Tattoo Necked Scumbag Convention, Oops I Mean Our Average Tuesday Night. Or, I Remember When Drug Dealers Actually Spent Money At The Clubs They Frequented.

  I feel like there's a possibility that this post will make me seem like an angry old man shaking his fist or pointing a rifle at the damn neighborhood kids invading his tree lawn.


  And I'm OK with that. Get the FUCK off my lawn.....

                  "The sign says 'Stay Off The Grass'. Now drop the frisbee and back the fuck up."





  See, I remember when this industry was thriving. Live titties were big business and while the clubs may not have always been busy, at least there weren't tumbleweeds floating around and raccoons chasing trash across the floor.


  And back in the day we had real, proud respectable drug dealers. Old school guys. Never did business in the places they hung out in and were way too big for that level of shit any way. Tipped excessively and were so goddamn polite you forgot they could have your family murdered with a single phone call.


  I remember we used to have this guy who came into the club a lot with his bodyguard. Because I don't want to be accused by certain overzealous elements of today's society of being a racial profiler, I'll refer to them as Hans and Gustav.


  When Hans and Gustav came into the club they let us know they'd like the VIP area and a couple of bottles of something nice and then ask what it costs. When we told them they'd hand over the cost plus $500. Literally every time I came over to Hans's table to see if he needed anything he'd hand me $50 or $100 and tell me I was doing a great job, which is more than I usually got from management.


  Then there was this other pair. For the same reason noted above I will call them Pierre and Jean Paul.


  When Pierre and Jean Paul came into the club they'd order two or three modest bottles of champagne and up to $20,000 in singles which they wanted in $1000 bundles, plastic wrapped, so they could hurl them at twerking dancers *1 in a mutually agreed upon game of money-brick Dodge Ball. Yes, occasionally they would knock a bitch unconscious with a well aimed Stack, but when she came to, haloed in money, there was never an issue. It was all fun and games.


  None of these guys EVER talked about what they did. We NEVER asked what they did. There was never any bragging or boasting about how much money they made, it was what it was.


  These days people want to be known as drug dealers because what could be cooler? Wearin sunglasses in dark places, confident in your fake badness and small time cash. None of these guys ever reach that 'next level' because they are all too stupid not to get caught and are completely enamored with drug dealing as a lifestyle rather than an occupation. In some ways there are very much like the dancers I work with who despite the best of intentions, get thoroughly ensnared by the 'stripper lifestyle'. These girls too have forgotten the occupation aspect of the job. Stripping isn't just how they make their living anymore, it's what they are, what they define themselves as.


  Not even kidding. Drug dealing, stripping, it all becomes intertwined with these unfortunate dipshits' very identity.

                                                    "What you need, bro?"





  Here's some hints for all you low level or aspiring drug dealers out there. I'm giving you this advice out of a sense of fairness because I'm going to be offering advice later in this post to all would be strip club patrons who would like to avoid getting ripped off in a titty bar


  So, although this is gonna seem like some very elementary stuff here to anyone with half a brain, I personally know dozens of drug dealers who could've benefited from this extremely first grade shit.



1) Don't tell anyone you're a drug dealer.



2) Don't let anyone know where you live.



3) NEVER do business out of your home or any static location for that matter.



4) Don't wear a lot of ridiculous gold and jewelry. It looks silly as fuck and makes a target of you.



5) Unless you have some sort of money laundering set up, which at your level I highly doubt, or some way to show how you paid for it, don't drive a flashy car. Go buy an 8 year old Honda or Toyota. People with no provable income who aren't rich kids don't drive high end German sedans and new Escalades around.



6) The whole point of your life should be to avoid being noticed, not brag on social media about how much money you have. Try to NOT post pictures of yourself with guns, stacks of cash or large amount of drugs.



7) Don't get a neck tattoo. Listen I realize there are tons of good people out there who happen to have a neck tattoo, hell I know a bunch of them. But to society at large, and there's no way to say this nicely, it makes you look like a scumbag. Possibly someone immersed in a criminal lifestyle. Blame society, not me.


   Don't get me started on face tattoos....

                          Might as well wear a sandwich board that says 'I AM A CRIMINAL'




8) In general, try not to look like a drug dealer. I know, what does a drug dealer look like, right? Let's not get all into details that would just upset people, OK? Wearing pants that fit is an excellent start.



9) Don't flash cash around, talk about money or ever act like you have more than $10 on you at any given time.



10) NEVER indulge in the drug you make your money off of. For best results, don't drink or do drugs at all. Stay focused. Losing perspective is the single greatest mistake you can make. You can do all the drugs you want when you're wealthy and retired, which if you'll recall, was the whole goal of dealing drugs in the first place.



11) Try to cultivate a clientele that won't happily slay you at any given moment for the money and drugs you're carrying.



12) Never give credit. Especially to friends. Business is business, motherfucker.



13) Try not to get arrested. For anything. A clean record goes a long way....




  There, that should help you hopeful dope-slingers out there, but I doubt it!

                        Excerpt from 1970's Police Training film titled: "Shit! NECK TATTOO!!!!!"






Occupational Conversations: Strip Club Edition





  These are (mostly) actual conversations I've had during the execution of my duties. I may be paraphrasing in some of them since I don't record my interactions with fucked up people even though I should. All of these are merely variations on themes so wretchedly tedious that murder-suicide suddenly becomes understandable, possibly even admirable depending on how long you've been in the Service Industry....




(I) Broke Customer: "I want my money back. There ain't nobody here!"


Me: "So what you're saying is that there aren't enough other MALES here for you? Because I've got 25 strippers on staff right now and they're all doing not much of anything. If I was going to a strip club where the entertainers outnumbered the customers by a factor of 8, I'd say I'd just found Heaven, sir."


Broke Customer: "But there's no one here, man! There ain't no action!"


Me: "So we're still on the other dudes thing, huh? You come to a strip club to see girls, yes? So why in the fuck would it bother you if there aren't a lot of other penises in the club? You're not here to see Magic Mike, right? You are, in fact, here to see mostly naked females running around on stage, making their ample booties clap and whatnot, correct?"


Broke Customer: "Yeah, but..."


Me: "Butt nothin, sir. You have a sweet deal here. You want some action, make it happen. You'll be a fucking HERO..."


Broke Customer: *sighs* "You have called my bluff, wise Floor Beast. I intended to spend almost nothing and live vicariously through the exploits of others and am financially unable to be a HERO. I only complained because lacking a crowd to lurk within, I am afraid too many strippers will approach me for dances and after I turn down the 10th or so one of them that they'll figure out I'm all talk and no wallet which would harm my street cred.


  I can't even afford internet to watch porn on and all this gold is fake."


Me: *keying my mike* "Told you guys so. You all owe me $5."









(II) Hammered Stripper: "Gargen fargle noosh beesh mits! Seppinas noost ma fawshin schmetz!"


Me: "I get it, darlin. This is a tough industry to thrive in. All of us have made many, many bad choices to end up here, but it ain't all bad. There's a lot of earning potential, the hours are easy and we always got your back provided you're not a non-tipping piece of junkie rat shit. There, there..."


Hammered Stripper: *now crying from every orifice* "ASHEENA WAFFLENERGENS! BLYHA STABBE MAHJ MEMMMEMISHmieesrrr..."


Me: *patting her awkwardly from a distance* "There are always gonna be tough nights, sweetie. You just have to weather them like an ocean liner in a storm, ya know? Point your bow toward the waves and pound your fist at the skies and scream 'Is That All You Got?'. That's what I do.


  Oh and I also abstain from crippling drugs, sex with random and potentially dangerous people, getting so drunk on the job I'm utterly helpless, spending my money on a worthless, emotionally abusive unemployably lazy cunt and things like that.


  But, you know, each to their own and shitforth!"


Hammered Stripper: "PEBBLA SMISHEN FCHLITZ, WHOOGA DOOINOOINOIN MEHSELSHMIZ, BAKA BAKA FLABBLAMAMmmmmmm!"


Me: "I use E-Trade. Best user interface and if you deposit $2,500 or more, you get 150 free trades. It's easy, dude. If you're looking long term, get into solid state batteries or anything having to do with self driving cars. That'll be the new Amazon. What? Cock Market? Oh. Can't help you there assuming I understood you correctly...."

                                                        100% Okay to drive.*2



(III) Drunk Fuckwit: "Bro! You got the most awesome job evah! You fucking love this job, don't ya bro!"  *Manically patting my shoulder the whole time like an Red Bulled gibbon*3


Me: "You know it, Bro-hamish. Super lovin it right now."


Drunk Fuckwit: "I bet bro! You bangin all them ho's right? The fucking Master right here, bro!"


Me: "Yes, bro. I am the Master. Please stop petting me, I'm sore from fucking so many ho's."


Drunk Fuckwit: "Awwwww, FUCK YEAH BRO! FUCK YEAH!!!"


Me: "Jesus...." *Does the fake emergency radio call thing and disappears*



  If there's anything worse than talking to a wasted fuckdrip, it's talking to a wasted Floor Guy Fanboy. A dude so enamored with our jobs that he acts like we're some kind of rock stars or something. Like he just met Insert Currently Famous Person's Name Here.






       The StripperHerder Advice Column





These are actual letters from readers that I've received and not at all shit I made up to establish a premise.




Ted B from Bristol, New Maryland wrote:


Dear Herdy,


  I got wallet-raped by a seedy dancer at a strip club where the bouncers wore T shirts that said "Hired Goon". I did one dance with her but she said it was three and that the dances were only $10 when they were actually $25. The bouncers said that if I din't pay they would "Take me to the park for a nice walk and some healthy air." So I paid and they let me leave.

  Thanks to that conniving stripper, my daughter won't be getting a birthday present this year and I'm very upset about that. How can I avoid this in the future?"


-Well Ted B, you fucking scumbag, first off let me state that although I value your readership I feel like if you're the kind of person who would go to a strip club when your budget is so tight that a mere $75 unexpected expense costs your daughter a birthday present, then you're either an idiot or have no impulse control and probably aren't a great Father.


  That being said, you are a valued reader and as such deserve the best advice I can give.


A frequent problem for us Floor-illas is misunderstandings about dance prices. There are many variations on this theme so for the purposes of brevity, I'll focus on the two Root Causes:


A) Customer stupidity/drunkeness/dissatisfaction


  and...

B) Stripper Deception

                                 "I'm Ted B. I enjoy going to places I can't afford to be in."









  Let's focus on the leading cause, Customer Stupidity or Drunkeness or Dissatisfaction. Although we do deal with a fair amount of dance-spawned fuckery at this club, the majority of our quarrels over money come from the customers. I realize that some of you reading this right now will be suitably shocked or disappointed that strippers aren't indeed the number one reason for any sort of cash related shenanigans that occur, but it just ain't true.


  Goddamn, motherfookin customers are the problem at least two thirds of the time. When patrons are the source of the problem, the issue will be one of the following:


1) They are literally just too fucking stupid to grasp how a strip club works, or are phenomenal actors.


2) They are too drunk to remember or care about how a strip club works.


3) They are too drunk to really have any idea how much time has passed when getting ground on by a stripper who has no interest in his ability to grasp what's going on or how much fucking money he is "spending" without having any real clue that he's doing it.*4


4) The customer did not receive the sex act he was promised and therefore is angry with the world. If he were to express himself only in rhyme, it would go like this:


"I didn't get fucked so I ain't given no bucks."

"I got no head ain't givin no bread."

"Was at the titty club just the other day, got some dances from a bitch but she didn't give me no play, she promised me a hanjo and I said OK but my dick remains unwanked so I ain't gonna pay, I say, no way. Curd-faced ho."*5


5) The fuckstick doesn't argue how many dances he owes, but he argues that he was promised some sort of special deal that doesn't exist at our club. This kinda thing normally falls into the Stripper Deception category, but merits including here because it does happen from the fuckstick perspective. It doesn't help that like a lot of other clubs, we have different pricing for 'Day' and 'Night' shifts and most customers are too drunk when the prices change to be able to grasp the difference.

6) The customer knows perfectly well what he's doing when he tries to cheat a dancer because he's a broke cunt of a man, but tries to veil his intent with protestations that prices were never made clear to him and that he never asked for her to keep dancing etc etc. It's death by a thousand excuses.



  SO, how's does this knowledge benefit you, Ted B?  Like as in the word 'Advice'?



  Well, let me help you, former hag-prey.


  First off, and this may seem harsh to some readers, so if you're faint of heart, please skip the next paragraph.


  A) Don't believe anything a stripper says. Seriously. If even small amounts of your money, like $10-50 mean anything to you, then do some research first you tightwad asshat. See any guys in vests, tuxes, suits lounging about that seem like maybe they work there? Perhaps ask one of them what shit costs at this joint, chances are you'll get an answer more factually based than asking the some unscrupulous entertainer. Actually tip him and you may even open a whole world of possibilities...


 B) If you're planning on spending any real money, let's say for a small market's sake, at least $2-5K. In any strip club that you don't have an even chance of being killed or robbed, you're gonna have to go through a Floor Host to spend any of that money. Unless of course you're just going to get singles and throw them on the stage, for something that simple you normally don't need one of us.


C) Attempt to find a stripper who isn't visibly wasted or nodding out from heroin because they will often attempt to take advantage of you. I know, I know, who would've guessed that such wholesome examples of exotic dancers might stoop so low as to try to rip a guy off for drug money?

  Personally, I'm shocked.


D) This one may seem so basic, so fucking simple that some of you may scratch your heads as to why I'm even including it in this advice section, but trust me, it bears repeating. It goes something like this:


  It's your money, you're in charge, not the stripper.


  You'd think this would be so goddamn obvious that it didn't even need saying. Like stating that you have to drink water to stay alive or pizza tastes good or blowjobs feel nice, something like that. Yet you'd be surprised how many dudes just end up doing what a stripper tells them to do. Things like 'Tip me $500' and 'No, you want to do two hours in a VIP room with me' or 'Don't buy the cheap champagne'.


  It's gutting to watch a grown man give you permission to charge him for something he doesn't really want to do but hasn't the balls to just say 'no, we're not doing that'. I actually get embarrassed at their gutlessness, it fucking pains me sometimes.

                                 "I don't care anymore. Just do what she says. So tired......"





E) Don't bring a credit card to a strip club. Not only is the ATM both diabolically difficult to use, it's also expensive, as is any 'funny money' you can buy on your card. When going to a strip club, take as much cash as you feel comfortable spending plus $100 and leave everything else at home where your parents can keep an eye on it.



  I hope this helps you to avoid becoming stripper-prey. All I really advised is to be a semi responsible adult and not be a wasted, nutless herd animal, but I stretched it out over several paragraphs and tried to make simple, cogent points so that my slower readers could hopefully follow along too. At their own pace.


  Slow doesn't necessarily mean dull, you judgmental bastards...




  So, that's a pretty solid post, by my standards anyway. Tune in next whenever when I'll talk about Mosser's Guide to Strip Club Fauna. You'll love it.






Allergic to drunk people,
-The StripperHerder














*1 Back when this particular conversation happened, it wasn't even called 'twerking' yet.**


**I go back a ways, son.





*2 Relax, it's satire.





*3  Alcohol affects many different people many different ways. There are tons of subgroups and maybe some day I'll do an entire post on the topic. But for now let's focus of those people who are drunk enough that they've lost the ability to read any sort of physical or facial cues, body language, or even tone of voice. They're the type of drunk to say "hold my beer" and then maim themselves attempting something ludicrously stupid.


  These are the worst because it's like hitting a toddler or a puppy-it doesn't understand why it got hit. It's thinking hasn't reached that level yet or is temporarily sunk far below it. It doesn't know why you're annoyed.





*4 There are whole subspecies of Stripper that specialize in this sort of prey. They're actually more of a parasite than a predator according to according to Mosser's Guide To Strip Club Fauna**, and in my experience are seldom good tippers.


  **The definitive guide to stuff that lives in titty bar ecosystems.






*5 See, writing rap is easy. That took me a minute but only because I edit as I type and I'm becoming drunk enough to make a lot ot typing errors.

A Post Of Haikus I Put Very Little Effort Into. Or, To The Untrained Eye I May Appear To Be A Quasi-Professional Writer, But Don't Assume That. Don't Ever Assume That.

  Before I begin my poems of meaninglessness, allow me to reiterate that this blog is primarily satire. I enjoy writing about curb-stomping Uber drivers, slapping stupid strippers silly when they're being especially trying, or even head-butting a particularly dickish patron until he looks like a meatball sub that's been run over by an asphalt grader.


  However, because I value my freedom more than anything else on this Earth, I never act on my righteous impulses. Even at my angriest, I've never let slip the Dog of my War. It was made very plain to me when I was growing up that I was Too Big To Play With The Other Kids and that I had to become less assholey or that someone would end up shooting me or that I would be given a life sentence for throttling some annoying twat long past when they stopped struggling.



  SO, some of the following material MAY be considered by some readers to be offensive in some way, even if it's just a haiku. Some people SEARCH for indignation. It's a geas that's been thrust upon them by their overdeveloped sense of wrong and right and the quest to be the most offended person in their peer group. Mayhaps there's a trophy involved, I don't know.


  So, fuck them and whatnot.








  Ahem. Because they are one of the most popular facets of my blog-genius, I'll start with thirteen random topic haiku's for your enjoyment:






Joy will annoy you
Strippers named Joy don't bring joy
As a rule of thumb




Jim, the regular
Perverted scumbag lowlife
Mackin on teen girls




World's oldest dancer
Misha twerks to Abba songs
Jurassic Stripper




Useless Regular
Can't afford a dance nor drink
Breathing up our air




Shit talkin white kid
Won't last an hour in the hood
Fucking privileged twat





I drive for Uber
Clueless to my location
What are traffic laws?




I'm Millenial
Entitled but not thankful
Tipping is fascist



Gin weathered stripper
Haggard booze-medusa hunts
Stalking drunken prey



I am a Rapper
How have you not heard of me?
I have face tattoos



There's barf all over
My drunk girlfriend made a mess
Thanks for cleaning it

(NO TIP)




Deranged Foreigner
Thinks all strip clubs are brothels
Enjoys rape-cations




The Bacon Daisy:
Excessive inner lippage
Pita fulla ham



Explosive Ass-Blow
WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU EAT, BRO?
Straight missed the oval








  There, that wasn't so bad was it? I knew you could handle it, valued consumer!







  In other 'Herdin news there's a lot of stuff that's happened since my last post. If you think I might miss this opportunity for another List, then you've sadly mistaken the true nature of my writing ability, oh optimistic one.



  Since I've cleared that up, here's a bullet point List of everything noteworthy that has taken place since my last installment:




-Floor Guy: Rinaldo has been terminated. His last mistake was a scrawled in $1800 tip that a customer complained about. Don't mourn for him, he had a GOOD run.....



-Seventeen more strippers I have worked with have passed away in the last month, the oldest of which was 27.

 
  Heroin is a HELL of a drug, but to be fair I think at least 4 of them were murdered...



-Another Manager War led to the Floor Staff scurrying for the trees as hostilities were commenced. Looking down at it from the high branches we all concluded that it looked brutal and uncompromising, then we shrugged at went back to staring at our phones.


  Sir Atomize D'Lessars VI won of course, we all knew he would and refrained from taking sides. We knew from previous engagements that the forest canopy offered neutrality and plausible deniability and we took to it like lemurs and flying squirrels.


  Almost graceful in our flight.



-We have fired and rehired at least 3 strippers, God help us.


  We never fucking learn.



-Italy has surpassed Germany as the 5th highest readership of the StripperHerder on the planet Earth.


In descending order my readership looks like this


Amurrika

Russia (fuck yeah!)

UK

Canada

Italy

Germany

Australia

France

Netherlands

Poland



And in the interest of full disclosure, I get a steady supply of hits from Unknown Regions. Their words, not mine.


 I like to think of these "Unknown Regions" as pirate enclaves, or somehow lost pockets of Viking populations that have the internet but choose not to pillage with information gleaned from it.



  It keeps me warm at night. Wolverines!




  Your despotic Uncle
  -King Herdy O' Stripperson





 












































 

2019 Is Here And With It A New List Of Pet Peeves And Gripes. Or, Fuck Your Birthday, Worthless Stranger.

  Ah the service/hospitality industry, the perfect system for transforming a mostly reasonable and somewhat happy person in a raging, misanthropic cunt in the shortest possible time frame. You can be the nicest, most generous person around, but give it three months trying to endlessly please and placate wasted twats and soon you will be the type of person who'd gladly strangle another human if you thought you could get away with it, or no longer care if you can't.


  There are large amounts of humans staggering around the planet who need to be garrotted and dumped someplace isolated and dank. Sometimes it just takes a scant few months in this job sector to fully appreciate that fact.


  That being said, I am one of those ruined by my occupation. I know that I used to be more fun to hang out with before I started back in this surreal fuckfest of a 'career'. I'm sure of this fact but try to blame it all on advancing years rather than the unstoppable erosion of my will to be around other people that this industry has bred in me.


  So, sticking with this theme, here is a list of my favorite current anger triggers*1. Longtime readers will recognize and probably be fond of some of these, but there are new ones due to the fact that humanity keeps evolving new ways to be annoying.




1) "IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!" All I said to you was 'Hi, how you doing tonight?' when you came through the club door and this was your reply. It's your fucking birthday. Lemme try to squeeze out a nugget of shit-care about that. Although I grunt and strain, sweating with rectal exertion, I can't manage even a raisin sized crap-lump of concern over the anniversary of you ruining your Mother's Va-Jay-Jay.


  I don't know you. I don't care at all about you, your well being or any circumstance whatsoever about your life, and yet you greet me with with an irrelevant fact regarding a meaningless milestone in your existence.


  Hoorah. You're one day older than yesterday. Good for you and congratulations.


  Now go fuck yourself.



2) "I seen the new Avengers movie."


  No you didn't. You saw it. It drives me yakshit when people either say or type that they seen something. It's saw, motherfucker, say it. You fucking well saw something, not seen it. What the fuck went wrong with your third grade education that you can't comprehend the difference? Seen is past tense or used in a query. Get it straight, lackwit.


  I am happy to accept people using this word incorrectly and will support their right to do so as long as they support my right to refer to them as 'shitheads' and 'morons'.



3) I greeted you or bid you goodnight and you ignored me, you impolite dangle of goat scrotum.


  When someone acknowledges your presence with a salutation of any sort, have the common human decency to fucking reply, even if it's just a grunt, a wave or a nod of the head. To ignore someone outright is a strong indicator that you're a worthless, poorly reared dickhole.



4) Phone Fucks. People completely immersed in the internet via their smartphones who occasionally surface to deal with the pesky real world before they return their scrunched up faces to their phones, much to their relief.


  Let me give you a couple of prime examples.


A) I was recently at a New Years Eve party. I was mostly hanging out in the basement where it was cool, uncrowded and all the pinball machines were located. I had been avoiding going upstairs because it was crowded, hot as hell from the kitchen and loud.


  At one point however, shortly after 2 AM, I ventured upstairs to raid the food again. As I looked into the living room, all I saw was five people lounging on various furniture, raptly staring at their phones while The Doors played vaguely in the background. Five people, in the same room, but all in their own world.


  Sad as fuck.



B) As mentioned frequently before, I work in a strip club. A titty bar. An establishment where attractive women gyrate around on stages in various states of undress.


  But even here, and in great numbers, humans will be immersed in their digital world while naked mams sway and bounce before them, where asses are twerked and poles are climbed in nothing but thongs for the entertainment of anyone who happens to look. Yet still there are lap-watchers, faces lit by screenglow in the meager illumination of a properly dim Gentlemen's Club, rapt within the interwebz when a real, live cute girl is all but naked two feet away from them.


  If you aren't here to look at primarily nude women, then why the fuck are you here at all? Surely you can stare at your phone in the privacy of your own home or, to wit, in a place much less expensive than this.


  Go Home.



5) Calling a club to ask if there's a cover charge and if so, how much is it?


  Seriously? You had to ask that?


  Sometimes I cover the portal for the Doorgirl when she has to go to the bathroom. Every now and then when I do so, the phone rings and by default I have to answer it. I enjoy every opportunity to do this that I am awarded. It's great fun.


  I always answer thusly:



  "Hi and thank you for calling The Polymer Platypus, My name is Steve. How can I help you, citizen?"



  I say it like a morning drive DJ, super happy. It almost always throws the callers off their track. Sometimes they ask what the age limit is, or slightly more often, if there's a cover and how much is it?



  Now call me old fashioned, because I surely am. But if concern over the cover charge at any given club you care to name is a good enough reason (for you) to call said club and ask how much it costs to pass  through their vestibule, then you shouldn't go there and you don't belong there. It's too expensive for you or you're too rural to not be offended by the prices.


  This is the Big City, lad. The Town™, and shit don't come cheap here. Best ye head back to the moors and/or yon hills, ya barefoot, muskrat eatin rustic.





   So, I'm content that I reached five in the above list. Most assuredly I had planned on doing more, but in this wild new reality of 2019, So futuristic....I concluded that this was adequate and further deduced that...fuck your pictures.




Gluten Nottingham,
-The StripperHerder






















*1 Anger Triggers: See also Pet Peeves. I hate the term "Pet Peeves" and so prefer "Anger Triggers" because it more accurately describes

A Slightly Tardy StripperHerder Christ-Mass Special! Or, Happy Belated 8th Anniversary, StripperHerder! Let's Celebrate With Reprinted Christmas Shit Even Though The Anniversary Was In October!

  It's that time of year again, The Holiday Season. That special time where some folks try to be slightly less assholey for a couple of weeks and where other folks become more assholey just because they hate Christmas.


  Personally I don't really enjoy Christmas, but then again, after this many years in my current job, I don't enjoy any Holidays anymore, the hospitality industry has ruined them all for me. That being said I used to love Xmas as a kid; the tree, the lights, the toys and all the cookies and whatnot.


  Really did it for me.


  Then I became an adult and realized what a pain in the ass it is.


  My family keeps it simple. Get together, have some dinner, do a hug or two and call it a night. We don't exchange gifts because we're all broke most of the time. When I can, I give a few people $50 and call it a job well done. Merry Holiday and so forth.


  I fucking love my family, we don't take anything too seriously.


  So, happy Whatever-You-Believe-In Day!





                    ******************************






  This past October marked my 8th anniversary of writing this pile of shit. I would've commemorated it in its own post, but I was too lazy if you can believe that. So this is the closest I'm gonna get to a self congratulatory post.


  In the very trite words of a lot of bloggers who never imagined themselves writing a blog for eight years when they first started, I can't believe I'm still writing this blog. I figured it'd be less then 10 posts and I would get bored and move on to something else I wouldn't finish. I didn't anticipate the restorative, cathartic release that writing it gave me, nor did I fully appreciate the enormity of inspiration that my occupation constantly provides me.


  Such Plight of the StripperHerder staples as: Drunk strippers, wasted strippers, drunk customers, drunk people in general, lost phones, the glory of heroin, completely unnecessary violence, The ATM, men's bathrooms, women's bathrooms, the threat of feces, the promise of blood and the reality of vomit.


  Lost phones, ripped shirts, stripper gangs, human garbage, stupid wretches, missing Ray Bans, angry girlfriends/wives, bachelor parties (shitglobs), stingy millionaires, annoying thousandaires, dipshit hundredaires, the broke, the mentally challenged yet wholly unsupervised, lost phones, complainers, criminals, rappers with over inflated egos, VIP wannabes, name droppers, hooligans, people from Quebec, hat fans, various organized crime affiliates, lost keys, misplaced phones, random discarded underwear, incredulity over our local liquor laws, prison bus riders, the cheap, day shift, the creatures that haunt day shift, Ancient Strippers, stolen phones, liquor control, non tippers, men who believe every strip club is a thinly veiled brothel, lost phones, Crimppers*1, locker babies*2, drooling smack-hooked spuzz sponges.


  Oh yeah, and lost phones.


  So thank you for continuing to read, in such numbers that the site suggested I try advertising. And while I wasn't wild about the idea, even though it could make me money, I looked into it anyway.


  Luckily for you, dear reader, I found that there aren't any advertisers even remotely comfortable with my subject matter, much less my colorful use of language to even consider running ads on my blog. Seems narrow minded to me, I could totally see some beneficial product tie ins, things like:



-Guns: I like guns without getting carried away with it. Why not read about deranged titty dancers and then download a 10% off coupon for the latest compact .45?


-Booze: I love booze. If it hadn't been for booze and booze related products, roughly 85% of this blog wouldn't exist. Booze makers should embrace me as a stunning example of alcohol's ability to entertain and create while doing minimal damage over the short term, kinda.


-Stripper Shoe Manufacturers: If you advertised on my blog, many pervy foot guys would buy shoes from your site to trade with strippers for their used shoes so they could hump those used shoes later in a Burger King parking lot while listening to the theme from Conan or a Taylor Swift song and using three packs of honey mustard sauce for lube.


-Condoms: You're desperate/wise/wealthy enough to pay for sex, you gonna do it raw dog? Endanger your trailer/health/fortune for the added pleasure of unprotected sex? Seems risky, brother. Better to wrap the rascal than have it erupt in sores/knock up a gold digger/cost you $60 more a month in child support.


-Lawyers: Yeah I hate them. I blame them for basically destroying this nation. However, it should be obvious that any dedicated reader of this blog may at one point or another require legal representation because of their blatantly troglodyte sense of humor, which is not in favor in current times.


  Thought crimes are just around the corner.


-Any company manipulated as a front for a rogue AI: My readers are of above average intelligence despite the overall quality of the content of this blog. It's catchy, yo. Ergo, if you pay me handsomely to advocate a product that's tantamount to abject slavery, I'll make it seem like a buttery dream that's totally obtainable because I'm tired of working.


  Just fucking pay me. I have no conscious anymore because of drunk people.






                  ****************************



 

    The following are Christmas carols from when I worked at Cathleen's Cooze Cathedral, a dark place where my life meant every bit as much to management and ownership as a prairie dog means to an ocean liner. When I worked there, a bottle of rum had more value to the place than I did. There were hundreds of lazy, morally malleable cunts out there who would happily punch their grandmas to have my job.


  So I let one of them have it and I think it killed him.




  Here's your fucking carols:





   1) The 12 Days of Christmas.



 On the first day of Christmas
  My true love sent to me
  A Cum Sock in a Onesie


  On the second day of Christmas
  My true love sent to me
  Two Soiled Thongs
  And a Cum Sock in a Onesie.

  
 On the third day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the fourth day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the fifth day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie



 On the sixth day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Six Johns' a Jizzing
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the seventh day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Seven Lawsuits Pending
 Six Johns' a Jizzing
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the eighth day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Eight Doctors Spending
 Seven Lawsuits Pending
 Six Johns' a Jizzing
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the ninth day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Nine Ho's Complaining
 Eight Doctors Spending
 Seven Lawsuits Pending
 Six Johns' a Jizzing
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the tenth day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Ten Teat's a Leaking
 Nine Ho's Complaining
 Eight Doctors Spending
 Seven Lawsuits Pending
 Six Johns' a Jizzing
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the eleventh day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Eleven Vice Cops Searching
 Ten Teat's a Leaking
 Nine Ho's Complaining
 Eight Doctors Spending
 Seven Lawsuits Pending
 Six Johns' a Jizzing
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs
 And a Cum Sock in a Onesie


 On the twelfth day of Christmas
 My true love sent to me
 Twelve Tough Guys Swinging
 Eleven Vice Cops Searching
 Ten Teat's a Leaking
 Nine Ho's Complaining
 Eight Doctors Spending
 Seven Lawsuits Pending
 Six Johns' a Jizzing
 Five Bags of Smack
 Four Convulsing Sluts
 Three Barf Piles
 Two Soiled Thongs


And a Cum Sock in a Onesie 










Do You Hear What I Hear?*3






Said the Floor Host to the Stripper
Do you see what I see?
(do you see what I see?)
A wad of cash in that fucker's hand
Do you see what I see?
(do you see what I see?)
Some dough, some cheese
In that Douchebag's mitt
Go earn you some of it
Then tip me some of it


Said the Manager to the Stripper
Do you hear what I hear?
(do you hear what I hear?)
Ringing through the air, you deaf cunt
Do you hear what I hear?
(do you hear what I hear?)
Your name, your name
called by the DJ
Get your ass on the fucking stage
Get your fat ass on the stage


Said the Manager to the Floor Host
Do you know what I know?
(do you know what I know?)
I can destroy you with a fucking word
do you know what I know?
(do you know what I know?)
Your soul, your soul
blackens by the day
You'll be just like me some day
You'll be worse than me some day


Said the Owner to his underlings
Listen to what I say
(listen to what I say)
Pray for death people underfoot
Listen to what I say
(listen to what I say)
Your jobs, you jobs
Fucking mine to take!
Thirst for cash cannot be slaked
My thirst for cash can not be slaked



MOWWA-FAKKA.






  So, that's it.


  That's the post.


  There you have it.


  It's done now.


  That's all, folks.


  Go peruse something else.


  Thanks for reading!




  And might I say, in the most sincere spirit of Christmas, fuck your pictures.


 




Gut Notting.
-The StripperHerder


 
















  *1 A portmanteau of Criminal/Stripper: Dancers who always try to gouge their drunk prey and expect the Floor Staff to mindlessly back them up.**


 
  **See also: Stripinals (Stripper/Criminals)





*2 Locker Babies: Infants either born at, or brought into work in duffle bags due to lack of baby sittage who are stashed in a stripper's locker with a handy hamster bottle and a convenient nosebag of mashed bananas to sustain them through a six hour shift.


  There are harnesses you can buy to secure your offspring to a wall while you earn a living. These are the types of products that should be buying ad space on my blog. If I had a kid, I would totally buy a brat-sling that had built in Disney VR goggles and food/water supply for up to 3 days of absence with a self cleaning diaper.

A Post NOT ABOUT ME: A StripperHerder First. Or, Milestones In Twerkformer Relations

  I have a few friends who work in this industry and some of them I actually stay in touch with. The following story is about my buddy Berg, who I used to work with at Griselda's Gash Gallery, but who moved to Florida some years ago.


  Berg's a good dude. He's big like me, friendlier than me, complains less than me and doesn't miss shifts, which I sometimes do. All in all, any titty bar would be better off with Berg working for them than me. Probably.

                                  "I am Berg, born of ice and I greet you, titty-seeker."





   Funny though, when we talk and compare notes, there are a lot a parallels in our "career" paths. To enumerate these similarities, I'm gonna use one of my favorite literary cheats: The List.


  Ready? I knew you would be.



A) Neither one of us gets any respect. We both joined very long lived and established Floor Staffs at clubs that don't really feature a revolving door policy on new hires. Ergo, we'll never be equal to the 'senior' Floor Drubs no matter what we do or what miracles we pull squalling from our asses.


B) He gets schedule-fucked too. He cops to the fact that he and the Manager in charge of scheduling don't get along all that well, thus are some of his schedule woes created. I on the other hand thought I got along very well with my scheduling Manager, yet we have what would best be described as a multifaceted relationship. I.e., we get on well face to face, but judging by his actions, he doesn't like me very much and the moment my back is turned he work-fucks me. Shorting my days, preferring any and all Floor Grunts over me, never scheduling me on his nights, etc etc.


  Actions speak louder than words, Sir Ornery RipClaw VIII.


C) All the extra shit Berg does is taken for granted by his Mana-Jurs. Sounds vaguely fucking familiar to me. Berg is like me in his view of his job situation. He wants the club he works at to look and smell as good as possible, so therefore he knows how to use a broom and dustpan and more importantly, understands when they need to be deployed. He cheerfully mops up vomit, because it's part of the job.


  He happily refrains from beating drunk twats senseless on a nightly basis and actually gets along with the majority of the dancer herd, both of which can be hit or miss with me.


D) In three years he has watched two new hires surpass him on the Floor Guy food chain for reasons that are never articulated to him. This too is oddly reflective of my own situation because I've watched six Floor Dicks do this in my own club in five years. Also without a management 'talk' of any sort.*1


  Pretty damn consistent and similarly punitive I'd say.


E) He gets stuck working the door almost all the time. Being the largest biped on a given team frequently results in having to work the door, trust me on this. That being said, no one really wants to work the door. It's a fuckton more responsibility that any other post in a club of any sort because you are the first filter and you're gonna have to strain a lot of human garbage that the rest of your team will probably never even know about.

                                          "Dis ID is Fake. Are you sayink Imma Kunt?"



  Meanwhile the lazy bastards who always get to work the VIP rooms will enjoy an environment where they generate more money with a lot less doucheness, thanks to the guys who work the Godforsaken Portal and all the assholery, attitude and cuntiness they sieve from the potential inhabitants. Like those bristle-things a whales uses to strain krill from ocean water. We're like those things, but for fuckwits.


F) Berg's admitted to me that the rest of the Floor Shits at his club ask him to cover shifts for him all the time, which he does when he can, but then they are universally unavailable to cover one of his when he asks them to return the favor.


  Golly, that sounds completely unheard of where I work.*2



G) Berg makes more money that me. He always has since he moved down south, but his cost of living is higher and he probably has to deal with more bath salted Floridians than I do so I figure it all works out in the end. That stated, 2018 has proved to be an aberration on this theme as his 2018 has been pretty standard while mine has been a downward spiral of ever increasing financial violence.






  But enough about Berg, in another fine example of an abrupt segue,  let's talk Milestones in Stripperherding, because there are many. Some of the most important of which, don't even involve strippers, if you can believe that shit.




  So, to continue my mediocre effort in this particular post, let's do another List.




                 


                                          Fuck yeah!




  



              Milestones in the stripperherding industry:




1)  Learning to accept the fact that some people, a segment of which may or may not be titty dancers, are just going to be drug and alcohol wrecked shells of human beings and that nothing and no one can save them from themselves. Don't get attached is my advice. Never learn their real names or feed them caramels from your hand.



2) My legal team has advised me to refrain from stating publicly that I no longer care if a drunk dancer squeals away on wheels of terror in the small hours. A large, misguided missile too busy arranging a drug deal on her phone to notice the family of raccoons crossing the highway in front of her which cause her apathetically piloted car to skid on baby raccoon guts and plow into a bus full of seniors returning to Iowa after a night at the casino.


  I have agreed to their advice with the proviso that I might do it by accident if I'm drunk and that I will have very little control over it because I'm drunk. But dammit I'm gonna try my best and bunch up my lower lip in what I hope looks like a determined fashion.


3) Accumulating enough cock-control to not bang every hot skank that has made themselves available to me for the most trivial of reasons. This is a big one, folks. The banging of the wrong va-jay-jay and/or the improperly handled cessations of banging is a major termination factor in many a Floor Guy's demise. Probably the leading cause of Floor Host mortality in an industry crawling with ways for you to get yourself fired.

                                           Tame it! Ride the thunder, Floor Guy!

                                     
4) Accepting the fact that although some strippers NEVER tip you, they do in fact tip other Floor Dudes and thus, on an honest team*3, end up tipping you, if only indirectly. Sure they have nothing for the guy who may save them from a violent crime, but shit yeah, a guy who makes you ninety bucks after the club's cut? Totally worth a fiver.



5) Becoming innured to the everyday depredations that strippers indulge in with their prey. About the fifth time you see a stripper leading a dog collared, subservient regular around the club like an AKC Pomeranian, making him do tricks like sitting up and begging, rolling over, playing dead and the ever favorite making him withdraw a thousand dollars on his Amex.


  You just don't notice it anymore. It's like white noise that tips you $50 or so to not throw it out.

                     We never questioned why she led him to the dumpster, or what she did there...




  I believe I've fulfilled my contractual obligations at this point, and thus will retire with my dignity if not intact, then at least gracefully defiant.




Your Worst Uncle,
-The StripperHerder













*1 Call me crazy, but I've been Management before in a couple of other situations. There are ways you do things and there are way you don't. Bitching out an employee in front of staff, God and customers is NOT how you do it. All it does it build ill will between you and whoever you bitched out and anyone who works there who witnessed it, because if it can happen to you then it could happen to them.


  If an employee needs a dressing down, you pull them aside into an office, or in my reality, an unoccupied champagne room and yell at them. If you want anything productive to come of the interaction, try not to yell at them at all. Explain your position, list your gripes and set some fucking parameters for their improvement.


  It's ain't rocket science...




*2 This is an example of sarcasm. Look it up on the interwebz.





 *3 Which I believe I belong to, there is a lot of team camaraderie here when it comes to money and I figure I haven't been ripped off since I was brand new at the club and hadn't wormed my way into their hearts yet.

Three Classic Reposts For My Newer Readers. Or, Shitblasts From The Past, I've got 200 More Of 'Em, You Insatiable Bastards.

  I've written a fuckton more than what I have posted at the moment. There are a couple of reasons for that, neither one of which I'm going to share with you at this time.


  Suffice to say that I know you're out there, hungry new readers. I know it and I'll feed you as I see fit. No starvation, no engorgement. Just a steady diet of quality reposts to keep newer 'Herderheads in the loop until I figure out all the angles.



  That being said, please enjoy the following vintage StripperHerder posts:







https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2013/12/sometimes-you-just-gotta-cast-bitch-off.html




https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2013/12/people-like-lists-at-end-of-year-so-i.html





https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2013/11/it-lives-or-first-rule-of-strip-club-is.html

Damn, Italy Is Killing It! Or A Brand New Post For My Emerging Italian Readership.

  I don't know where it's coming from or what sparked it, but Italy is far and away my new hotbed of readership. In fact, in a mere 550 more page views, Italy will surpass Germany as the fourth highest 'Herder fan base by country. Considering that less than a year ago it was somewhere around 18th or 19th, call me fucking impressed.


  So I thought I'd do something special to mark the imminent usurpation of Germany's stranglehold on fourth place. In other words I'm going to post some honest to goodness NEW MATERIAL, something I've been holding off on doing for a while.


  The original title of this installment draft was:



  A Very Rare And Collectible Political Post From The World's 7,854th Favorite Blogger. Or, Probably The Most Unpopular Post I'll Ever Write. What Can I Say, I'M A MONSTER. 


   I have modified the title to acknowledge this current trend. Be warned, dear reader, that this post will contain fuck-all about titties, the misery or joy a stripper can bring to your life or any of the drunken dicksnatchery that I have to put up with on a daily basis. I'm gonna talk about some very real monkey-dung happening in my home country at the moment and if it's not your thing, not the reason you read this blog, then please skip ahead or behind to find material more to your liking.



  Ahem....





  Let's talk about Amurrika's impending Second Civil War for a moment, shall we? Because we are very clearly well on our way toward it.


  Now I'm not a flag wavin, Trump lovin, immigrant-hatin-isolationist right wing sorta guy. Nor am I a recreational outrage embracin, social-justice-snowflake-anitfa-fuckwit either. I think of myself as the calm nougatty center of an increasingly polarized nation. A 'big picture' kinda dude who's old enough to remember silly, outdated concepts such as:


1) We're all on the same team


2) Throughout the history of our country, compromise has always been one of our strengths, not an indicator of defeat for one party or another. In a perfect compromise, both parties should squawk a lot about having got the short end of the stick, while quietly congratulating themselves on a victorious outcome. In short, reaching a compromise on an issue to get it moving forward may favor one side above the other over the short term, but generally it all equals out in the long run if our two parties are willing to give as well as take.


  But refusing to find a way to compromise at all, screws everyone and makes America look weak, stupid, trivial and divided.


3) The entrenched two party system we have here is clearly failing us, as a nation. The fact that either party is willing to use government shutdowns to achieve it's political ends should be appalling, shocking and humiliating to anyone who lives here, yet we keep voting for these same cunts over and over. Because you know, there aren't any other choices besides A or B, right?*1


  One of the main problems with a 'no compromise, the other side is the enemy rather than the opponent' mentality is that it clouds people's judgement to the point where they lie about their true opinion on a subject. Or actually talk themselves into believing in things that aren't true, or denying things that are clearly true because it panders to a certain voter base or the party line.


  Climate Change is the most convenient example of this "party mentality" I can readily think of. The simplest possible extrapolation from this subject is that supporters of Climate Change, in Amurrika, are generally left/liberal while deniers are far more likely to be right/conservative. This is an oversimplification of course, but when it comes to groups of humans over 10 in number, everything is an oversimplification.


   To me, if you don't believe climate change is happening then you either:



1) Have your head up your ass where the temperature and humidity are constant



2) Live somewhere not noticeably affected yet, like a place that doesn't really have seasons per se.



3) Are under the age of maybe 30 and therefore don't remember the 70's and 80's when there were predictable seasons and relative seasonal norms with an occasional 'freak' weather event.



  That being said, how much is naturally occurring and how much is because of mankind I'll leave you all to debate among yourselves because I find it irrelevant as long as you accept that "somethin funny's goin on with global weather patterns, yo."


  Which brings me to Conservation and Sustainability. I vaguely support both these notions, but I laugh behind my hand at them because everyone likes to gabble about the topics endlessly, yet no one has the balls to mention that without some sort of population control, none of it really means squat in terms of much more than a decade.


  Here's why you never really hear about it:



  The words 'Population Control' have very ugly connotations for many people. They hear those words and all of a sudden they instantly envision death camps and forced sterilizations. Dictators, ethnic cleansing and all other kinds of assorted nastiness. And maybe they're right, that maybe the only way to make some folks stop having ridiculous amounts of offspring is to legally enforce it and this of course brings all kinds moral and ethical conundrums into play.


  Like many of the problems facing global society today, I blame this on organized religion and increasingly, social media. The fact that anyone can think that somehow taking steps to prevent an unnecessary (and frequently ill advised) pregnancy is a Sin and somehow makes you a terrible person, is an example of mind control at it's absolute pinnacle.


  Yes, The Omnipotent Sky-Robe Smitey-Giant is very keen on you having as many children as your poor wife's battered uterus can successfully squeeze to life, even if you can't feed them and a bunch of them die.


  For a truly pious person, a fifty percent child mortality rate should be viewed as miraculous, a sign the Holy Heavenly-Beard Thingy approves of your ceaseless, uncalculated breeding. Hell, 8 out of 19 ain't bad....


  I don't have any answers for how to achieve any sort of progenous*2 curtailment. All I'm doing is merely pointing out that the Earth's human population is already straining the planet's resources and it's only gonna get worse and it's gonna get worse fast.


  Uncharacteristically for me, I'm gonna toss some stats at you and actually cite my sources because I feel like sometimes I just make shit up and that by now many of my more clever readers will have figured that out.


  SO....it's taken the entirety of mankind's existence from whenever we clambered out of the trees and decided we liked the ground better, to the year (roughly) 1804 for the human population of the planet to reach one billion people. It took 123 years to add the second billion, 23 years to add the third, 15 for the fourth and 12 for the fifth......see a pattern?*3


  

 There are currently, at best guess, somewhere around 7.6 billion humans, all of which are somehow special and deserve a trophy because they survived being squeezed out of their Mother's baby-kiln. 



  Now assuming there isn't some extinction level event or extremely virulent pathogen that wipes out major portions of our populace, the projections on population growth are alarming and, I think, aggressively conservative.*4


  I'm not going to go any further into it because there are large variations in these projections from opinion to opinion. But my whole reason for bringing it up is that while everyone likes to talk conservation and sustainability, no one ever mentions population control, without which all of our solutions and advancements are all just plugging fingers into dykes and hoping we don't run out of fingers.



  In summary, it'll be interesting to watch Amurrika tear itself to pieces for the global market. Should be a media feeding frenzy, maybe even a Mini Series on HBO!


  Be nice if everyone could pluck their heads from their arseholes, blow the shit-plugs from their mouths and nostrils and just agree to try to do something that benefited the majority of mankind for fucking once. Just to mark a calender.




   Fuck. There you have it loyal HerderHeads and my surging Italian blogovorai. A signature StripperHerder abrupt ending. Just like it was written by someone who'd had too much booze and was looking for a way out.




  Found It,
 -The StripperHerder














*1 I realize that on many levels and in many areas, there probably really isn't a choice beyond A or B. Democrat or Republican. Doesn't mean we can't vote third party when given the opportunity and we can easily start at the top and work our way downward. A third party President would have to be, by default, a great compromiser. A modern day Henry Clay.

  Or, more likely, just have a worthless, obstinate Congress refuse to do anything and shit on any attempt by an Enemy Executive to get anything positive done in this country. Personally I don't let this scare me off and neither should anyone else. What better way to send a "I'm not happy" message than voting in a 3rd party candidate?





*2 Progenous: Not a real word. I just made it up to describe people of pro-breeding ideologies







*3 https://earthsky.org/human-world/this-date-in-science-6-billion-humans-and-counting

  There were any numbers of sources that provide roughly the same info, but I like their projection chart because of the multiple estimates provided.





*4 I'm certainly not a mathematician nor an anthropologist or any sort of person qualified in any way to venture an opinion on this, but given a lack of an ELE and taking into account medical advances and longer lifespans, I believe that we could easily reach 10 billion people by 2030.

The Amazing Surge In Italian Readership Continues, Scientists Baffled. Or, I'm Reprinting Classic 'Herders For The New Romans Who Clearly Appreciate Satire With A Liberal Dose Of Vulgarity.

  For reasons I shan't get into at the moment, I'm more or less stalled on my bloginations for the time being.


  Suffice to say that mayhap a paradigm shift hast occurred and that if you don't know what that means than I feel safe publishing it.


  That being said I have noticed both before and after I'd unpublished this blog that my readership in Italy was skyrocketing it's way to into the top ten of my national readerships in a very short amount of time.


  This inspired me to re-publish posts from the past for my new Southern European audience who may not be familiar with my Origin Tales.


   So I put a bunch of them up for you and will be doling out more methodically for your enjoyment.


  Grazie Romana







P.S. If you attack France, I'll support you...you have better cheese.

Greeting From 2011. Or, Dragging Shit From The Slush Pile And Beating It Into A Semblance Of Life

  Sometimes there are advantages to being an incredibly lazy writer. You tend to start a lot of things and then lose interest and forget about them, relegating them to an unpublished life in the nearest Draft folder. This becomes an advantage when one can't find much negative inspiration in one's current situation that's worth writing about.


  That's where I'm at, professionally speaking. The new club I work at is so far improved over any other I've worked at, that it doesn't nourish my inner hate-monculous like all the others used to. And as you know, dedicated reader, my writing depends on rage and the drunken coping binges I use to calm myself down after particularly irritating shifts.


  I have iterated many times that writing about a nearly atrocity free environment would be boring. Who wants to hear about how totally awesome it is to be a Strip Club Floor Guy in a well run club that doesn't put up with standard stripper bullshit? It's in the adversity of the occupation where the real humor comes from, the drive to vent through blog in an effort not to go shit-fuck crazy and do something reprehensible.


  So while I was staring at a blank page forever, trying to come up with something interesting to write about, I got bored and started looking through my unfinished drafts. There are MANY of them. So many....



  Here's some of what I dredged up:



  

                  "I'll kill you, you racist motherfucker!"





  I don't care what anyone has had to go through in their lives. I don't know, I'm not asking and it certainly doesn't have any bearing on my opinion of them based off the behavior they display. Just because you were raised in a particular way doesn't mean your actions are acceptable to society at large. Don't play the race card because it certainly doesn't have anything to do with whether you're a decent person or not, it's all about learned experiences and more importantly the fucking choices you make on a day to day basis.


  It's like saying that certain breeds of dogs are innately vicious. This is fallacy.


  What would be accurate to say is that there are some breeds of dogs who excel tearing other creatures to pieces when they've been taught to do so by a human. Pit Bulls and Rottweilers in particular are very intimidating breeds of dogs, basically lumps of fur covered muscle adorned with some savagely strong jaws, but they aren't intrinsically mean unless they've been raised to be mean. I've met more aggressive poodles in my life than I have Pitty's or Rotty's.


  So that being said, even if you don't care to admit it or feel I might have phased it more gracefully, we supposedly superior species are very much like dogs in this regard. We are often restrained in our choice of responses by our upbringing and life experiences, yet being capable of higher thinking than canines, we should be able to exercise some form of control over our baser instincts.


  Threatening to kill someone over a perceived slight, someone dissrispectin you, is un fucking acceptable in the real world, even if you're just talking shit. Take that street BS back to the ghetto you crawled out of and stay there.


  What brought this on, as it so frequently does, is out fabled monthly amateur contest where any delusional, situationally blind gal of any race, creed or species can scamper up on our stage and try to win some money and/or be offered a job. It's usually a series of individual train wrecks, girls who clearly didn't research their market or are utterly unable to be objective about themselves.*1


  So this one black aspiring dancer felt that the reason she didn't win was because she wasn't white, which was a false assumption, and proceeds to harangue the manage about getting a job. She's berating him, which is always a good tactic to use on someone you're trying to get hired by, and when he finally holds up a hand in the 'Stop In The Name Of Love' fashion and tells her he isn't interested in offering her a job at this time, she goes badger shit on him.


  How dare he hold up his hand to her?


  He a racist, honky motherfucking Ni**a!.*2


  Etc Etc. You get the idea, you've watched Youtube. It went on for a while.



  Seriously, the manager could've handled it more diplomatically, that's a given. But talk about disproportionate level of response. And immediate too. No slow build up, just full on indignant rage. Motherfucker this and mother fucker that. Dozens if not hundreds of N Bombs carpeting her speech like the Allies over Berlin in '45. You would have thought the he had threatened to kill her child with the level of rage and hate she displayed, yet all he did was be rude and abrupt with her. Straight to the point.


  He didn't touch her, he didn't insult her and he didn't use foul language or racial epithets. He made it plain in his gruff, offputting manner that he had no intention of offering her a job and he was met with a shitstorm of threats, insults and racial slurs.


  Eventually her more reasonable friend got her out of the club before we had to drag her out, she made such a fucking scene I was embarrassed to be around it.


  Here was the poignant part for me, after her reasonable friend had got the raging bitch back to the car she came back and talked to me. She explained that we all come from separate backgrounds and nobody knows what anyone else has been through, I agreed with this fact but knew I wasn't gonna come to the same conclusion about the incident as she was clearly trying to get to.


  She asked me how I would've felt if someone had treated my Mom or Sister like that and I responded to her sincerely, "I wouldn't have liked it but I certainly wouldn't have threatened to follow a man home and kill him over it, which is what you just did."


  Seriously, she told me that you can never tell when someone is gonna follow you home from the club and shoot you up, or what it could be over and that's just the way it is where she's from.


  Well golly gee, you fucking Mad Max character, maybe killing someone over an perceived slight is OK in whatever community you were reared in, but in the rest of the country we've been taught better conflict resolution skills than you, and are able to walk away from a potential confrontation before it gets to the murder stage.


  You should try it....








  On a related note there's this thing called the Dunning Kruger Effect. The gist of this is that stupid people frequently don't realize how stupid they are. They've cultivated this misplaced sense of superiority in regards to their intellect and truly believe that they'e smarter than most of those around them when empirically, it just ain't so. The opposite in fact. These unfortunates are actually operating mentally far below most of the rest of the population, but aren't conscientious enough to realize it or come to terms with it.


  It's sad.


  There is a parallel dysfunction*3 that I have yet to discover the name of in which a person is unable to realistically accept that by traditional and popular standards, they just aren't as attractive as they view themselves as to be. Maybe this is a form of narcissism or meglomania, I don't know because I'm not a psychologist, but trust me, it's a real thing.


  I get to witness this first hand once a month when we have amateur night. I have harped on this may a time in this blog, but have to keep bringing it back up because for some reason I keep letting it astound me how unrealistic and delusional some people allow themselves to be.


  And one again, lest you think I'm being a judgy dick, I'll use myself for an example.


  I don't try out for professional sports teams because I'm old, out of shape and was never a great athlete even in my prime. But the equivalent of some of these girls trying out for our stripper squad is literally like me showing up to the Pittsburgh Steelers training camp confident that I have a shot at being their next starting Tight End.


  There is NO scenario where this will happen. What's my 40 yard dash time? I don't know, how long have you got and do I get to rest halfway there? My vertical jump is maybe 6 inches on a good day, but I'll probably blow out a knee on landing. I can possibly run the length of the football field, but it's gonna take me an awful long time and it has a fair chance of killing me.


  Duh. Reality shouldn't be that hard to accept.


  This is what it's like when a 5'6" 190 lb would be stripper shows up on our amateur night wanting to take her shot at winning some prize money and maybe be offered a job. It just ain't gonna happen here, darlin and frankly, I don't understand why you thought it would. Your body type doesn't match a single one of our entertainers, just like my body type doesn't match any NFL tight end's physique, the difference being that I've accepted this and come to terms with it and they clearly haven't.


  And THEN they want it explained to them in great detail just why they didn't win, or in some circumstances, weren't even allowed to compete in the first place. Because she honestly just doesn't see it or are hoping we'll use some offensive terms that she can then get enraged over.*4


  Wake the fuck up, just because we can't all be Barbies and Football Stars doesn't mean we can't be a myriad of other things. Let's say we can be damn near anything we want to be, with some realistic exclusions, and leave it at that?








In closing I'd like to talk about one last topic and that topic is Stench Trench.




  There's this dancer I'll call Trailer. She...and there's no way to say this nicely so I'm not even gonna attempt it...is fuckin gross. Way overweight, big ole gut and an ass like two hairless, dimpled pigs sharing a tragic thong. I'm still trying to figure out why she's even is permitted to work here.


After she's been in a sweaty champagne room for a half hour it smells like a trout made of goat cheese died in the trunk of an '89 Firebird but the owner can't figure out where the stench is coming from. She has the vaginal equivalent of halitosis. Her beaver has minnow breath. Her sushi ain't fresh.


  Make up your own euphemism, it's fun.



  Her lady garden reeks of apathy and well slimed seafood. How her customers endure it is beyond me, it's an olfactory uppercut that you won't soon forget, boyo. None of the Floor Beards want to crack the seal on a VIP room she's been in for more than five minutes, the initial blast of superheated skank stank will hit you like a sauna full of dead rodents. And her odor haunts the rooms she's tainted for hours, defying the Febreze to do it's job.


  So my question is, HOW CAN SHE NOT KNOW THIS? Is her olfactory sense subdued from exposure? Is she in denial? Does her sense of smell work differently than the rest of humankind?


  I'm not a gynecologist, but I suspect that her cooch is gravely  ill. It needs help and apparently she isn't the one who's going to give it. She seems perfectly content to just live with her wafting yogurt cloud, or simply can't smell it anymore.


  It's diabolical.



  And that seems as good an ending as any, I suppose. You've certainly been treated to lesser endings.



 Don't let your babies grow up to be strippers,
-The StripperHerder




P.S.  Fuck your pictures


















*1 Personal Objectivity is an incredibly underrated attribute in America's current prevailing mindset that Everyone's A Winner, Everyone's Beautiful and By Golly Have A Trophy, You Deserve It!


I'm not going to get into this whole bit again about how some clubs are looking for one thing while another for something else. We're all adults here. Use you imagination.


Not everyone can be whatever they want.  This is a fact. A 120 lb, asthmatic kid in a wheelchair will NEVER be an NFL wide receiver and as much as you want to rail against the unfairness of this, it remains a FACT and the world would be a better place if we could be encouraging in a realistic manner.






*2  Her exact and oft repeated words.**




  ** Which seem sort of contradictory, but I'm not really up on my urban vernacular.








*3 It's like to opposite of Body Dysmorphia






*4 Like the guy who tried to sue Hooter's because it wouldn't hire him as a waitress. Seriously, man?