A Person With Only 6 Teeth Left Should Be Extra Concerned With Their Remaining Teeth's Well Being. Or, Just Because You're A Methed Out Stripper Doesn't Mean You Can't Act Like A Blithering Cunt.

                               



                    Common Courtesies







  I am a man driven by the simple ethos that you treat people the way you would like to be treated, until they give you a reason to treat them differently, of course. It's simple things I'm talking about here, nothing grand or far reaching.

  Turn signals and the proper use thereof for example, make everyone's life just a tiny bit easier when they're on the road. Holding a door open for someone. Simple, everyday courtesies can make the difference between a horrible day and merely a crappy one. If we all took the care to extend to a stranger the niceties you would show to a friend, things that take virtually no extra effort, the world would become, by tiny degrees, a better place to live in.

  Take Abraham, the Disc Jewky at our club. I've been sweeping the carefully placed toilet paper he uses to cover the seat at work into the bowl and flushing it for him for over a year now. 5 days a week for over a year. Why? Because as the first night shift Floor Twat to go in most days, I run around and do all the sweeping and restocking that the day shift guy couldn't be bothered to do even though he has NOTHING whatsoever to do all day.

  It's an inconsequential thing, sweeping ass touched toilet paper into the john using the end of a broom. It doesn't cost me much effort and only takes me 3-5 seconds. It didn't really bother me the first day and it really didn't bother me the second day or the tenth for that matter. But by the hundredth day I kept thinking to myself "If I was an emotionally stunted germophobe who actually gained some sort of comfort from the useless gesture of covering a public toilet seat with tissue paper, would I consistently leave my security barrier there, every day, for some poor bastard to push into the toilet for me, or would I just nudge it in there myself since it's my ass and there can't possibly be anything living on my ass that I could catch from the TP that was shielding it?"

  The answer, in my case, is that if I was delusional enough to think that a layer of toilet paper could protect my derriere from some perceived threat inherent in public toilet seats, I would indeed push it into the toilet myself when I was done for the simple fact that other people shouldn't have to do it for me.

  Don't get me started on germophobes in the first place. I figure their lives are already enough of a hell due to their irrational fears and nonsensical rituals they use to get by every day and certainly don't need me heaping more scorn upon them.

  Before I move on I would like to point out that there has never been, since we started keeping track of these things, a confirmed case of anyone catching anything from a toilet seat. Seriously, check it out. You can't find one.*1




  All this leads me to Roscoe P. Colbrain, our tiny, dentically challenged cook. Now I don't have much good to say about Roscoe in the first place. He's somewhat competent in the kitchen provided he doesn't get more than 4 orders at once. He is certainly possessed of the over inflated pride in his culinary skills that most would be chefs have and professes to take great pride in his work. His crowning achievements at this club were to get his signature burger placed on the menu*2 and to wrap vegetables in bacon and deep fry them and call them appetizers.*3



  In truth Roscoe is lazy, shoddy in his skills and ignorant of even the most basic fundamentals of culinary craft. He's a proven idiot who can't even drive himself to work like a normal adult American. He recently jizzed in an ugly girl he hates and now has a child with her which he has to support on his $10/hr paycheck.


  He also enjoys rap music.


  Roscoe has a problem similar to Abraham the Disc Jewky except Roscoe likes to leave his mop water in the bucket after he's finished mopping the kitchen, where it remains until I go to use it the following night and have to fucking empty the scummy, nasty water out before I can go about my nightly mopping rounds.

  Once again this didn't annoy me the first time, nor even the tenth time I had to do it. I just said to myself 'fucking asshole...' and got on with it.

  But since by the end of tonight I was feeling a bit frayed, finding last night's mop water waiting for me to empty it was like finding a fresh ring of Abe's ass paper.

  I took exception to it.

  I told the Manager, Sir Invariably Polenta IX that he needs to inform the cooks that emptying the mop bucket at the end of their shift is an essential component of them not getting their ass kicked by an enraged bear of a Floor Beast. I told him in particular to convey this to Roscoe, who doesn't have a lot of teeth left to lose and certainly doesn't need my fist abbreviating their already doomed existence.

  If I have to explain it to the kitchen staff I will not take great pains to make it pleasant for them. If I were armed with a 10 lb leg of lamb, I would feel confident going into combat against the entire cook staff armed with whatever kitchen utensils they saw fit to grab. I may need a few stitches when the dust cleared, but they would need necromancers.

  Then I would bread them and feed them to drunk strippers as 'pork bites'. Strippers will eat anything if it comes with enough ranch dressing.




  So in summary, be nice until someone gives you a reason not to be nice. If something is your responsibility, like a toilet paper life preserver one must create to poop in an alien environment or last night's downtrodden mop water, take care of it yourself. Grow the fuck up, look up 'empathy' in the dictionary and try to put it into the context of your life and properly use your goddamn turn signals.

               Mother Helen says "Be nice to each other or I will deliver the Death Palm to your femoral arteries."





Monaco the tweaked-out whorebag.



  Monaco is a tweaked out, bony, flappy stripper who regularly ingests enough methamphetamine to kill seven outlaw bikers. She is roughly as smart as an ermine, but doesn't nearly have as luxurious a pelt nor the charming demeanor of said mustelid.

  The Floor Axis hates her. She's mucks up the ecosystem with her tawdry whoooooriness. Tweakheads are unpredictable, misbegotten auto collisions*4 who only exist to plague the lives of Floor Apes and MisManagers everywhere. They are our penance for previous lives of misdeed and abuse of power, I am sure of it.


  I'm only mentioning her here because she's sorta in the title to this edition.






  What I'd really like to talk about now is my current computer chair dilemma. Yes, I have a computer chair problem which is vexing me.

  Confused? I don't blame you. Let me elucidate.



  You see I am a gigantic, shamelessly heavy brontosapien. Normal, commercial desk chairs don't work for me very long. They are not forgiving of my gravitational pull. They, with startling regularity, suddenly bend at a 45 degree angle and dump me on the floor.





  I am the Death of Chairs.




  So in desperation I bought a 50's era Swivel Stool With Optional Useless Back Support Illusion. It was designed by a man named A. Shugguroth for use against clerks and accountants and anyone else that was required to sit more than 15 minutes at a time. It is built to withstand a small but determined Apocalypse and can quite easily cope with my ponderous largeness.*5

   

                                     Strong enough to support most known species of Lummox.






  This hideous, tank-proof Chair is quite comfortable for roughly 5 minutes, which is how long I sat in it at the antique store I bought it at. After that a variety of painful symptoms develop and they sharply intensify the longer you sit in The Chair. I firmly believe that this Chair was crafted in an odd-numbered Circle of Hell and is most certainly powered by the souls of dead children. I am sure that if I went looking for this antique shop again, it wouldn't be there anymore and no one in the area can remember an antique shop ever being there.

  Lest you think I exaggerate, let me give you a painstakingly recorded transcript of an experiment I ran last week where I subjected myself to The Chair for 27 minutes straight and took notes on the experience.

  Don't try this at home, I am a professional Lummox and am built to survive dicey encounters with demon-wrought furniture. Even so I only write this after a lengthy recovery period.


  Reader Discretion Advised.




1 Minute in Chair: It's sturdy and comfortable, but I wish I could lean back without cracking my spine in half or falling onto my back.


3 Minutes in Chair: This will definitely not shatter under my mighty buttocks. I can't believe it only cost $25! Sure it lacks in lumbar support but that will just encourage me to sit with better posture.


5 Minutes in Chair: It could be worse and it only cost $25.



8 Minutes in Chair: Strange, but I can't feel my balls anymore and my taint is just a distant, icy memory. Wasn't this damn chair comfortable just a second ago? Am I going crazy?



11 Minutes in Chair: For shit's sake who made this fucking thing? How can numbness burn like napalm and what the hell is compressing my tailbone like a drop forge?



14 Minutes in Chair: Dear God, it hurts! IT HURTSSSS! Legs feel like firey dead things....won't respond. Thoughts shredded with suffering...can't think way out of Chair...



15 Minutes in Chair: Pass out from the excruciating pain. Sweet, blessed unconsciousness...



19 Minutes in Chair: Awake screaming to find the mewling, piss stained remnant of a man that lives in The Chair is me. Helpless and very afraid. I am going to die in this Chair.



22 Minutes in Chair: Ready to admit that I killed Christ for the mercy of death. Willing to admit to any crime, any unthinkable atrocity to just make the agony go away. I have purchased Chairthulu and it will wrench my soul from my pooper.



25 Minutes in Chair: Gibbering with pain induced hallucinations of the Spanish Inquisition. I smell burning flesh and rotted leather. I confess to being a Jew, a Cathar, a Muslim but the misery won't stop. My vision goes black I can hear a Vast Slithering as I pray for devourment.



27 Minutes in Chair: Death convulsions hurl me out of The Chair and into the refrigerator where as fortune would have it the freezer pops open and a bottle of Ketel One pours into my open, concussed mouth, revitalizing me on the brink of my extinction. I was super lucky.

                                      Obey The Chair. All hail The Chair. The Chair loves us.




  Sigh, guess I'm gonna have to spend some stripperherding money, or become paralyzed and have my soul eaten by something with tentacles from the Netherworld.





Long Live The Chair,
-The StripperHerder














*1 I'm not saying that I don't wipe a seat off before I use it. Dudes are notorious for pissing all over toilet seats that they were too lazy or inconsiderate to put up before they cut loose. Since I don't relish the idea of sitting on some other guy's dried urine, I generally wipe the seat off first. But I am under no illusions that this will do anything at all to eradicate lurking germs and bacteria, nor do I ever think about contracting a disease from a public crapper because I'm not a fear ridden fuckdrivel.



*2 Your basic Black n Bleu burger except his has grilled red pepper and comes on ciabatta bread. Wow.



*3 As if this is original, creative, innovative or he knew how to spell any of these words.



*4 Like a Trainwreck but a little bit quieter and more localized.



*5 And this is just a guess mind you, since I can't seem to find a scale that goes over 300 lbs, but I'd be willing to bet that I'm around 350-370 lbs right at this moment. Chairs hate me.

The Floor Guy Diplomacy Quiz. Or, Another Argument For Tipping.

  Dry your tears my Herderites, I'm back. I feel very, very sorry that I haven't been providing the Plight that so many of you rely on to get through the day. You have my sincere apologies and my promise to try and do better.

  What's been going on you ask?

  Well, let's see. My business partners fucked me over pretty good. Not in a crime-of-opportunity sorta way, but rather in a cold, calculated from-day-one sorta way. So the past 2 years of my life, including all the 70-120 hour work weeks have all been wasted. I basically built a business for them including customer base and distribution and all I got out of it was an assfucking that didn't include a free dinner first.

  I wish I could go into more detail, but there may very well be some litigation involved with this, so an explanation will have to wait for the wheels of justice to crush someone.


  Other than that I'm making very slow progress on a script that if it gets made into a movie, will be the funniest movie ever made. So if you're still alive in 30 years or so, look for it in a theater near you.


  OK, enough small talk. Let's get to the topic at hand which is Floor Guy diplomacy. The tenets of the following quiz actually apply to any industry where one is forced to interact with other humans in order to hack a living from the wilderness of life. I put my unique spin to some of the things I encounter within the titty club ecosphere, but elsewise it could be applicable to any number of other jobs as well.


  It's very simple. I'll provide a statement or question that I've run into at my job recently and a list of possible replies. You decide which was the correct response and I'll provide a list of answers at the bottom and we can all see how well we did.

  Ready?


  Then let's do it.





    The StripperHerder Diplomacy Test Version 1.0





1)  "I'm just not doing very well here anymore. Is it me?"


A) Yes, you're still ugly.

B) No, it's the customers, they've all sucked lately.

C) Everything's going to be fine after you get the face and body transplant and those personality injections.

D) Maybe you should ask that of someone who gives a shit.




2) "How does my outfit look?" (fishnet body stocking)

A) Like someone dragged up something long dead in a trawling net, gave it enough of a speech ability to be annoying and forced it to ask me stupid questions.

B) Kinda like a butterfly net full of random, bleached organs.

C) Fantastic. Don't change a thing.

D) Excellent, the crosshatchings of the fishnet really trick the eye into not seeing the 'hell awaits' written in stretch marks across the remains of your titties.



3) "Hey buddy! How you doin?" (People who frequent the club always like to think you're their friend, even when they've never tipped you a dime or done anything whatsoever to assist you in your quest to make a living, or are in fact, a scumbag.)

A) Just great, brother! How you been?*1

B) I've been secretly hoping that you had a previously undiagnosed and utterly hostile alien parasite living in your upper bowel region and that it would choose this exact moment to rend it's way out of your intestinal tract. That way you would stop talking to me.

C) I'm awesome dude because I realize not matter how mediocre and meaningless my life is, I'm still not you!

D) I'm morose. Give me money or I'll hit you with a table.




4) "What's Dewar's?" (I understand if you're new at something, you've got a lot learn and usually have to do it on the job. But really, come on. Learn your shit already. I had a waitress pose this question to me tonight when she asked me what 'deuce' was because someone had ordered a 'deuce and coke'. I told her they probably said 'Dewar's but that she should go and check with the customer. I was right and completely failed to point out to her that to my knowledge there isn't a booze called 'Deuce' and even if there is we certainly don't carry it and that I know this in spite of the fact that my job doesn't require me to take drink orders.)


A) Its a highly toxic aminac acid that instantly dissolves all living tissue it comes in contact with and can only be consumed by demons, intra-dimensional creatures of a diabolic persuasion and Bulgarians.

B) It's a blended scotch made from rejected barrels of various distilleries that are thrown together in an attempt to make them taste better and whose name recognition is mostly linked to the era before single malts ruled the roost. Understand?

  Sigh. It's scotch, honey. From Scotland.


C) Its a codeword for methamphetamine so if someone asked you for a Dewars and coke he meant he wants to speedball with you and possibly kill you in a tweak induce hallucinogenic rage. Or he just has terrible taste in drinks, one of the two.

D) It's an amazing costly premium cognac, but for some obscure reason many hipsters refer to it as 'Dewars', or 'Dewies'. So when you order the drink, tell the bartender they want a Louis and coke, that way she'll understand what you want.





5) "OMG! I lost something that is important to me! Help me find it, now!" (I'm usually fairly wiling to help a girl find something she drunkenly left behind because she's an absent minded stripper, even when they're not great tippers or have an unpleasant disposition/odor. But this one girl tonight has never, to my knowledge, given any of the Floor Serfs a single dime and ergo I felt not the slightest urge to help make her problem go away. 
                  She herself was very concerned with the whereabouts of her handbag thingy, so I suspect it's where she kept her coke.)


A) Holy Sweet Burning Baby Jesus! Fuck everything else I have to do, let's find your mislaid property! I will fucking slay another human being with my bare hands if they attempt to delay me finding your Lost Stripper Pouch of WhoreStuff!

B) I will help you find your drug purse if it will make you go away faster. You smell like an ashtray smeared with vanilla frosting that had jizz and tequila spilled in it.


C) Oh. Gosh. No way. Let me help you....oh wait. There's something coming through on my headset. I gotta go.*2


D) You are a delightful person to be around. Since I am paid hourly, I'll be glad to help you recover your casually forgotten property.




6) I have breath like an open mass grave and I choose or my own free will to sit right next to you and chat about innane bullshit even though you're clearly disinterested and seem to be appalled by some aspect of me. (We have a relatively new waitress and someday I'll remember her name if she lasts long enough. I've never really had the privilege of conversing with her before, but tonight we were kinda slow and the mellow manager, Sir Runs Loosely-Whatever, was on duty so I had the rare opportunity to sit down for much of a shift. Much to my everlasting joy she takes the seat right across from me and proceeds to blast me with some benign chatter bourne on the winds of pestilence and bereavement. 
                                 This girl, although extremely blond and cute, has the breath of a dying whale or a stump-toothed coprophiliac blowing bubbles at you.


A) Do me a favor and close The Gates To Hell. Now walk away and gargle some holy water then see a certified gastroenterologist and/or stop eating dead animal assholes.


B) I know for a fact that you're not going to understand what I'm saying which is why I'm going to say it right before I respond to some random emergency that's coming through on my headset: When you opened your mouth I thought to myself "This is what the guy standing right next to Pandora smelled when she opened that fucking jar."*3


C) Darlin don't take this wrong, but you could use a breath mint.


D) Your breath smells like a poorly appointed refugee camp. I am appalled.




7) I choose skanks! (This wasn't really a statement made to me tonight and in fact, is something I've never heard spoken. But I do witness it every night, guys ordering dog food when prime steak is available at the same price. Why would you pay for a dance from a wretched skank when you can get a hot chick who'll give just as dirty a dance for the same amount? Hell if I know...
                                                But occasionally, if I've been a good StripperHerder, some guy passing me on his way to the dance room being towed by just such a skank will leer at me and ask something along the lines of "Dude! How lucky am I?" Or, "Bro, how hot is this bitch, eh?" These are the statements I'm addressing in this next series of possible answers.


A) She's like Deep South trailer park hot, dude, you're just drunk and stupid. If her ancestors hadn't fucked each other exclusively for the past 5 generations, she might be OK, but they did and then the whole family developed hare lips and generational drug habits.

B) Bro, good choice! I can see you a dude of excellent taste and demanding standards. You're accustomed to the best things money (or crack) can buy and those benchmarks in class and sophistication show through in every decision you make! Well done, man.


C) STAND STILL DUDE, I'LL GET IT OFF YOU! Wait...what? Oh, that's the dancer you chose. From our entire available talent pool...My bad. Enjoy your dance.


D) Wow. Go on dude. You gots you a hottie, fo sho. I feel envy.







  I was going to do 10 questions but then I decided not to. I still have to address the second part of the title which is, if I'm not very much mistaken...







           Another Argument For Tipping






  Suppose, for the sake of argument, that you're a lowlife, drug dealing scumbag. I know you're not, fine reader, but just pretend for a moment that you are. Your livelihood is predicated upon a chosen trade, and a fickle one at that. But all that is a facade, your true income derives from slinging a variety of pills, coke and heroin to strippers and various other drunk entities.

  Even though you're pretty discreet and haven't been caught doing deals in the club, your secret is known to the Floor Scrubs and the local police as well. The local police that we know and who actually work at the club on weekends. The very same local police that you were filming while they were drinking bottled water at our club, letting them know that you're a prominent citizen and were recording their misdeeds as if they were doing something wrong.

  Now suppose you needed some special service only us Floor Guys can provide, something like bottle service, a champagne room or some club funny money. You decide to spend $595 on a bottle of French garbage and further decide that you didn't need to tip the Floor Scrub who made all that happen for you. Not a dime, just a heartfelt thanks.

  I tried to pay my electric bill last month with heartfelt thanks and was embarrassed to find they don't accept it.



  Now you can stop imagining that you're an asshole drug dealer. Now put yourself in my shoes. They're really big, so be careful walking around.

  The cops were understandably unhappy with the scumbag's actions, taunting them for no reason as they sipped water in an establishment that lays within their district. I was willing to help them because:

A) This guys sells shit that kills people. He's not a happy-go-lucky pot dealer who can bring you a dimebag upon request. He sells junk and shit that leads to junk to young, stupid girls who have expendable income and/or vaginas for lease.

B) The motherfucker can't be bothered to pay the Watchmen's tax, i.e. money for us to look the other way as he does what he does.


  So the dumb prick happened to get randomly stopped last night shortly after leaving the club and got charged with an interesting array of offenses which will keep his lawyer very busy and well paid for quite some time.

  That probably could've been avoided if he'd just played by the rules. If I had been busy making money, I wouldn't have had the time to notice when he left the club. It's best to keep the Floor Orcs busy making money whenever possible.




Viva La Booze,
-The StripperHerder










Answers to Quiz: 1) B,
                           2)C
                           3) A
                           4) Noah's Ark
                           5) 36.34 Centimeters
                           6) C
                           7) The Battle of Hastings, 1066 AD















*1 This is usually followed by me pretending to hear something in my earpiece and pretending to reply and then pretending there's something I have to go and do.



*2 It works with strippers too.



*3 It was originally a jar, not a box. I'm going to quietly assume you already knew that, learned reader.

If You Look Up You Can See God's Steamy Droppings Heading Toward Your Face. Or, Slicker Than An Altoona Slut-Wrangler

  I like the title to this one. It has little or nothing to do with the actual content of this installment, which I don't even know yet either.

  I'm just winging it.


  Let me start by throwing a couple of hearty fuck-you's out to some very special people:


  Our Cook Staff- Holy shit, I've never met a bigger group of fucking losers and misfits in my fucking life. We have 5 cooks and NONE of them can drive themselves to work. Only one of them actually owns a car but his wife has to drop him off and pick him up and all of them are well into their twenties if not thirties. Normally a group of mistfits are 'lovable' or 'mischievious'. Ours are 'repugnant' and 'untalented'.

  The Bestowers of Bowel Discomfort. The Fathers of Feces ala Frantic. The Lords of the Funky-Trot.

  I'll cut Bobby G some slack because he lives within easy walking distance of work. The others? Jesus Christ, become an adult, man. Put down the rap CD's and weed, quit making children you can't afford and fucking man up.

  I've had a car since I was 16 because I needed one to get to work. I paid for them, I insured them and, frequently, I wrecked them. But I always got another one because if I didn't, I couldn't work. Yet these guys rely on buses and the sympathy of others to commute.

  They are small time criminals who weren't smart enough to get away with it. People with no front teeth and sweet neck tattoos. I have more talent in a puddle of my semen than these guys have in their every fiber.

  Every tiny little fiber.


  One of them who I'll refer to as Roscoe P. Colontrain, is diminutive. If he weighs 125, I'll eat this computer right now with absolutely no sauce. Yet surprisingly enough he tells me that he and his 'crew' used to beat people up for a local club, the owner of which I happen to be good friends with.

A) The owner of this club has never had anyone 'beat up' in his entire life. And

B) The 'crew' is too small to beat anyone up. Just too little. Like angry meth snorting 11 year olds.

  So there was so much wrong with what Roscoe was saying to me that I couldn't even come up with a response. For once, I was flabbergasted. Since that time I have met two other member of BJ's 'crew' and they might, if you tied them together in their winter coats, weigh as much as me. It would probably be riskier to take on 10 five year olds because there are 10 of them.


  So unbelievably pathetic....





  Enema and Nono: You girls are twats. Seriously. Sure you're all hot and shit, dirtier than a colostomy bag too, but you flout Floor Guy tolerance and HAVE NO CLASS. You make very good money at our club and we look away as you whore and do drugs in our bathroom and what do we get in return? A combined $15 tip off $1700 earned?

  And listen to this shit:

  I walked these two girls out. They had already proven themselves lousy tippers, but I figured this was a chance to prove once and for all if they could be better. The weather was horrible and it was driving down snow. Their windows were covered in snow and ice and because they are strippers, they didn't have a snow brush.

  So I just scraped the snow and ice away with my bare fucking hands, (because I was too cheap and stupid to buy gloves this year), thinking that it might occur to them that it's 10 degrees out and I'm cleaning their car with my god given mitts; give that man some extra dough as a way of saying thanks.

  Nope. One of them rolled down the window and said "Thanks!" and then they sat there and waited for their drug dealer for another half an hour.


  When will I learn that some souls are beyond redemption?




  The Saint: Oh great, you're back. Sweet. I often wonder if you realize that with all of your ink and from any distance greater than 15 feet it looks like a dull witted child scrawled on you with a sharpie. I can't wait for you to generate some more pointless, drunken drama and to cry some more. Your tears are always endearing to me.

  I am more or less openly hoping that you and Quim get into a stiletto fight in the girl's bathroom and that I am too late to save either of your lives. The world will mourn with me.



  Drunk People: I love it so much when I know everyone and we're all drunk together. But Dear Sweet Baby Jesus I hate drunk people when I'm working. It's a deep, comforting hatred that I wear like an old sweater.


  No, I really, really hate them. I can't explain the depths of my hatred, it's like a seething, boiling cauldron of bile and venom that you make human soup in. Butchering them should be legal, in season of course and with proper licensing.

  I rely on them for my living yet I despise them. Kinda like how whales feel about plankton.





  My Limo Bus: Fuck you, you cantankerous, poorly built piece of engineering feces. Not even 25K miles yet and you've been in the shop more often than a '75 Harley. Nothing works on you for very long. The electronics, the exhaust, the controls, the audio, the wipers, the fuel tank, the seats, the windows, etc etc.

  Everything about you is shit. It's like you were designed by Indians, styled by the Russians and built by gourd-wearing Pygmys in forced labor camps. I hate you as much as I hate a drunk person and I hope I'm helping to kill you off by driving you like you're a Ferrari.



  The Town: OH HOW I TRULY HATE YOU. It's like this whole town has a neck tattoo that says "Increasingly Shitty And Proud Of It. Come at me bro!"  This town dresses in Affliction shirts and rhinestoned jeans that hang around the upper thigh, sporting glasses it doesn't need. Ghetto-nerd chic bullshit.

  With beards. Faggot ass beards.






   Whee-hoo! I'm back with additional material that will suck just as much if not more than the original shite I scribed for this installment.

 I would like to point out right at the onset of this bonus drek that I had 9 shots of free vodka and 4 beers before I even left work tonight. I then took the remaining 10 or so shots of vodka and stopped for a 6 pack on the way home and am proceeding to drink myself fucking special needs. Therefore I pre-exonerate myself for whatever I happen to pen here and am not, under any circumstances, to be held responsible for what it turns out to be.


 Because I am an American. We have lawyers.




  


  So St Patty's Day is coming up and I have to work it. I would rather fight an enraged Siberian Tiger while smeared with rodent entrails, but this is my lot in life and I accept it with limited hostility and sullen anger. This Irish holiday is the quite possibly the worst idea a government ever had and frankly, a bad idea on many levels.

  God bless the Irish for their drunken history. Being ancestrally half Irish I applaud my genetic alcoholism and think that amongst the peoples of the world, the Irish are truly blessed. Blessed with myriad reasons to get drunk in the first place, and exceptionally well evolved to handle the booze in the second.

  But even I think that making St Patrick's Day a holiday was a fucking idiotic idea. It's Irish, therefore any association with it will be soaked in liquor and will give otherwise decent and thoughtful people the opportunity to act like apathetic twatsores for as long as they can stay conscious and keep lurching around.

  

  Wear green and be a goddamn, inconsiderate drunk cunt because that's how you celebrate the life of an extremely learned and compassionate man who in very dark times advocated amazingly advanced*1 humanitarian thinking and is almost solely remembered for banishing some reptiles from Ireland which hadn't actually existed there for millions of years.

  


  That was a really big sentence. I'm prone to the use of both annoyingly short and verbosely enlongated  sentences in my so called 'writing style'. 


  I just wanted to point that out in case you'd missed it.






  Anyway, I'm happily drunk right now, yet typing surprisingly good in spite of that.




  I'm now going to continue work on 'The Creeper' which is actually Iron Maiden's song The Trooper with lyrics depicting the behavior of a certain Strip Club Ecosystem denizen known as a Creeper.


  Your average Mid-American Tit-Shack Creeper*2 tends to frequent clubs from 2 to 7 days a week, but never has any money to spend. It will ogle all available titty and sometimes touch it's naughties in inappropriate ways while staring at exposed nipple and suggested labia. It is classified as a parasite yet is 100% nonsymbiotic. It just feeds and feeds and never gives anything back save the occasional dollar.


  It should be neutered and euthanized whenever possible. 


  Here's the original song in case you're unfamiliar with it. I strongly encourage you to sing along with it using my new and improved lyrics.

  Have some fun with it.



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TY-eWyvFIM





              

              The Creeper



You take my buck and I grab your tit
You want a dance but I'll pass on it
So while I'm waiting for the next stage show
I get asked some more but still say no


Rihanna starts a bitch gyrates
I'll save my money then I'll masturbate
The smell of body gel and chilled patron
As I worry at my turgid bone


OH OH OH OH OH OH OH OH
OH OH OH OH OH OH OH OH


The girl sweats out meth, I can't spare a buck
C-section scar? I don't give a fuck
She may have 5 brats but I don't care
She wants some dollars I cannot spare


I buy a water it's what I afford
Staring at free titties I'm never bored
I can't wait til I'm far away
To crank my wang til its fucking gray


OH OH OH OH OH OH OH OH
OH OH OH OH OH OH OH OH


I get so close near enough to grope
When a Floor Guy gets me in his scope
He grabs my throat and I feel his paws
Other Floor Guys beat up my in-laws


I'm on my back facing the ceiling
My legs are numb they have no feeling
My jaw is broke and I can't seem to talk
Then I'm tossed like trash onto the sidewalk



OH OH OH OH OH OH OH OH
OH OH OH OH OH OH OH OH









  








  Keepin my eye on the prize,
-The StripperHerder










*1 This triple shot of alliteration is on the house. The next one will cost you.



*2 Although native to the lower end of the titty club business, the Mid American Tit-Shack Creeper is not above migrating to new clubs that are even less affordable than the ones it normally haunts. And though this makes no sense, it does it anyway.

  

Unhappy Strippers And Wounded Mules: The Startling Similarities. Or, Let Me Fix You A Nice Hot Cup Of Shit Your Bitch Mouth Up.

  Stripperherding isn't for everyone. It's a job that requires almost godlike patience, an iron stomach and the ability to ignore things like morals, right and wrong and dignity. That being said you can make a decent living if you're willing and able to relenquish all hope of feeling good about your occupation and just grab cash.

  See, strippers don't think like the rest of us, they have a celebrity mentality. Men fawn over them and hand over their money and tell them how hot they are all the time. Many of them have never had to work a real job where you're not allowed to drink, smoke pot and snort coke on the job and get paid a lot to do it. In fact if it weren't for strip clubs, most of these girls would die at an early age hustling on the streets because they are incapable of handling a real job or managing their money.

  So when things don't go their way, some of them bray like a mule that took a spear in its flank. Loudly and without concern for anyone around them. They are not happy and as a consequence they will do their best to make sure no one within earshot of them is happy either. Unless listening to a bitch in a thong loudly complaining about making more money than she deserves is something you enjoy that is.

  Let me enlighten you as to what brought this to the forefront of my thoughts...


  The other night I was just doing the usual for a slow night; envisioning creative ways to kill myself in an effort to make time go faster and avoiding wandering strippers for fear they might try to converse with me. Suddenly a dude comes in who has money and everything changes.

  To spare you the onerous details, this guy goes into a champagne room with his driver and two of our dancers for an hour. This sets him back about a grand and he orders an insanely overpriced bottle of fizzshit*1 on top of that so he's in for roughly $1700 at this point.

  Well not 10 minutes go by and he steps out of the room and motions me over. I head over and ask him what he needs. He asks if he can swap out one of the dancers for a dirtier one.*2 I tell him no problem but I can't transfer the money from one skank to another, nor can I refund the money. If he wants a new dancer in the room he has to pony up the dough for that new broad.

  Whatever, he says, he did after all have a black card and could certainly afford any number of bitches he chose to pay for.

  So I pull the rejected stripper aside and tell her that the customer wants her out, but on the plus side she just made $300 for less than 10 minutes of her time and to count this as a victory, not a setback.






  Ahem, she didn't see it that way. That's putting it mildly. Insert wounded mules sound track here...

      Fast forward to the 40 sec mark to see a great analogy of the stripper complaining to me. Notice around 47                                                  seconds when I momentarily contemplate smacking the bitch but decide not to.





  She keeps complaining for the rest of the evening and I couldn't help wondering why. I would certainly like to make $300 for 10 minutes of my time, what's the big deal? Well it turns out that this guy was telling everyone he was going to spend $6000 that night and she thought he was telling the truth and ergo, she was going to miss out on it.

  Hahaha, I laughed. In my entire 15 years in the titty business, only one guy I can remember ever spent what he said he was going to spend at the club. With that one exception in mind I can tell you that if someone says they're going to spend x amount of dollars in the club they are, in fact, lying. It never happens. Indeed it is a signal that they are not really going to spend money at all, but merely waste everyone's time and that they are, realistically, worth less than a bucket of monkey spunk.


  And I was right of course. The guy ended up getting another 15 minute room with the girls and in actuality spent another $400, not $6000.

  



  I hate being right all the time.




  This didn't stop the mule from crying. She squealed out her anger continuously for the next 45 minutes and then thankfully went to the dressing room to sulk and count her money. And to anyone who may think I'm being unfair here, this particular stripper wasn't exactly broke. She'd already done 4 rooms that night and had a bit over $600 in her garter for her efforts.

  So, you know, fuck her and stuff.





  Another high point of my night was Catastrophe, an admittedly hot stripper who just happened to be really drunk. Shocking, I know. She was so drunk she actually admitted she was drunk, which is pretty fucking drunk.

  Anyway the other Floor Schlep had marked down her house fees incorrectly and she let me know in no uncertain terms that it was wrong. No problem, I fixed it. Other than that she had done 3 dances that night and had only paid for 2 of them so far. So her adjusted pay out at the end of the night was $35, not $55.


  

  Reinsert braying soundtrack here.




  It went something like this:




  Her: "I paid for all my dances already, why are you guys always trying to fuck me over?"

  Me: "We're not. We rely on you dancers for tips so why would we try to over charge you for dances and fuck up our chances of getting some money from you?"

  Her: "I told you I paid for all my dances, quit being an asshole."

  Me: "Is it possible that since you're drunk and I'm sober that maybe I'm right about counting to three and you're not?"

  Her: "I tip you guys good when I make money and you're always trying to fuck me over."

  Me: "I assure you that you're mistaken and to prove it and get you the fuck out of my face before I have to do something debilitating, I'm going to pay for your dance out of my own pocket."

  Her: "No, fuck that. How much do I owe you?"

  Me: "$35."

  Her: "I told you my house fee was marked down wrong, what do I really owe you?"

  Me: "Yes, it was. And I told you that I have fixed that already so your House Fee PLUS the dance you haven't paid for comes to $35, not $55."

  Her: "But I paid for that dance. I think I would know if I paid for my dances or not, quit charging me for shit I already paid for."*3

  Me: "Fuck it. Here's $10. I'll pay for your 3rd dance out of my money. Don't worry about it, no big deal."




  Replay this conversation about 3 more times and end with her giving me $17 which she thought covered her fees.

  Now picture this nearly every night with a variety of hammered dancers and now you know what the end of the night is like in my industry.


  Dancers are like wasted, bipedal carp. Useless.




Carp on Diem,
-The StripperHerder











*1 Otherwise known as Dom Perignon



*2 He didn't actually say this, but us Floor Mammals are adept at reading between the lines.



*3 I have removed the slurring from this dialogue to make it more comprehensible to the average reader.

  

A Triumverate of Twattarts*. Or Why You Should Pay Up And Walk Away When A Stripper Rips You Off.

*Twat-Tarts. Pronounced twa-dirts. An Old English term for a bandyhoople.








  I really tried to make some sort of clever post here. I had the best of intentions going into it. Honest, I really did.


  But then I started getting drunk, my subject matter got totally kerfuckled, and next thing you know I'm set adrift on a sea of inability to write about something I know very little about. It became a conundrum.

  The subject I had intended to tackle was Strippernomics, possibly featuring a flow chart.


  All this became unobtainable when I realized by doing a bit of poking on the subject of 'economic principles', that all the rules that I memorized from my 7th grade economics class applied to macroeconomics. You know, the big, overall rules; supply and demand and all that.

  The stuff that came up on my web search baffled and frightened me out of trying to do a 'Strippernomics' post. It seemed like real research might rear it's ugly head and I can't condone that, not in this blog.





  So at that point I drank a little bit more vodka and decided to just post mean shit about random strippers that I don't like and it goes something like this.





  Triumph, the ironically named stripper who isn't good at stripping but is awesome at ripping customers off.



  I was having a smoke outside the club when I see this dumb stripper who works here pull into our parking lot and take up the exact middle of two parking spaces with her shitty twatwagon. I waited until she got out of her car and said "Are you really going to park like that? Directly in the middle of two spaces?"

  She got out of her car and went around to the passenger side to see where she had parked in relation to that car. She made a noise like "Meh-eh!" and threw her purse into her car, fired it up and slammed it into reverse and with a mere 68 gear changes and corrections, finally got it into a single parking space.

  I was proud of her and said so, yet she stormed by me claiming I made her 5 minutes late and that she was glad I was happy about it.

  Well shucks, bitch. I nubs you too.



  Fortunately for me, when she got into the club and decided it wasn't busy enough for her to work, she came back out and we had the following conversation:



Dancer: "You're a fucking asshole."


Me: "What about our children?"


Dancer: "You're always an asshole to me. Why? What the fuck did I do to you?"


Me: "You never tip, you have a shitty attitude and you constantly rip off customers forcing me to have to shake them down for money. You're a smelty cunt."


Dancer: "Fuck you, insert my name here. Go suck a cock!"


Me: "I would never deprive you of a post work spuzz-gobble, my dear, I have too much respect for you. Do you kiss your daughter with that jizz breath or do you gargle some Scope first?*1

                                                            Sunrise, another ironically named Stripper.




  And then there was Protrudia


 This girl is just plain gross. She really is, I'm not just being mean. She is visibly unattractive.

  That being said I was talking to another Floor Grunt when I happened to glance in the direction of the stage and it wasn't good timing. Protrudia is laying on her back on the stage with her legs way in the air and it appeared she was smuggling a shar pei puppy in her thong there's so many wrinkles and folds all gnarled up and relishing the open air.

                        If this is what it looks like under your thong, please get a bigger thong.




  Hatchet nose, suborbital ridge like a fucking Klingon and great brown capped udders wallowing about shamelessly. It was a fucking horror show.

  I turned to my Floor Orc companion and said "I 100% honestly wouldn't fuck her if she was the last girl on earth. I'd rather microwave a cantaloupe."

  He said "At least you'd get more flavor out of a cantaloupe."*3


  "Flavor?" I said. "Licking any part of that bitches body would be only marginally better than tongue-cleaning the hot tub in the Detroit Lions locker room. I would rather lick the floor of a Free Clinic."


  I wasn't lying, she's that gross. Lucky for her the only reason she needs to come into the club is to line up johns for her one girl prostitution ring.





  And how about Quim, the world's 3rd angriest lesbian/alcoholic/professional slattern. Quim is ugly, tattooed like a Maori pirate and apparently comes in to work for the sole reason to fight with her girlfriend in someplace besides their apartment. I'm not sure what she does for a living because it certainly isn't stripping, she's too busy running back and forth between the bar and the smoking patio.

  It takes a lot of work being a lazy barfly. I would hazard to guess that on the majority of nights she actually loses money by coming into "work". I know she's not a whore, at least not for men which leads me to believe that she sells drugs to the other dancers or pimps out her tiny, meek girlfriend and then beats her for being a whore.

  If your 'official' weekly income look something like this:

Monday: 6 hours worked, -$38.00 earned

Tuesday: 5 1/2 hours worked, $27 earned

Wednesday: 8 hours worked, -$41 earned

Thursday: 5 hours worked, $60 earned

Friday: 3 hours worked (sent home after fighting with girlfriend) -$35 earned

Saturday: 12 hours worked, $81 earned

Sunday: 6 Hours worked, -$114 earned



  Then something doesn't add up. Maybe she doesn't count handjobs as 'sex with men'.

  I don't know. Fuck her.

                                    "I'm an insane, pussy-craving drunk. You like my girlfriend?"

                         








  Natasha, the junkie Russian rip off artist.


  I thought I had left all this sort of dancer scam bullshit behind at the last club I worked at, but alas it isn't so. Natasha the hot russian junkie is a habitual dance scammer. Heroin doesn't pay for itself, people.

  She takes the total for how many dances she did for a customer and tacks on 2-5 additional dances she didn't actually do and then adds in a tip on top of it. So she'll come out of the dance rooms after 9 minutes and somehow the poor bastard owes her $180 instead of $75.

  It's astounding how many times she pulls this off without the guy arguing. If it was me I'd tell her "You are mistaken, bitch." and give her what I owed her. This is because I'm not stupid enough to fall for her bullshit. If I go back for private dances, I will most certainly count the goddamn dances and I will abso-fucking-lutely not tip her, she already makes $20 for 3 minutes.

  I don't make $20 for 3 minutes and never have.




  Here's a tip for those of you who are stupid, cheap or bent on getting something for nothing:




  As security (at least in this state) we can't put our hands on you without provocation, or so reads the letter of the law. In reality the spirit of the law is a little less clear, as in most of the time bouncers can drag you out of the club after they've informed you that you need to go and as long as you're not injured or killed in the process, the law generally falls on our side.*4

  But the fact is we can't physically restrain you from leaving the club if a dance tab is in dispute and you're not being aggressive or assaulty. We can't put our hands on you, period.

  Yet we do and we get away with it.



  Ha-ha.



  I'm not sure what the advice is except to try to get your fucking ass kicked by a club's security and then sue them for big cash, being reasonably assured that the club will settle out of court for a handsome sum and that you can then spend it on strippers and blow.*5




  Hey, It's Future Me just popping in on a last ditch effort at editing long after I'd written most of the above stuff. You can tell by how the cohesion of the post steadily deteriorates that I was hammering back beers as I wrote it. I am also hammering back beers here in the Future, which is now the Present.

  The actual advice I was going to give to anyone who's been ripped off by a dancer is to just walk out of the club, using peaceful but insistent resistance. Yet this is bullshit and a testament to my impairment at the time of writing.

  You see, it simply never works out for the guy who's been ripped off by a dancer, at least in my experience. There have been recorded cases, yes, but they are so far few and between that you're more likely to photograph a chupacabra that you are to escape a dancer scam.

  The advice is Just Pay Up and chalk it up as a learning experience. And here's why:



  You never win. 



  That's it. That's the explanation. Think about it, you are

  1) On camera, but are only going to be allowed access to the footage by nothing short of a court order or by the direct intervention of an angry Pagan God, therefore the club holds all the cards.

  
  2) You've probably consumed alcohol which negatively affects your credibility. The ironic part of this is that the stripper who's ripped you off is probably way more hammered than you, but since it's part of their job description, it's seldom taken into account.


 3) We know the cops that are going to respond if you want to call the police, which is your right. Most of them hang out here and a few of them work part time for us on the weekend, so good luck with that. When you're being a drunk douchebag it is absolutely amazing how many things you can be arrested for. 




  Furthermore, if you've fallen for this sort of horseshit more than once, then you're a desperately stupid motherfucker. Get a life man. It's only a matter of time until you're lured into a robbery in which you may or may not get shot to death.







-Der StrypenHierden











*! I didn't actually say this. What kind of monster do you think I am? What I really said was "You first, bitch."*2   







        *2 Pretty fucking weak, I know. It was like kicking a puppy.



*3 I really have no idea why he thought anyone would get more flavor out of a gourd fruit they were fucking than a barrel shaped ghetto ho with as much class as a Taliban girls school. He's sorta slowish.



*4 This is because our corporate legal team is like the offspring of Godzilla and an aircraft carrier: hungry, giant, savage and very organized.



*5 I am drunk and although I'm not proud of the fact, I thought I'd mention it and by inference hope you grasp how hard it is to type this and how many times I had to edit it just to produce this.

A Floor Guy Pogrom. Or, The Gordon Stanton-Herbert Feral Stripper Refuge.

 The Manager's have been on a program of Floor Beast humiliation and debasement lately. They are coming to realize that the Floor Beast's are critical to the club's success, much more than they are, and therefore we wield altogether too much power for their liking.

  So to reestablish their dominance they have begun a systemic plan of irritating, needless bullshit flung randomly at us from the safety of their office, like monkeys pelting hyenas with feces from their sanctuaries in the treetops. Suddenly the mediocre job we've always done of cleaning the club or acting gracious, is in question. As a result we now face petty retributions from The MisManagement.

  Things like:

 -No drinking after work because someone is stealing liquor that no self-respecting Floor Guy would ever drink. (Floor Guys are an excellent revenue stream for the club since we barely get a discount over the average sucker that walks through our door but will slam drinks after work anyway.)

 -We used to give you your checks on Wednesday, even though technically Friday is payday. Now you can wait til Friday like the goddamn peasant you are. The good times are over, serf, hand over the fooking potatos and no one gets fired.

-Who's the Late Guy?



   At this point I'm going to stop and explain the concept of 'The Late Guy' for those of you who are unfamiliar with the term.


  The 'Late Guy' is the unarmed, not-interested-in-dying-for-the-club-owner's-money Floor Guy who happened to be scheduled the latest and doesn't have an awesome excuse why he has to leave right away. The Late Guy is required to stay at the club until the Manager has finished the paperwork and is supposed to stay with said Manager for either moral support (which is useless in a gunfight) or possibly to protect against ghosts.

  Let's be clear, the Late Guy is unarmed. The club's insurance is basically null and void if one of it's employees uses a gun in the club for any reason, so we don't. Therefore if someone were to gain entrance to the club after hours with the intention of robbing it, what the hell is The Late Guy supposed to do? The way I see it his choices are fairly limited:


  -He can state quite clearly that he has no intention of taking a bullet in the face for the fucking Owner and lead the criminal to the Manager's office and proceed to talk the equally unarmed Manager into just coughing up the dough in exchange for the consideration of not being shot in the face.


  -He can run and hide using his intimate knowledge of the building to escape the robbers or hole up in a defensible room, thus avoiding getting shot in the face for the owner's money.


 -He could try to defeat an armed opponent or opponents using only his razor sharp brain and ridiculously fast reflexes coupled with an unconscious and expendable stripper as a shield.


 -He can use very bad language and let the robber(s) know in no uncertain terms that they were very bad people and should be ashamed of themselves.


 -He can take no such actions whatsoever and still get shot in the face by criminals not smart enough to wear masks, or those bearing a grudge from a past situation. Happens all the time but isn't newsworthy because Floor Guys are scum too.



  -You can have your credit card tips when you can pry them from my cold, dead fingers..

  Normally the manager will hand over the credit card tips to the Floor Hosts when he has finished counting the VIP drawer. However, a manager on a petty vendetta warpath can choose to withhold those tips until he has finished doing all the paperwork and is ready to close the club up for the night. This usually takes around 45 minutes to an hour and a half.

  This means that if they want their money, all the Floor Trolls are stuck waiting for the boss, not just the Late Guy. It's a sort of unit torture, like making all the men in the platoon do pushups because one guy had a jelly donut in his footlocker.

  Suck a box of baboon cocks, management.


-Here is a tiny brush used to clean the nits from a wild stripper's pelt, go use it to clean the grout in the women's bathroom.


  It's the chain gang equivalent of digging a ditch and then filling in back in. A bored or vindictive Manager can find no end of degradation to subject unsuspecting Floor Thogs to.*1 


  Soon they may taste the fruits or their scorn and the Floor Thog nation shall rise again.









  



  PLEASE GIVE GENEROUSLY TO THE GORDON STANTON-HERBERT FERAL STRIPPER REFUGE.




 




  Let's face it industry people, stripper's who don't retire, die or become so nasty they can't find employment anywhere often end up going feral at the end of their careers. In many clubs this leads to them being unethically released back into the wild where they wreak havoc on the the ecosystem. This cycle has created an imbalance in the ecosystem as feral strippers destroy the traditional hunter-prey relationships found throughout North America. Packs of wild strippers have been documented eating beavers and trying to mate with deer before they drag them down and devour them hooves and all.

  It's like unleashing giant werewolves made of razor blades into a Disney forest, suddenly the singing stops, Nicki Minaq cuts in and cute cartoon shit starts dying horribly with lots of squirting blood and screaming.


  The Gordon Stanton-Herbert Feral Stripper Refuge give clubs a place to send their aged, defeated strippers to where they can live their declining years in a safe controlled environment, as God intended. The Refuge is a no-kill freeform habitat where expired dancers can roam freely in the simulated natural world of the domestic stripper*2, such as a trailer park, a 4 acre Truckstop and two strip malls.

  The resident strippers enjoy such social activities as the Vodka Pool, Slow Moving Old Man Tourist Trolley, Truckdriver Head and they coexist in a 100% Rhianna saturated environment, which seems to calm them.

  It's a worthwhile cause but it doesn't come cheap. The Patron budget alone is like that of a small African nation's GDP, but we do grow our own limes. We're all green and shit because of all the dope we have to grow for the strippers.

  Just give them weed and something with vampires in it and they remain docile. Your dollars provide that, give accordingly.





  Yup.




-The StripperHerder












*1 Thog was the name of the first StripperHerder, as alluded to in the bible somewhere in the back. It is used as an anonymous name for a StripperHerder, as in "If you don't give me my money, I'll call a Floor-Thog".




*2 Lat: Titticus Localus
  

Goblins, Trolls And Future Crime Statistics? Must Be Another Amateur Night! Or, Enjoying The Antics Of The Abjectly Stupid.

  Hot damn! Is it that time of month already? Amateur nights rule!

  I've grown to love our little monthly Dance Contests. It's like watching a weird mix of Jerry Springer, Intervention and MonsterQuest play out in front of your eyes and ocassionally, when you're very, very lucky you get to see a hot chick who's fun to watch.

  The worst part about the whole 'Amatuer Night' thing is setting up the stage to look like the Rancor Pit from Star Wars. It's a helluva lot of work. But when the giant iron portcullis goes up and something shambles out of the shadows and onto the stage, all that work was worth it.

                                 "Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome to the stage...Juicy!"





  

It's even better when one of them eats a customer.






  So now I'm going to do something that is verboten in this industry, something I've never done before: I'm going to publish pictures. This isn't something I do lightly, given my enormous readership in over 60 countries, I could easily destroy some poor girl's life by outing her as a stripper.

  But I'm going to take that chance and do it anyway because I am a hateful, pitiless Floor Dick.



  So here are some pics I took on the sly of our Amateur competitors the other night, accompanied by my trademark heartfelt and incisive captions.


  WARNING: Not for the faint of heart!


  

Remember, I am a Professional StripperHerder, do not try this at home.

                This stripper was so good at climbing that she disappeared into the rafters during her audition. 
                     That was 6 days ago and while we haven't seen her since, we sometimes hear her moving around  
                      and find her droppings all over the place in the mornings.

                                

              

                   

         The Abjectly Stupid and Their Impact In Society





  So it's kind of a long story about how this argument came to be and because it will make some people uncomfortable, I will tell it now.

  Keep in mind when you read this that people can get insanely bored when there's nothing to do at work. Dangerously bored.


  Here's a summary of the conversation that led to a wager of idiotic proportions.






Me) "Mind if I throw this soup on you? It'll feel just like getting jizzed on which I'm sure you experienced hundreds if not thousands of times."


Her) "NO! It'll burn me!"


Me) "What? What are you talking about? It's lukewarm cream of mushroom soup. It's not hot enough to burn you, it's about jizz temp, right around 98 degrees. It's obvious that you've taken many gooey, disfiguring facials in your day and I just thought I'd bring you a bit of nostalgia."

  "So can I throw it all over your face, you filthy slut?" 


Her) "I've been cummed on more times than you can count and I'm telling you spuzz isn't nearly that hot, it's like 70 degrees or something."


Me) "Are you serious? If anything 70 degrees was coming out of your body", I pointed out to her, "you'd be dead. Are you sure you're not confusing Fahrenheit with Celsius? I think you might be...

  

  

  "...But just to be sure, let's bet $5 on it."






  It turns out I was right and she wasn't. I had to finally prove this to her with tap water and a meat thermometer. Not at all in the creatively disgusting way you're probably thinking of right now, but by showing her that 110 degree Fahrenheit water was nice and warm to your fingers and not at all molten, blistering agony like she was picturing.

  After much backpedaling and groundless rhetoric, she finally coughed up my 5 fucking dollars. Under protest as it were, but she was afraid I might hit her because I took the bet so seriously.

  I laughed and said "A bet is a bet. It's sacred."

  "I would've had to snuff you if you failed to pay. It's not the amount you understand, it's the principle. I would've been gentle though. You wouldn't even have noticed.





  That night I bought 2 McDoubles with no cheese, extra onion and extra mustard with my winnings. 


  I bested a stripper and enjoyed the rewards.

  





    20 MINUTE HISTORICALLY ACCURATE 

                      BATTLE SCENE

  

                                                  "Argh and stuff." Shit blowing up.


















Enjoy,

Tre Herdy