Most strippers aren't very good at driving under ideal conditions, much less when taking selfies in a blizzard while two of them are having a fight over a picture of a drug dealer's penis in the backseat. I'm constantly amazed when certain strippers turn up for work each day, continuing to triumph over statistical probabilities."Life hasn't killed you yet?" I think to myself. "Huh".*1
The sheer amount of effort they put into doing what a normal person would call 'waking up and getting to work' is astounding. They've complicated their lives so thoroughly with their drug problems, their drinking, their unplanned children, their DUI's, social media feuds, their frequently hostile relationships with their "boyfriends/bebbydeddy's" and all the related chaos these things bring, that's it's actually something of an accomplishment when they get to work within three hours of when they're supposed've been there.
Many strippers who started in the industry at a young age aren't like you or I, they seldom have any idea how the real world works, or at least how it works for normal looking people and/or those unwilling to take their clothes off to support themselves.
I know a couple of dancers that never had a "real" job. Their first and only occupation is being a stripper. They have no real concept of the value of a dollar, no interest in planning for their future because they'll be pretty and young forever and money just happens, yo. Guys like to buy them stuff and usually drugs are free.
It's these kind of girls who go one of two ways, they either learn to pull their heads out of their own vaginas in time to see that the lifestyle they lead is using them up fast and that they'd better start putting some of their large, untaxed income to good use instead of buying purses, shoes and cocaine with it.
Or they just go with it and look haggard and frontier-ish by the time they're 27, well established with their drug of choice and with multiple children that various other people care for most of the time because they're either sleeping, partying or at work. Which is oftentimes all the same thing.
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Some hardcore readers may be wondering who is my current nemesis and I have to say, at the moment I don't have one. Sure there are dancers I like and dancers I don't like, but there's no one glaring ultimate overbitch that I'm slugging it out with.
No Vodzilla, no Elsie the Wonder-Cow, no Rattie, no SkeevaTron.
That being said there are still girls I dislike working with and there can be various reasons why I don't like working with them. For the sake of clarity I'd like to mention that there is a very easy way for me to like you as a stripper: fucking tip me.
It's seriously that simple. Tip me something and I will suddenly forget, overlook and/or ignore any facets of your behavior and practices that I may not care for. I'm willing to put up with a tremendous amount of horseshit if I'm getting paid. I work with a large number of girls who are very nice and trouble-free as strippers which is a lot to like quite frankly, and I still act neutral towards them because they don't tip.
Ever.
Say a Floor Host makes you a grand by getting you into a champagne room with a whale. That Floor Host deserves a tip and if you ever want him to do that again, you goddamn well better give him some money. But what about the Floor Cunt who makes sure you're not robbed of that $1000 while walking to your car? Surely he may one day prove to be equally important if not more so than any VIP-Host guy, right?
So tip him you silly twat. The reason dudes lingering in the parking lot don't fuck with you and try to throw drunk game at you all the way to your car is because of ME, the giant lumbering and unhappy looking guy at your side. If I wasn't there, you can be assured that you'd have many more uncomfortable encounters while walking to your car, with a much higher possibility of something really bad happening than if I wasn't.
But not on my watch. I'd literally kill a guy if I had to to protect even a non-tipper and I carry the tools to do it. This is a fact, missy and should be worth something to anyone who's not an oblivious, self-absorbed jizz-sock.
.
I am the fucking reason the parking lot is safe even if you take it as granted. Give me money so I can afford air conditioning in Summer and the occasional gyro.
To continue with this theme, here are some dancers currently on my
-Channing: Non-tipper. Like many strippers tries to hide/enhance her plainness and insecurity with prison-biker amounts of tattoos. Hasn't worked yet but maybe if she gets a lifesize picture of a pretty girl tattooed on her face.....
-Nurney: Non-tipper. Also fat, gross and embarrassing. FUPA doesn't even begin to describe it. Midriff wraps and onesie outfits are only going to hide so much you fucking orca.
-Ming-Soo (Russian girl believe it or not): Serial drunk, non tipper. Dumb as yeast.
"I wike wodka, not know chess."
-Apocrypha: Uglier than rat scrotum. Non-tipper.
-Elwood P. Grimsby: Looks like a retired NFL linebacker with giant fake titties and artificial ass. Tips, but in small ways.
-Eleanora I'm Gonna Bore-Ya: Tee-Dee-Us. This stripper creates a fear in me whenever I see her approach, or more specifically, if we make eye contact. She will talk the flesh off your bones, boyo. Unending chatter about the most innane of subjects until you're looking for a sturdy rafter and an extension cord.
She lives her life under the comforting illusion she's more intelligent than most people. And while this may be marginally true, one must remember that the vast majority of human beings, regardless of race, religion or creed, are idiots and in a Strip Club, that bar is set even lower.
Run, lad. Fucking RUN.
Tips crappily every once in a while.
Molasses: Used to tip OK then decided we weren't worth it unless we look the other way while she gives an apathetic handy. Currently residing in "non-tipperville".
Wanda: Drunk 80% of shifts. When confronted immediately starts crying. Total fucking mess. Tips a wad of crumpled singles that never amounts to more than $7, then cries. Spreads all the crap in her purse all over the ground then can't remember what's she's looking for then cries. Complete plane crash, that cries.
Tulsa: Good looking, yet utter 'hood garbage. Extreme non-tipper. In fact she's one of those wretched girls that siphons off dances from strippers who might have actually tipped if they'd made money. Tulsa is the equivalent of an intestinal parasite in our dancer stable, stealing nutrients that at some point may have nourished the Floor Staff.
-Lucinda: Serial drunk, part time Hyde. Is so fucking stupid that if she played a game of checkers against herself, both sides would lose. Also really short. She looks kinda like someone left Ronnie James Dio in a dryer too long and he emerged smaller yet amused about it. And in a pink bikini.
-Wysteria: Fragile, demented, alcoholic, emaciated white girl trapped in a black girl's body.*2 Always wasted, but denies it. Non-Tipper but frequently loses money which we find and don't return whence we establish it's hers.
-Scirocco: Lifetime Achievement Award Recipient for Non-Tipping. Has never been caught tipping and never will. Current owner of the 39th Ugliest Tits I have ever seen, which is saying something. Seems to be still growing taller and stronger into her 30's. Odd.
Which leads me to:
Simple clues that a patron may be too intoxicated to be allowed entry into the club.
I've included this helpful section for the sole hope that it may lead, even once, to me not having to explain to someone why they are too drunk to come into the club. The ultimate lesson to be learned here is that a seasoned drunk, who's not a total dick when he's hammered, will not only accept a Door Guy's decision not to allow him into the club, but will actually respect it.
"Well spotted, lad. Yes I AM a shitfaced mongrel, ill advisedly seeking more booze because it seems like a great idea. And I believe you when you say it's time to call it a night. Not only are you fucking big, you are wise."
*fist bump*
-Among the very first obvious clues is the ability/inability to walk. Many really drunk people have a rough time with balance while performing simple motor functions. I am one of them, so I should know. When someone rolls up to the door supported on one or more sides by a friend(s), they aren't coming in.
I've watched people literally crawl up to the door, somehow so drunk they thought I'd let them in. Not even kidding.
-Another is having barf all over your shirt. This is almost always a dead giveaway because if you were sober enough to enter the club and that was really "a friend's" vomit splashed across your torso, then you would've changed clothes or made some effort to clean it off at least. That fact that you're sporting it with zero awareness that it's even there tells us you're housed, mate.
How can you not smell it?
-Reiterative speech is another huge clue. You explain/ask the same fucking thing over and over and no matter how carefully slow and using really small words we tell you the same goddamn thing, no amount of repeating ourselves gets through your booze-fucked brain.
It's like you don't even hear us. Or believe for some reason that asking why you're not allowed in fifteen times will magically result in us allowing you in the sixteenth time you plead your case.
At this point I'd like to add in a comment that very well could've been a footnote, but I felt was worth mentioning in regards to my perspective on this topic.
I have never waited in a line to get into a bar or restaurant because I refuse to do so. There are plenty of other places I can go and there is no food, drink or product that I'm willing to stand in line for like a steer waiting to be branded. I don't do standing in lines. Even when I still liked going out to bars, before two decades of the service industry raped and set all that on fire, I still wouldn't stand in line for a bar or club.
The reason being that if you're the kind of person who will stand in line just to get into someplace that's going to overcharge you for everything, then you're a type of person I wouldn't want to hang out with in the first place.
Fucking sheep.
Just wanted to address that to all the ovines I see standing in lines a hundred yards long to get into some shitty nightclub. God bless ya, bah-bah.
Lastly I'm gonna close with the subject of closing. As in the end of business hours. To my knowledge and experience, there is no industry outside of the hospitality sector where "we're closed" doesn't seem to register with some people. They feel as if somehow we should just continue to accommodate them until they feel they're ready to leave even if they're not spending any money.
The vast majority of patrons who come to the club late are people who don't really care if they're at a strip club or otherwise, they just don't want to go home yet, as customers they are completely worthless.
And not only are the shitbags already in the club at closing time always a lingering problem, the amount of people trying to still come into the club after we're closed is fucking astounding.
This shit doesn't fly at banks, law offices, fast food restaurants, government offices, retail shops, oil change garages, airports, home improvement centers, cinemas or the vast fucking majority of other businesses as well. When they're closed, they're closed and no amount of drunk pleading will change that. So why would it at a place that serves booze or titty or both?
But bars and clubs? Totally different world, kiddo. People ask ALL THE TIME after the doors are locked and the lights are on*3 if they can come in. They promise they're going to spend money. Then when I quote them how much it will take, up front, for me to let them in based on how many people in their party, they inevitably decline or demand illegal extras we can't do, like after hours bottle service. Those days are long gone I inform them, 'gone the way of the smilodon, me bairns" which none of them has ever understood.
Turns out they weren't able to ball on even a pathetic, 10th rate Town scale. Mouths' writing promissory notes their wallets' can't cover and so forth.
Assholes. Amateur assholes.
Only a disorganized, spontaneous group of drinkers would ever dream of going out without a backup/post-last-call plan. How hard is it to imagine a scenario when you all may want to continue partying after the clubs close? Like, has that never happened to you before? Then God bless ya, teatotaller or early crasher....
But if it has happened to you more than once and you still haven't developed the keen sense of designating a Plan B location properly stocked with shit to drink, then you remain in the Pee-Wees, laddy. That scenario happened to me exactly three times, two of which were my fault and the other a wuss-out on a promised hang out spot.
But that was all before I was legally allowed to drink or purchase booze. After turning 21 this has never happened because it's astonishingly easy to plan for once you're able to acquire alcohol legally.
You fucking amateurs.
Bah.
A Tongue In The Bush Is Worth Two In The Hand,
-The StripperHerder
*1 Some of my more sharp eyed readers may come to the conclusion that it's fucking June and that me writing about strippers driving poorly in snowy conditions may seem a bit out of place. But it's not. Don't question it. Move onto the next paragraph, gentle reader. Forget what you've read here....
All is well.
*2 Her words, not mine. Step away from the keyboard slowly.....
*3 The strip club being the opposite of all other business in the fact that when the real lights are on inside, we're closed.
