeah.
Dis Unt All,
-The StripperHerder
*1 Our Manager on Duty tonight was Sir Ominous Hamblast XXI.
