Get Off The Stage, Oprah. Or, Some Tips To Make You Look Less Like An Asshole. Or Even, They Stabbed It With Their Steely Knives But They Just Can't Kill The Beast.

         "She's eerily resistant to edged weapons, kinda like knifing a smoked ham.  Let's try the golf clubs."







  It's a testament to the delusions some women are bedeviled by that we have to suffer the occasional monstrosity on our stage. Mostly this is because of lawyers. You see, it's like the guy who sued Hooters because they wouldn't hire him because he was, you know, a dude. Totally hooterless and 100% wanged.


  Hooter's wants hootered and utterly unwanged hot chicks to be their servers, dudes need not apply. They can't come right on out and say this because of asshole lawyers and overly sensitive civil rights activists, but it's definitely implied.


  The same sort of parameters are forced on strip clubs as well, because if you deny a girl the chance to even audition, then any sort of attorney-spawned civil rights horseshit can rear its ugly head. You run the risk, however small, of a lawsuit every time you decline a dancer before even giving her an audition because no matter how you state it, it seems like you're saying something is wrong with her. Like she's too fat, or too skinny, or too ugly, or too black, or too fucking hideous to work there.


  Therefore a strip club manager is sometimes forced, against all reason and humanity, to let some sort of shambling leviathan wallow around piteously on the stage because it wanted to audition. Somewhere, deep in its wildly fantasizing psyche, it hallucinated that it was hot enough to pass for a stripper, yet it was wrong.

                                "No pole skills whatsoever. Unclean box. Do not hire..."


  



              Horribly, horribly wrong.






  To us seasoned Floor Veterans, it's kinda funny. We've stared butt ugly in the face so many times we're immune to the loathing and profound sense of discomfort these creatures spawn. The poor audience however, not having developed the plate mail-like apathy of jaded Floor Twats, cringe with an undefined feeling of hatred and revulsion and are not equipped to handle it responsibly.

                                 

                                          Armor Class 1/+18 vs. Loathsome Skanks





 Back in the old days of course, a manager could just strike a dramatic pose and scream 'Back ye unholy seed of Tartarus!' and throw some valium at it and it would go away. These days though, that doesn't cut it. Everyone gets a chance, everyone gets a trophy, everyone participates and is valued for their contribution.


  Even if their contribution was like a maggot sandwich dripping with elk jizz.

                "Sorry, we ran out of elk jizz so we put moose spuzz on it instead but it's not the same."





               Sucks to be us, people.








  

  So you want to appear less like a walking bag of rotting foreskins and more like a human being, eh?


  Well perhaps I can help you then. You see, I've lived and breathed service industry for the majority of my admittedly advanced years. I've seen all kinds of good people and many varieties of animated trash. The service industry lifers, like myself, are very attuned to assholery and what we call stinking, fucking liars. You can't get much past a seasoned bar staff veteran.




  We've heard it all.




  Therefore I am going to try to help some of you hopelessly dickheaded and idiotic gobshites by giving you some much needed advice. Try to take it to heart, I'm sure you're a sparkling example of humanity when you're sober but when you lurch into my club hammered, no matter how charming and amusing you perceive yourself to be, you're merely another dumb cunt.


  A worthless slurry of cunt with feet.


  So, in no particular order, here's some advice.



1) If you're trying to drop a name in an attempt to get into the club for free because you're too miserly or broke to pay the cover, then try to drop the right name. I had a guy tonight that asked if 'Tom' was working. I told him that no, Tom isn't working here tonight because he, in fact, works at a competitor club across town, not here.


  So not only did this guy and his group not get in for free, they got to look like total shitheads in the process.


  Get your facts straight. If you want something free from Apple, don't tell them your a good friend of Bill Gates.


  Fucking morons.

                             "Maybe you don't realize this, but I like know the owner.....John?"






2) Brush up on Strip Club 101. Industry standard for songs is between 2:30 to 3:00 minutes. It doesn't matter if the song is 15 minutes long, it ends at no more than 3 goddamn minutes. So requesting the live version of Free Bird will not get you a REALLY long dance, it will get you exactly the same length dance of any Rhianna song you care to name.

  And so by extrapolation, if you stay in the dance room with a stripper through 7 song changes, then it's safe to assume that you owe the bitch $175, not $25. Just because you didn't ask for 7 dances, doesn't mean you don't owe her the money anyways. Dancers don't do 'free' dances, trust me on this. It is your responsibility to either say 'no' when she asks if you want to keep going, or to stop her if she just keeps dancing for you into another song.


  This is a classic stripper scam called 'dance stacking' and although it is against the rules at every single strip club I've ever worked at, no one ever does anything about it. Some dancers rely on this to buy the crack and similac. They find some poor schmuck who's too drunk to make any rational decisions whatsoever, or some guy whose friends want to buy him a dance and then they proceed to dance for him for 30 minutes.


  Dude is usually happy as fuck until the girl says "OK, that'll be $200." Poor bastards and his poor friends.


  They'll pay. They always pay.

                                            "I am frightened. Have some currency."








3) If someone in the industry does you a favor, like getting your whole party into the club for free, tip that bastard. 


  Service industry people work for tips. A lot of us make under minimum wage because we earn said tips. Therefore if you want some sort of special favor, show your appreciation with a picture of a deceased President for fook's sake.


  Let me cite an example from tonight. I got a call from a group of people I used to work with from a different place to pick them up at a downtown restaurant and take them to the club. No problem I say and minutes later I'm picking them up and hauling their asses to the club.


  Yay! Titties!


 So I arrive at the club and then they're like, "Can you get us in for free too?"


 "Gosh yes!' I exclaim, it would be my special pleasure to get all of you bastards (who ALL make more money than I do) into the club for free for zero consideration whatsoever on your part. While I'm at it let's throw in a shot of Louis XIII for all of you and a couple of bottles of Dom, on me.


                                 "NO! DON'T TIP ME!"


  My $7.50 an hour is more than enough compensation for the ecstasy it gives me to be taken advantage of by some former co-workers. It is just slightly more awesome than being assraped with a tire iron.


  This is known as abusing our fucking friendship. It does not give me warm and fuzzy feelings towards them.






4) Bachelor parties. You suck, everyone knows you suck, you know you suck and yet still it is illegal to shoot you in the face or anywhere else for that matter. I don't get it.


  At it's best a bachelor is a mess with someone trying to steer it. At it's worst a bachelor is a loose confederation of completely wasted broke guys intent on destroying as many people's nights as they possibly can.


  Chaos with a bunch of legs.


  And for fuck's sake have some kind of communication. The most trying experience of any bachelor party's life will be trying to get everyone out of the club at the same time. It is virtually impossible in my experience and it doesn't matter if there were 3 guys or 30. It simply can't be done without frighteningly strong organizational skills. And even then it's like corralling squirrels; amazingly difficult and mostly unsuccessful.


  Let me cite you an another example from tonight. A group of 18-20 douches erupt from a giant, full size limo bus. Picture a Greyhound bus emblazoned with pictures of hammered dipshits and you get the idea. So these guys do their thing in the club*1 for about an hour and a half and realize they have just enough time for their bus to get them back to whatever hole they crawled out of before they get charged for extra time.


  So about 6 of them head outside toward the bus, clearly expecting the rest of the party to join them momentarily. This of course didn't happen. Therefore 2 guys went back in to try to flush the rest out. Over the next 10 minutes another 6 dudes stagger out of the club. They put their heads together and manage to count everyone and figure out they're still 8 short of a full bus.


  Then 3 more go back in to not only find the rest, but to locate 2 of the original 3 who went in initially to find the remainder of the herd. 15 more minutes go by and 5 more guys come out. So a half hour has gone by and they're still no closer to heading back home than they were when they first entered the club.


  Much thought is carried out by the side of the bus and it is decided 4 guys going back into the club to search for survivors is the solution. But they were wrong again.


  Now I'd like to take a moment to comment on the layout of our club. Despite what you're probably imagining right now, it is almost nothing like a Minoan Labyrinth. It does have more than one room, but that's where all similarity to a minotaur-haunted maze ends. Sometimes it can be hard to find a member of your party because he's in the back room smothered in stripper. But careful planning or a cleverly placed tip can find you anyone.



  So back to our doomed bachelor party. Let's recap: our heroes have been trying to leave the strip club for roughly 40 minutes and they still only managed to wrangle 12 out of 18 bros'. Here the saga gets a bit repetitive as the dumb fuckers keep sending in men to what amounts to the Bermuda Triangle for short attention span drunks and while slowly making progress, they are nevertheless handicapped by a clear lack of intelligent leadership.


  I absolutely shit you not when I say that it took this bachelor party 90 minutes to finally free all of their idiots from the gravity well of the strip club.



  It was sad, like watching kittens choke to death on fluffy toys.





5) This is more of a personal thing, but is obviously advice need by some people, mostly dudes.


  Do not, under any circumstances, feel it is OK to approach any other male (much less a bouncer who can hit you hard enough to maim 3 generations of your family shrub) and stroke his facial hair with a ball-massaging finger action and expect to beat off with that hand any time soon. This is a disturbing action and while I'm not particularly homophobic, I do have an aversion to being touched in a familiar way by people I don't know.


  So in short, sorry about that hand, dude. I'm sure there's no lasting damage although I bet it fucking hurts, doesn't it? I'm pretty sure you'll never even consider stroking another guy's facial hair like that again, will you? Therefore, a valuable lesson has been learned without permanent disfigurement.


  You should've tipped me for the wisdom imparted. It will save your hand and possibly your life one day.....

                        "Actually, in retrospect, there's probably going to be some lasting damage."







  Oh Yeah, We Fucking Well Stabbed It With Our Steely Knives, But There Was No Slaying This Embodiment Of Pure Bitch Evil, And That's A Fact, Squire.




  Some bitches can't be fired, it's a sad and entirely frustrating fact. Some dancers, no matter how many demons issue forth from their hoo-ha are apparently above justice and beyond the law.


  There is no rational explanation for this.*2 But it sucks. Just when I thought I had escaped the confines of a club where the strippers ruled the roost, I find that they, in fact, rule every roost. And only shotguns, flamethrowers and pitchforks will reclaim what they've usurped.

               A rare picture of a defeated Stripper without her makeup or animatronic exoskeleton.







 Meh. That's about all I feel like sharing today. Feck off noo.....




-The StripperHerder
                 


                   








*1 Their 'thing' being yelling "Titties" and spending no money.



*2 Other than blowjobs and surprise anal sex.

And God Said Let There Be Shit, And There Was, Just Like That. Or, Sell Me Some Military Equipment And I Will Eradicate Your Stripper Problem With A Minimum Of Fuss And Some Negligible Structural Damage.

  What a bunch of fucking bullshit...


  So here's the new reality at my club which is in essence the same reality I've been through at every other club I've worked at as well. The Floor Guys are basically the 'police' force of strip clubs, we do everything that doesn't require a manager passkey and yet somehow we're supposed to do more.

                        Club Desire's Floor Staff prepare for an especially ugly champagne room incursion.





  The latest conundrum is girls missing their stage calls, girls being late for their stage calls and sometimes girls flat out refusing to go on stage. The owner is pissed off about it and makes the managers' lives hell so they pass on the misery to us. Why aren't we making sure the dancers are on stage when they're supposed to be?


  Well, let's see.


  First off it's a goddamn Saturday night, which is basically barely controlled chaos at best. Everybody wants something and they want it now. Secondly the Floor Guy staff is spread pretty thin because we're already compensating for the dancers' total apathy about rules. What I mean by that is we have one guy's job it is on weekends to make sure the entertainers have pasties on at all times when they're on stage and that they're not flashing their hoo-ha's like a medieval rat-on-a-stick vendor.

               "Anally impaled rats! I have hot and tasty anally impaled rats here! Four pence a pair, mustard extra!"






 That's his whole job. He's not talking to customers, selling champagne, counting dances or finding out if anyone needs anything. He's making the club absolutely zero dollars because his entire night is 100% dedicated to making sure some daffy bitches don't get us shut down if vice shows up.


  While you read this, keep in mind that a lot of dancers are idiots.*1 They walk around in a semi coherent daze, high as fuck on something, daydreaming about penis or cocaine or shoes or whatever it is that occupies an idiots limited processing power.


  Other girls are merely manipulative, calculating cunts who know what the rules are and simply don't give a shit. They know how to work the system and any sort of collateral damage is just the price of doing business.

                                        "My bib is made from the flesh of an inferior male."







  In addition to this we have the guy counting dances who is chained to his location. We have the guy running around on the bus transporting groups of drunk dudes yelling "TITTIES!" to and from the club. We have a guy stuck at the door because the Door Girls are fuck-all useless at dealing with over intoxicated or problem customers and everyone else is usually running around like methed up terriers trying to manage the VIP rooms, bottle service, bachelor shows and deal with the usual problems that drunk people create; such as fights, vomit and assholes who don't want to pay for dances.


  

  We're pretty fucking busy is what I'm trying to convey.



  So what we really don't have time to do is hunt down dancers who are supposed to be on one stage or another because they can't be bothered to do it on their own. The DJ, who's voice is like a annoying deity within the confines of the club, warns them on 2 consecutive songs AND announces them when they're supposed to be on stage. It doesn't get any easier, folks. The only requirements for successfully making your stage calls are not to be deaf and the ability to physically find and climb onto a stage.


  That's literally it.



  Stripping, while it contains many hidden traps, is NOT a difficult occupation. It makes very few demands of a girl outside of her physical appearance.*2 Some basic math skills, say at a 3rd or 4th grade level will suffice. It's also nice to be able to read, but ultimately not really necessary at all. A lack of dignity, counterbalanced by an over inflated ego is not mandatory, but helps. The ability to walk, not lurch, in heels can be useful as well.


  So for us Floor Grubs to be chewed out for the dancers' inability to make it to stage on time is motherfucking unreasonable. Every other club I've worked at just


  
  Fined a bitch.


  And soon they learned. Provided the fines were enforced, that is. But here all a dancer has to do is moan and bitch and if that fails, turn on the waterworks. Strippers can cry on cue you know, and many men can't handle girlweep. I'm one of them. I see a stripper crying I head the other way, like she's got ebola or face crabs. I'm just not going to deal with it because they cry so often I'm tired of it.


  All the snuffling and the leaking and the drooling.....


  Therefore there's really no punishment for them not doing their goddamn job and now I'm getting reamed for not making sure they do their jobs. When in reality it's the managers' responsibility to fine a lazy bitch, money being the only thing strippers care enough about to actually influence their decision making. But the managers are terrified of fining a ho because they're worried she will just jump ship to one of the neighboring strip clubs, possibly taking some of her cartel with her. And they're scared of firing dancers because of the wrath of the owner who wants all the benefits of a sociopathic, alcohol-fueled cash machine working for him without having to deal with any of the consequences. That's what he pays managers for.




 Its a giant circle jerk and the Floor Guys are the ones who end up eating the cracker. It's aggravating.*3



  At any other job you care to name, even Taco Bell, if you refuse to do your job there are repercussions. At the Bell if you say to your boss, "I'm not making that Meximelt, motherfucker." then you get fired, plain and simple. If you work at a restaurant and you decide you're not going to wait on the table of Asians that's in your designated area because you think they're not going to tip, then you'll probably get fired too.


  But stripping as an occupation encourages a total disregard for authority and this is mostly attributable to the owners. You see, owners want to have as many dancers as they can possibly get, even if the club can't sustain that many girls. They also want these dancers to be somehow hotter than all the other dancers at all the other clubs in the area. They don't really want problem strippers at the club, but in reality, problem strippers usually make a lot of money for the club and therefore are a protected species. Like orcas.





  It's a catch-22. A self perpetuating cycle of tawdriness that consumes itself like decadent Rome, falling victim to it's own self obsession as it's influence over others grows. A tor of hubris that promises a fall that may not be so frightening in and of itself compared to the abrupt stop forthcoming...


  Like a full bowel sewn end to end, it's a never ending poop loop. And we're all along for the ride in exchange for cool cars, alcohol, some cash and the occasional blowjob.


  Gods help us all.











*1 Pretty sure I've covered this thoroughly. For further details read virtually any post in this entire blog.




*2 And even that is pretty fucking flexible depending on club and shift. Most of our day shift girls could scare the paint off a tractor.



*3 And by 'aggravating' I mean fucky-fuck-cuntshit-whoreblast-shitty-ass-fuckity-fuck-scrotum-punch-dickhole rape aggravating. I just didn't want to type that in the body of this installment because I felt it lacked class.

Hi, My Name Is StripperHerder And I Am Here For You To Wipe Your Feet On. Or, Three Ways To Annoy A Giant Mammal And Possibly Get Away With It.

  One day a young stripperherder said to his dad as they were both eyeing a herd of strippers, "Hey Dad, let's run over there and smack one of those strippers!" To which the older stripperherder said, "No Son, let's walk over there and smack them all."


  "If only I could smack them all" I think wistfully to myself. Well, not really all of them, but most. I feel most of their lives could be enriched by a nice, hearty bitch slap to their vodka-holes.


  Tonight was a pretty frustrating night in some regards, which I will detail of course as I meander my way through this installment. We broke the cycle of sub $200 nights finally, but it was like pulling your ballsack through a kitchen drain; painful and very likely to leave a mark.


  So let's get into it. Let's wade into the shallow, scummy pool of my discontent and splash around a bit. It'll be fun.



  Things start off slowly of course. I wasn't even scheduled for tonight but had swapped a shift with a different Floor Host for what I assumed was a somewhat meaningful reason. Boy was I wrong. Turns out the Floor Snizz in question just wanted to go out with some other people from our club, an annoying dancer from another club and they were all going out to yet another club. All strip clubs, mind you.

  I wasn't real happy to find out this was the resaon he needed me to take a shift for him, but I did it and that's that. What really fucked my goat was that I had to haul their worthless asses in the shuttle bus to this other manky-ass strip club that apparently smelled of unwashed socks and vaginal disorders. I did this hoping one of them might throw me a tenner for my trouble, but my hopes were as lifeless as a stillborn puppy.

  Not one of my co-workers could be bothered to throw me a dime for my trouble. My fucking co-workers for crissakes. And one I was covering a shift for at that. Had our positions been reversed I most assuredly would've tipped the driver at least a ten if not a twenty. If for no other reason than the cab fare would've been more.

  So, yeah, eat a pile of foreskins you conniving, cheapskate assholes. Or better yet make a hat out of them and wear it around so everyone knows you're a dick.



  Fucking hell.




  The next part of the whole 'tonight sucked' paradigm was when "Tom" and his buddy wanted to get a champagne room with 2 of our dancers for an hour. This costs a lot of money, but good ole Tom wanted a deal before he'd agree to the room. So I went to my manager, Sir Orville Bumrot Skippydoo VIII and asked if we could give a break on the room fees.

  Sir Orville said that if they get 2 hours instead of one, he'd take half off the club's cut of the second room. So I go back to Tom with the manager's offer. Tom says no. He say's he's willing to do 2 hours if the second hour is free as far as room fees go. So I smile while I inwardly slay things in frustration and head back to Sir Orville and basically plead for him to agree to it so I could make some goddamn money.*1

  With a put upon grimace Sir Orville finally agrees to waive the club fee for the second hour, saving Tom $500.



 So...

  
  Tom is happy.


  The strippers are happy because Tom would've walked if he didn't get his way and they wouldn't have made $450 each.

  
  I'm happy because I recall fondly Tom's benevolence and generosity


  And the manager is unhappy, but who gives a fuck.



  Well then imagine my delight when I see that Tom has left me a $50 tip. Just one zero shy of the last time he was here, but a very important zero.


  Then, to add another fetid layer to this shit cake, the dancers covertly asked me to end the room an half hour early. I had no problem with this as I figured everyone's drinking and they were already in the room for 15 minutes while I haggled with the manager to secure the discount, so no one's really going to miss 30 minutes.

  Ha! I was wrong in my assumption for the Everyth time tonight. Tom had apparently set his watch the moment I walked out of the room after he'd signed the receipt. I tried to sidestep this with the artfully constructed bullshit that my manager had insisted I count the time from the moment everyone had entered the room as a concession to his waiving the second hour's room fee.

  Total lies like this work a surprising amount of the time, but not tonight. Tom stated that he had paid for 2 hours and that it started after he'd signed the receipt and that he had no intention of leaving before that time was up.


  I said, "Hey, you're the boss Tom. See you in another half hour." There wasn't a damn thing I was willing to do otherwise. The girls were just going to have to do what they were paid to do, and although I realize that it is cruel and abhorrent to ask a dancer to actually earn her $250 an hour pay rate, I was forced to do just that.


  So apparently the dancer-skanks held this against me because although they made over $450 each after they paid their House Fees, one stripper tipped out the Counter (i.e. the other Floor Guy working tonight) $4 and me nothing, while the second stripper stiffed both of us.


  Both of them will pay dearly for this of course, but the promise of future vengeance doesn't mitigate the immediate fiscal sting and associated feelings of choke-a-bitchedness.


 How's that for some fecal icing on an ass-fuck layer cake?







  And then there's Destiny. That's actually her real stage name too. I'm breaking one of my narrative rules by using her actual dancer handle for the simple fact that:

  

  There's a dancer named Destiny at every single strip club in America. Every last one. It's been scientifically proven, look it up.




  So Destiny's thing is a LED hula hoop, as if there's anything sexy about a daffy, mediocre looking broad slinging a flashing hula hoop around in her despair soaked bikini. But the manager, Sir Orville thinks she's just great for doing something different in a world of apathetic booty shakers and pole-clingers. Maybe he's right but I am not fucking impressed and to judge by her lack of making any money beyond a few stray ones, no one in the room was impressed either.


  Destiny leaves her hoop and her depressingly flat dorky shoes she wears while doing her bit in what we call Champagne Room 1, which is where I had to put Tom and his girls tonight. So I took her hoop and shoes and placed them in an adjacent VIP area which we call Cow Box 2. I didn't throw her stuff onto the ground or toss it carelessly over the Cow Box's wall. I reached over the wall, because I are all big and stuff and have enlongated arms, and place them in the Cow Box.


  Well I guess the hula hoop must have rolled out the Cow Box and down its 3 carpeted stairs onto the floor. Destiny sees this and proceeds to flip the fuck out.


 "Who the fuck did this? This thing cost me $500! I'll kill whoever did this!" Etc etc.



  She comes up to me while I'm busy trying to do five things at once and starts interrogating me about her motherfucking piece of plastic. I amazed myself at this point by remaining sanely calm and explaining to her that I did it and it was pure happenstance that her round object rolled down some stairs, but that I didn't just throw it on the ground. I had put it in the Cow Box and obviously it had rolled down the stairs and that I was sorry-it was neither what I had done nor what I intended.


  She just goes on raging at me until I get pissed off and tell her that she'd better take her attitude down a notch and start speaking to me like a fellow human being and not something she found swimming around the bottom of her toilet.


  And I'll take this opportunity to point out three things concerning this whole situation:



A) There was no damage whatsoever to her fucking hula hoop


B) While onstage she had dropped her hoop twice during a performance where it bounced off the marble tip rail and then to the ground and it was fine. Therefore rolling gently down three carpeted stairs was highly unlikely to cause it much grief, and


C) If she paid $500 for this LED lined hula hoop then she's a cocksucker of an idiot because I couldn't find one on Ebay for more that $80. That's like saying you paid $70,000 for a Kia. If you did, you're a fucking moron and shouldn't be allowed to run around unsupervised.



  The only consolation about this whole matter is that Sir Orville didn't try to make me apologize to her after I told her to go fuck herself. Which I wouldn't have done anyway.





  I'm not doing pictures, I'm drinking hard and serious now.



-The StripperHerder










*1 The only reason I fought for this is because the last time Tom was at the club he did a room with 4 clients and 5 of our girls for 2 hours and tipped me $500.

An Interview With The Vag-pire. Or, Strippers Say The Darnedest Things!

  I sacrifice for my readers, I really do.*1 I willingly wade into horrific situations thinking to myself "This giant pile of assfuckery will make for some excellent blog material, yay! My readers will be so happy when I tell them about all the blood, fecal matter and stripper tears."


  Therefore I decided to do something new here at The Plight-an interview with several dancers. I knew this was going to be like throwing my brain into a wheat thresher, yet I didn't care. I figured if strippers haven't killed me yet, surviving some one on one Q&A sessions was completely doable. Now that I'm out of the hospital and the doctors have assured me there was 'minimal lasting damage' to my psyche, I'm ready to publish the astonishing results.


  I recommend drinking heavily while you read the following material, it will help you understand what the hell they're saying. I will warn you however that some of the transcript below is of a disturbing nature and shouldn't be viewed by the faint of heart or stomach. I have carefully chosen some of the more interesting responses and edited out all references to Satan, The Unholy Triumverate and vaginal lesions.


  You're welcome.



  Without further ado I give you excerpts from the...





          

           Interviews With Strippers







  Our first featured dancer is Lin-duh, stage name Stormy. Age: Unknown, but pretty old. Stormy's been in the industry for a long time, presumably since womens underwear were known as 'bloomers'. She's a seasoned veteran (read: depressing and world weary) who could've retired many years ago had she the merest inkling of investment sense or any financial acumen whatsoever. But no, she still shucks for bucks and it is a heart rending experience to witness.

                                        "Would anyone care to see my squirrel steak? Anyone...?" 








Me: "How did you get started in the industry?"


Stormy: "Well I wanted to go to college and become a doctor, but back then they didn't let women go to school past the seventh grade so I got a job slinging drinks at the local saloon. Soon after that I noticed that if I let men pinch my bottom and grab my boobies, they gave me a better tip. Then one day I went to a carnival and saw the tent where women would dance the hootchie and I said to myself 'I can do that' and the rest is history."


Me: "Ancient history".




Stormy: "What?"



Me: "Nothing. I see you have breast implants. When did you get them and did they boost your income?"


Stormy: "They're pretty recent, like 1987 I think. And yeah they did help out a lot at first, but now they really don't and I can't for the life of me figure out why. I mean, look at them, they're perfect!"


  At this point in the conversation, Stormy pulled down her top and two pale, liver spotted badgers lunged out straight at my face. After I realized these were her tits, I got up off the floor, sat back down in my chair and holstered my pistol. Then I resumed the interview.



Me: "So how old are you, Stormy?"



Stormy: "A gentleman never asks and a lady never tells, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm 38."



Me: "Thirty...?"



Stormy: "Eight. That's right. Should I show you my tits again to prove it?"



Me: "Gosh, no! I'll mark down 36 just to be safe."



Stormy: "You're so sweet."



Me: (Shudder)






  This next excerpt is from my enlightening conversation with Sarissa, stage name Clarissa. Age: probably 22 but her people's religion forbade the use of calenders, so she's not really sure. Sarissa is what some bigoted, judgmental folks might call 'trailer trash', but nothing could be further from the truth, she lived in a house in fact.*2 Sarissa was raised a strict Xxxxxxxxian, which is pronounced 'Bun jo EE An', but since the Church of Bunjo, Fiddler, forbids the learning of letters and numbers, it's spelled Xxxxxxxxx.

                                      "May God's Flail leave you the use of one kidney. Amen."









Me: So Clarissa, last Tuesday I heard you had a pro ball player make it rain on you. How much did you end up making that night?"



Clarissa: "What's a Tuesday?"



Me: "Um, the day that happened before the day that happened before yesterday.


Clarissa: "Oh you mean last Crimpkin*3? Well yeah there was this enormous bla....African American fella and he threw a bunch of all those dollary things that the Condemned use to pay for stuff. My Dad always takes what I make and burns it so we won't go to WalCerberon when we die."


Me: "Um...."



Clarissa: "WalCerberon is like a really bad place. My Dad says it would be like Detroit if the Lions ever won the Superbowl, but I don't know what that means and my Mom says that Dad is a horrible sinner and will stand in line forever in WalCerberon for his heinous knowledge."


Me: "....absolutely. So how is it that you're a stripper for a living? If your parents are that strict and your religion that fuc......traditional in it's observances, how is it OK for you to take off your clothes for money?"



Clarissa: "Because the Prophet Merle says so, silly. We started really young at the local Grange when the Prophet Merle had his bible burnings. Stripping is the sacred responsibility of all girls he says...."



Me: "I'm gonna stop you right there before we go down a path that's, quite frankly, really creepy. Let's get back on topic. You're from a very small town*4, how was it making the adjustment to city life?"



Clarissa: "Well it wasn't easy. Dad makes me wear a blindfold to and from the club where I work at so I don't see sinful things like stores or foreign cars. So mostly it was just a matter of stopping myself running and screaming every time I saw what I now know are called 'people of other races'. They were really scary at first.


  Then I had to get used to drinking what everyone calls booze around here. I couldn't believe it at first how people would drink this stuff and then stagger around doing stupid things. We have that stuff too sorta, except our is always clear and comes in mason jars and we use it to power our tractor that we're allowed to use every other Pluppton.*5 My Uncle Dad makes it in his dancing barn and we were raised on it. The stuff they serve where I work has been thinned out with a lot of water I think. Someone should do something about it."



Me: "So you've been dancing naked and drinking moonshine since you were ten or something is what you're saying."



Clarissa: "Oh gosh no, younger than that, we...."



Me: "This interview's over."











  Our next gem comes from a dancer named Brittney, stage name Anastasia. I refer to her as Anastasia XXIX because according to my records she's the 29th different stripper I've worked with in 15 years who calls herself 'Anastasia'.*6


  Anastasia is not the brightest bulb on the Christmas Tree, poor thing. But because Our Lord Savior sometimes tries to prove he's not a total prick, she has a really great ass and a mesmerizing face. She makes it work for her despite her handicaps of two testicle-sized boobies and crotch full of shaved pastrami engaged in a constant border war with her thongs.

                                         "I am the world's hottest corned beef sandwich."








Me: "So why did you choose the stage name 'Anastasia'?"


Anastasia: "I totally saw this cartoon once and it had a princess named Anastasia and I thought hey that would be a great name for a stripper and I bet no other girl would ever think of it. Hee-hee."


Me: "Can you spell Anastasia for me?"



Anastasia: "Ay-en-ee I think, 7, ess-ach-why-ay. Or something like that. I'm not totally a great speller. Hee-hee."


Me: "Your breasts are like two small mounds of uninteresting silly putty. Do you feel this ever holds you back from making more money in your chosen profession?"


Anastasia: "Wow, yeah, like totally! If I could afford it I would get like double D's crammed in me tomorrow! I met this guy once who said if I came to his house he would do them for like a thousand dollars, but I didn't have it at the time and I haven't seen him since. I totally wish I would've taken him up on his offer when I had the chance, good luck like that doesn't come round very often. Hee-hee."


Me: "Um, it didn't occur to you that he was probably a serial killer or something?"


Anastasia: "No, I'm like totally a great judge of character and stuff. He was a really nice guy. Hee-hee."


Me: "You're probably totally right. So what kind of car do you drive?"


Anastasia: "A Scion TC. It's stands for totally cute! Hee-hee."


Me: "Thank you for participating. Totally"





  My next interview is with Melinda, stage name Eyrnyrtristananniaka, or something like that. She confuses syllables with class somehow and chose the most idiotically complex titty-name ever conceived. Melinda is fucking stunningly hot. Seriously, if my jaded, hypercritical ass says she's stunningly hot, then believe you me, she's hotter than a homeless kid's bike.

  Fortunately for mankind, she has little to no idea how to actually do her job. If I could somehow transplant a malevolent old stripper's monstrous brain into her delicious, lithe and taut little body, I could create something capable of altering entire local economies as guys lined up to give her money and she spent it on astronomically priced fashion accessories and expensive cars that she wrecked 3 days later. She would have virtually unlimited earning power and soon her income would eclipse medium sized African nations' GDP.

  This girl is that hot. RIDICULOUSLY SO.


  But I've gone on about her insane good looks enough. Here's a portion of the interview...

                      "For $500 you can lick the inside of the washing machine that cleaned my underwear."










Me: "Fuck you're hot. How did you get this hot?"


Melinda: (blushing)*7 "I don't know. I just grew up this way."


Me: "Snarling baby Jesus, you're smokin. I want to make a broth out of your panties."


Melinda: "What?"


Me: "I said 'When did you realize your exceptional good looks could provide you a means of making a living?'"


Melinda: "Well I realized when I was probably 10 or so that I was a lot prettier than all the other girls and was only gonna get hotter as I went through puberty and into my teens. I always figured I'd be a model, but they say I'm not tall enough so I became a stripper instead."


Me: "God was good to us that day for a change."


Melinda: (smiling uncomfortably and edging away from me) "Yeah, I guess."


Me: "Do you have any pets?"


Melinda: "Yeah I have a pet hedgehog named Sonic and a bunny rabbit named Sedgewick. They are SO cute!!!"


Me: "Oh, I bet they are...."



Melinda: "You're scaring me. I'm leaving now!" (She flees the room.)


Me: "Wait! What kind of car do you drive?"






  The final dancer I'll include in this installment is Quim, stage name Fucking Quim, Lesasaurus Rex, Miserable Dyke, Angry-Meat-Eating-Cunt-Devouring-GunTwat. She's one of my all time favorites as you can probably tell from my fond nicknames for her.

  Quim is a miserable person. Not miserable like me, as in just crusty and disagreeable like someone's obstinate grandpa, nope. Quim is a full on easy to hate bitch. She's never been happy in her entire life and even when chin deep in snizz she's probably still a depressed sociopathic alcovore.

                                                "Want to watch me fist-rape my girlwhore?"









  But enough loving praise, here's the excerpt:




Me: "So why are you such a cunt?"


Quim: "I'm not a cunt, you're just a giant fucking asshole."


Me ....."OK, I'll give you that one. But no, really, you're a raging cunt. Why?"


Quim: "Just because I like to get drunk at work and fight with my girlfriend doesn't make me a bad person. You think because you have a dick that everything you perceive is the way things really are. Well I got news for you, having a dick doesn't necessarily make you a good judge of reality, asshole."*8


Me: "So you've never had a dick. Attached to you, I mean?"


Quim: "Of course not."


Me: "Well then you obviously don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about, penially."


Quim: "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"


Me: "What kind of car do you drive?"


Quim: "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"


Me: "What's your favorite color?"


Quim: "Are you fucking crazy?"


Me: "I'm guessing it's a sort of pink that gets kinda ruddy toward the edges. Maybe even bordering on brownish."


Quim: "Fuck you! I'm fucking out of here."


Me: "It's a Scion TC, isn't it?"




  So there you have some of it. I have pages and pages more of interviews I have yet to make up publish, and I will be sure to do so at an undisclosed future date. Until then I encourage all my faithful readers to throw a link to this blog on Reddit or some other people reaching site that I know nothing about. I really can't escape this haunting notion that I should have more readers and I think anyone reading this will probably agree.


Share away, please
-The StripperHerder















*1 No I don't. I would've had to do all the crap anyway, but I do think of my cherished readers when I'm moving a mound of feces with my hands or mopping up some stripper spoor.



*2 A less compassionate but possibly more candid author may have chosen any of the following terms to describe the 'house' Sarissa was brought up in: shack, hovel, dilapidated cabin, abandoned outhouse, shed, pygmy barn, pile of random lumber, shithole.



*3 Near as I can tell, this translates to either 'Tuesday', or is a generic measure of time roughly equal to 72 hours.



*4 Again, a less charitable interviewer may have opted to use any of the following terms; cult stronghold, compound, armed camp of religious nuts, Crazyville.



*5 I don't know, Friday maybe?



*6 My research indicates that exactly 0.0% of the girls who've chosen the stage name 'Anastasia' have any idea that the name was made famous by a lost Romonov princess and all the furor that surrounded her disappearance for many years thereafter and even to today. Mostly they just associate it with Disney which, again, is kinda creepy.



*7 Real strippers don't blush. They are no longer physically capable of it unless they're having a stroke.



*8 Although I haven't researched it, I'm pretty sure it does. Once you get past all the sweaty, rutty things it wants you to do, that is.

If Saturday Night Was A Person I Would Stab It In It's Face, Set It On Fire And Fuck Its Charred Remains Before Feeding Them To My Ravenous Pack Of Quasi-Feral Dogs. Or, Maybe Your Management Style Sucks A Giant Container Of Deformed Cocks.

  "Why didn't I go to college?" was a question that weighed heavily on my mind tonight. Why couldn't I have just have sucked it up and got a bachelors degree in some virtually meaningless field like communications or supply chain management? Then maybe I could've been something fulfilling like a telemarketing manager, or the guy responsible for making sure a tarp company had enough grommets to keep producing tarps.


  Oh what a glorious feeling that must be. Alas, I wouldn't know. I herd strippers and drive drunks around in a shitty limo bus for my bread which is about as fulfilling as a mugful of powdered smegma. Then when all the drunks are gone and the strippers have been herded into their four wheeled engines of terror and death, I get to clean the club even though we supposedly pay a cleaning lady to do that job.


  We got our asses handed to us tonight. Nothing we could do, no speed we could achieve our duties with was enough to keep up with demand. We were shit-fucked busy. Busier than a cocaine fueled hamster orgy in a giant barf splashed Habitrail.


  The Town kicked us in the balls continuously and mercilessly for six hours and wouldn't stop until we forced every last wasted prick out the goddamn door. I've never witnessed a titty feeding frenzy quite like it before and I hope to never again. It was like a truckload of nipples dumped into a piranha tank, frenzied and disconcerting to watch.


  
  If the club didn't make 30 grand tonight I'll eat my sweat soaked underwear and then blow a rottweiler.




  Thirty grand in one night makes it almost seem like we're in a real city. For our pathetic little market, thirty thousand dollars is heroic money. Fucking heroic, I say. Every single employee from the lowliest spooge-mopper to the lofty managers busted their asses tonight.


  
  It was total carnage, capitalist style.


 
  "So you all made good money" you simper. Well in this case you'd be wrong. Busyness normally doesn't equate to more dough, and in fact this is usually not the case. To illustrate this, eight out of my ten best nights in the industry were on a slow weeknight when just the right whale came in and was landed by just the right dancers. Poof! Money happened.


  Volume, in our little corner of the world, doesn't translate to bigger money. It just means we put up with more bullshit and vomit for less cash.




  We sold over 60 champagne rooms tonight. That's right, 60. Considering an average Saturday night is around 25-30, I'd feel justified saying that the owner is happier than a pedophile in a daycare center. So it leaves me wondering why the Manager, Sir Belligerent Enema Handmedown III was such a despicable fucking asshole tonight.


  "What did he do?" you ask. Well it will be my privilege and honor to tell you, dear reader.



   He was, generally, a giant chancre sporting dick. I can say that and know what I mean, but as outsiders to this shameful business, I will enumerate the worst of his offences and let you be the judge.



  1) This is my favorite. I was working the door which is my usual position after we stop running the shuttle bus. I am the largest Floor Creep, therefore I am the face that greets each and every drunk cunt that makes its way to the club after 2 am.


  So I'm sitting there doing my job when I see someone I used to work with but haven't seen for a couple of years come through our door. The cover charge at this point is $25 per person but I tell the door girl that I got this guest and the person they're with, that they're in for free. This is because I know this customer is going to spend a few bucks and getting them in for free is the least I can do.


  Well Sir Belligerent sees me do this and gets all shitty with the door girl as to why these two people were let in for free. She and I both tell him it's because I allowed it and that all responsibility falls on me. He starts raging about free entries, a measly $50 when we've had around 150 people pay that cover on top of a stellar night.


  Then he makes the poor door girl pay the $50 out her own pocket.


  She tells me this and I'm completely floored. Sir Belligerent regularly allows a flow of Euro Trash in for free because they speak the same heathen tongue as him. These arrogant cocksuckers never spend any money but stand around and harass the dancers to come home with them, or as they put it "Get in the sports car!" Or, "I fock ewe su goot, bay-beeee!"


  So for him to charge her, not me, for letting in two customers who actually had money and not turnips to spend, made my fucking blood boil. Of course I paid the door gal out of my wallet and not my tips and proceeded to get really fucking pissed about it.


  What a colossally penile move to pull. On a night where we're breaking income records even.



   So cunty....



  2) Then when the all the wasted assholes were gone, the last stripper had been shoved into her rolling kill box and all the math is taking place, we Floor Tripes pay the Barbacks to do our cleaning for us. It's a win-win-win and I'll tell you why.



  -We Floor Guys don't want to clean anything

  -The Barbacks love making extra money off us

  -They do a WAY better job of it than we do


  Therefore when the Floor Turds pay the peasant Barbacks to do their jobs for them, everyone should be happy, God knows that we are and they are for sure.


  But somehow His Excellency, Sir Belligerent Enema Handmedown III, wasn't happy with this unholy covenent. He got really dog scrotum about it and reamed us like recalcitrant slaves, spewing invective on our soft and lazy nature.*1 Screaming at us that's it's our job even though we are purposefully terrible at it.




  I mean seriously. Why the fuck would you care if:




A) The job's getting done better because Barback work ethic is 3 times that of the Floor Boreds.


B) You have two groups of employees that are happier with their jobs than otherwise would be, and


C) You achieved all this without costing the company a single red cent or yourself any effort whatsoever.




  It makes you fucking look good as a Manager for chrissakes. You killed 3 birds with one stone by doing nothing more than keeping your rotten, shitty temper to yourself. By doing and saying nothing you've made your workforce happier and your club cleaner for zero cost.






              What a fucking asshole.






  You'd think a man who just broke every earning record for the club would be in an indulgent mood, I know I would be. I would've bought every goddamn employee a round on the house and told them how proud I was to have a team like this that had stared rampant assholery in the face, punched it in its dick and taken its wallet.


  I would've been proud of my hiring decisions and started planning what I was going to do with the earning bonus that I was about to receive.*2



  But that's just me. I'm a silly old fashioned man mired in attitudes of the past obviously.



  I would've completely failed to stomp on the backs of my support system.






  The back of my shirt does not say 'Welcome',
-The StripperHerder







*1 You know, the guys whose hands had handled two thirds of the money that had just run through the club.

  Yeah, those guys. Because we sucked or something.





*2 I.e. What kind of new gun I was going to buy.

Waitresses Are Just Dancers In The Larval Stage. Or, The Top Ten Names I Would Call My Strip Club If I Owned One.

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