Misunderstood Moments In Stripper History, Part One: Just A Trim, Please. Or, I'll Take Random Stripper Trivia For $500, Alex.
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The Untold History Of Viking Titty Bars In Saxon England. Or, Meet Some More Of The Team, Part Two.
My career in the strip club industry has changed over the years, undeniably for the better. I fondly recall my first job in the industry which was actually the chef at a high end club. I didn't start out as a Floor Guy, I worked my way out from the kitchen like a fat, lazy caterpillar that took it's sweet time transforming into a butterfly.
A fat, lazy, asshole butterfly.
But I was destined to become a Floor Host, it was written into my genetic code. My family's men have been stripperherders all the way back from when the Vikings burned all the Saxon strip clubs down and opened their own. Clubs such as The Gold Wolf, Alla's Valhalla, Enthrallment and the Spearmint Cave Bear all claim to be the the very first Viking titty bars opened on Albion, but the historical records are far from complete and frequently conflict in opinion.
My ancestor, Bjolf Bastardsson, was a Floor Guy at Enthrallment from 796 to 798, when he one day slaughtered its inhabitants and burned it to the ground. He was working at the Gold Wolf the very next day and no one said a thing. Probably because of the fucking axe he carried. His giant, fucking axe.
By all accounts Viking strip clubs were pretty lively places. They were nothing at all like modern day concepts of the gentlemen's club's or the corner titty bar you grew up down the street from. No, clubs back in those days were.......unregulated and sort of boisterous in a casual murder sort of way. Lots of people died in them, every night, and sometimes it was the dancers.
Look at how much progress we've made: nowadays you can't even bring a throwing axe into a titty bar, much less chuck it at a random dancer. That's what I call social benevancement*1.
Oddly enough, in Viking times slaying a dancer would invariably incur a fine. If the dancer had been a free woman, stripping to feed her kids, then her killer would have to pay weregild. And if she had been a thrall, forced to dance to feed someone else's kids, then her killer would've had to pay whorgild. Vikings were very abiding about that sort of thing; they'd pay a fair price for what/who they slew.
Unfortunately for titty fans everywhere the rise of Christianity ruined everything for everybody, which is essentially all you need to know about Christianity-it ruins everything, for everybody, all the time. Christians brought about the notion that the female body was something to be ashamed of and hidden, rather than worshiped and venerated like in so many pagan faiths that preceded it.
Vikings loved the female form, they idolatized and revered it. Bitches and Bitch Futures were commodities that were traded regularly on the Viking Stock Exchange. The seafaring practice of mounting a figurehead on the front of a ship evolved from the Viking practice of dragon and beast-head prows. Someone decided that dragons were kinda scary, so why not slap a set of tits up there instead? Everyone loves tits. Seemed like a no-brainer.
But as the followers of Christ gradually subsumed the Viking culture, the Church shut down all of the titty bars, citing hygienic reasons such as females were dirty and evil and shit, or females didn't have a dick. Therefore since most of the records from the time were kept by Christian Priests, many of whom were rabid cockhounds, no mention is ever made of the rowdy, mead soaked cooze-halls of the Vikings.
Such a shame.
Meet Some More Of The Team, Part Six
Wendy McCalluff: This gal used to be a stripper back in the day, but then allowed a wanted criminal to impregnate her, causing a condition known as 'offspring'. So when Wendy became too waddly to dance anymore she became a Doorgirl, because being greeted by an ominously pregnant girl is what every patron dreams of.
Wendy sloughed the pup and after a week so returned to work the door, a bit too plump to consider going back to the stage any time soon. Then after the infant had matured for a couple of months, Wendy begins to show up at the club on her nights off wiff all her BFF's; drunk as fuck and wearing stretchy clothes she must've needed a running start to get into.
This wasn't an issue until she started calling off about once a week, just because she wanted to go out that night or was hungover from the night before. I'm not being judgemental about morals here, new baby or not do what you want to do. It's 'Murrika after all.
But professionally your decision to call off every 3rd or 4th shift causes chaos in my continuum due to inadequate Doorgirl reserves and I can't believe Management hasn't fired your for your bullshit yet.
She has actually called off sick from work and then showed up at the club all fucked up with her little suburban 'posse' in tow more than once, and yet still has a job.
Ivana Poutvainly: Our former Soviet Bloc ice princess bartender. She has the most amazingly chiseled resting bitch face I have ever seen. It's like the all the Plagues of Jordan are upon her and she doesn't drive a $70,000 Mercedes around; frowning out luxury windows at an absence of T-34 tanks crushing partisan fighters in her name....
But she's hot as shit. Sex with her would be like a war that any man would be happy to lose.
Cerebro Pummelot: Cerebro is a generic name referring to human douche machines who insinuate themselves into the club security industry. These idiots are dangerous, thoughtless and destined to extinction through lawyers, but still manage to find a niche somewhere in desperate security details everywhere.
By all that's holy, I think I've done enough despite the CONSTANT DISTRACTIONS that life puts me through. This is it. I'm done and ordering pizza.
Nubs you all,
-The StripperHerder.
*1 Benevancement: A word I just made up which is short for 'beneficial advancement', or a nice way of saying we kill each other less often and feel worse about it than we used to in times past.
*2 This is an example of successful editing. What I had originally wrote was much too vulgar to print in this discerning blog.**
**I'm still slightly ashamed by what I did write. But that happens fairly often in this
How Not To Get A Job At A Strip Club. Or, I'm Going To Pretend For Five Seconds That You Aren't A Vapid, Dreary-Souled Bitch.
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You Can Lead A Stripper To Vodka But You Can't Make Her Stop Drinking. Or "I Order You Lowly Floor Guys To Stop A Monster Truck Using Only Your Taints. Get To Work."
Some people need to eat a 4 lb bag of damp cock jerky. I'm not gonna mention any names but will fictionalize the people and circumstances in a forthright manner and let you be the judge.
My manager, Sir Rayjoulous Von Wrathsack II, could use a side dish of dried wang strips in his diet paired with a piquant spunk based dipping sauce. It's awesome, morale building fun when he spatters his fucking misplaced muff-rage onto us pitiable Floor Quims. No really, we love being screeched at and dehumanized for his satisfaction.
The most special part of it is when he brays about something that's utterly impossible to expect us to do. Like reversing time or assfucking a porcupine.
I realize at this point that a lot of you reading this have no goddamn idea what I'm talking about so I will elucidate things for you.
Here's the scenario:
We planned for a 'slightly less busy than usual' weekend night and were not disappointed. For the day of the week, it was noticeably slower than usual due to the holiday. Good for us, because our synergistic and proactive Management Team contributed their combined fuckwittedness to what might have been a relaxed, well staffed and profitable night.
But it wasn't.
It was fucking painful and it didn't have to be.
Among the diversified fuckups the management perpetrated tonight, you might include, depending on your point of view:
1) Not having a Bar Back scheduled. We employee four of the fucking things and yet Dynamic Management Team 13™ (codename: Osiris) decided that letting all four of them take tonight off sounded like a good idea. "We'll just have the Floor Creeps deal with it", which is their universal answer to every problem that ever comes along.
2) Not scheduling enough Floor Creeps. Our normal weekend night tactical compliment is seven. Seven fucking floor guys. Not five. Not eight. Seven. Even if you planned on being kinda slow, five is fucking stupid since you automatically have to take one off to barback for all three bars because all four of your Bar Backs have the night off. Probably drunk as lords and trying to sell used stripper panties on Ebay.*1 That sounds like a Bar Back...
3) Not taking into account all the other duties us Floor Geezers are expected to do as well as the miracle you belatedly asked for.
There are several Floor Guy positions which are static, they include:
-The Counter Bitch: He counts how many dances each stripper has done because the club gets a cut of each and every one. He can't leave his station or he'll be killed or yelled at.
-The Door Whore: This poor bastard has to stay at the door and make sure the unwashed masses don't bum rush the door. He also has to filter the dangerously drunk out of the would be club entrants like a whale strains krill from the ocean depths. His job is made much easier by having a uniformed cop working in tandem with him, which we also didn't have this weekend.
-The Stage Cunt: The Floor Guy who possesses the least earning potential. This miserable wretch's entire job description is to make sure the hammered and deranged strippers don't do anything on stage that could get the club shut down.
Like showing their nether bits, or blowing a random customer on stage. A lesser primate could do this job and frankly, it would be more fun to watch than most of the strippers that grace our stage.
-The Bus Twat: The owner could A) hire a guy to drive the bus for a low hourly rate and all the tips he could hustle, or B) just make a Floor Host do it.
He goes with "B".
So therefore we theoretically had one Floor Guy to run all the champagne rooms, ring up and deliver all the bottle services, set up all the bachelor shows and do everything else us Floor Scum already do, which is almost everything.
It was like asking a blind child born with no limbs to sack an NFL quarterback and then screaming at it when it fails to do so.
All in all, a winning holiday strategy. Congrats Dynamic Management Team 13™! You continue to defy logic!
YOU CAN LEAD A STRIPPER TO VODKA BUT YOU CAN'T MAKE HER STOP DRINKING UNLESS YOU BEAT HER WITH A TIRE IRON. AND EVEN THEN HER LIVER WILL BURST FORTH FROM HER VA-JAY-JAY READY TO FIGHT YOU.
The miracle our Management accused us of failing to deliver was making sure that a certain dancer didn't get drunk. They may have well asked us to stop Detroit from sucking or to stop a hurricane from ravaging some coastal towns. I mean as long as you're asking the fucking impossible, why not go big?
The fact of the matter is that Alcostasia will do whatever the shit she wants and that the only real way to prevent her from going all Hyde on everything is to fucking fire her. But since management doesn't have the balls or common sense to do this, they displace their failure onto us Floor Hosts as if somewhere in our job description it reads "Stop dancers from getting drunk."
I would rather try to stop a Panzer tank with my scrotum, some Star Wars toys and three Toaster Strudels than to try to stop a determined stripper from getting drunk on the job. It's abso-fucking-lutely impossible to do this and I'm about to tell you why.
1) They can bring booze into the club inside their giant stripper duffle bags and stash it in their lockers.
2) They can tip sympathetic bartenders to serve them even when the bartenders know they shouldn't.
3) They can just have their fellow Titsquatches buy them drinks.
4) They can get the idiot customers to buy them drinks.
5) They can lap at pools of spilled booze or suck it straight from the carpet.
6) They can drink leftover/unattended drinks sitting unguarded on tables.
7) They can eat other hammered strippers vomit, metabolizing only the alcohol and re-hurling the bile and chunks of half digested food.
In fact there are only three ways to stop a dedicated Hyde from getting reeling drunk. They are:
1) Kill her.
2) Wrap her in shrink wrap and stash her in a Asian guy's trunk.
3) Weave a basket from discarded hair extensions and secure her in it. Lash the basket to your back and carry her around all night while a second Floor Ninja follows you around and watches her the entire time.
That's it. There's no other way.
And since our forward thinking and strategic management team hobbled us Floor Guys with understaffing and the lack of a barback or cop. We was fucked.
Proper fucked.
Tits are seldom free,
-The StripperHerder
*1 Or something even more loathesome
If You Want To Be A Complete Piece Of Shit That's Your Choice, I Say Run With It But Be Prepared For Some Consequences. Or, Stripper Bullies: The Sad, Sad Tale Of Wee Robby MacFeeble.
Some people feel the need to be assholes and like to disparage others for not being assholey enough. It's a plague on our society and sadly enough, is only getting worse as certain lifestyles are glorified in a pop culture mentality that make it seem as if being a fucking twat to fellow humans is the way super cool people act.
As a grunt on the front lines of the struggle between commerce and the general public*1, I get to witness all sorts of extremes that most folks have to watch Worldstar and Youtube to experience. All the drama, drunks, drugs and dipshittery you could possibly ever crave, served up hot and fresh daily, double orders on Saturdays.
I don't begrudge anyone a bit of boisterousness. I've been known to occasionally get a bit high spirited myself*2, but my outright cuntishness was pretty limited and mostly confined to a slurred muttering. I'm not gonna lie, I think horrible things about most of the people I see, every day. Inside my head, I'm feel like I'm an asshole as big as any on the planet. Luckily for me I seem to have adequate filters in place that, for the most part, seem to strain my output to the world, catching most of the really unpleasant stuff thrashing about up there.
Yay, me!
So I find it extra irritating when someone feels they have to be a dick about everything and the bigger dick they can be, the better they feel about themselves and the cooler they are within their community. I have many examples I could give you, but am going to focus on one particular specimen because I am a lazy bastard and a sorry excuse for a storyteller.
I don't know what her name is. She's black, ghetto as a movie stereotype and in my experience either a total piece of shit, or someone trying very hard and with admirable success to portray a total piece of shit. I'll call her Brenda, because if she could read this it would piss her the fuck off to be called Brenda.
Brenda graces the club with her presence about once a month. She always arrives five minutes before last call with a large group of her loud friends and bitches about paying the cover. She'll complain and gripe and make a scene, then grudgingly hand over her cover. Every fucking time. It's like belittling the Door Girl and myself make her feel like she's getting her money's worth out of the cover.
I've asked to just have her and her cronies banned, but they actually spend some money so the management team won't pull the trigger. Brenda doesn't spend anything mind you, but the people she's with do and she has attached herself to them like a chubby, medusa-weaved lamprey.
Here's two endearing elements of Brenda's game:
1) Every time she leaves the club she feels compelled to tell me how "Our shit is weak." And, "There ain't be no booties up in this shit." Brenda is very distraught that we don't employee dancers that can make her titanic ass look small by comparison. You would think that after her many visits to the club she would realize that the owner doesn't hire plus sized strippers and that if giant asses are what she wants to see, she should go to A.K.'s AssHaus on the other side of town.
2) Another of Brenda's charms is her unabashed altruism.
As I was walking a dancer out to her car the other night, Brenda and her group were walking in the parking lot towards their cars as well. As another car pulls into the lot, one of the guys in Brenda's crew says to the driver that his passenger side headlight was out. The driver didn't hear him so the guy points it out to him again. This dude was going out of his way to alert a stranger about a problem that might get him pulled over, I thought that was pretty nice and it's something I frequently do as well. Sometimes, especially on well lit streets, you don't realize you've got a headlight out until someone lets you know.
Turns out the driver didn't realize and was happy as fuck that the guy told him.*3 Brenda thought it was bullshit however. She laughed at her helpful friend and said "You west side, bitch."*4 and "Why fuck you care if dat nuggah go to jail, mowwa-fakka!"
It bothered her that someone she closely associated with would try to do something nice for someone he didn't know.
Brenda is her own worst enemy, I'll leave it at that because of beer and stuff.
The sad, sad tale of Wee Robby MacFeeble.
Tis a dirge of a story is the mournful yarn of poor, Wee Robby MacFeeble. This stunted lad was born to wee, bitty parents who both nevertheless sported magnificent facial hair. At age twelve, and fully grown, he sets out into the cruel, cold world to seek his fortune among the giants.
Someone decided along the way that Wee Robby was employable in a field that clearly required no lifting over seven pounds or conflict resolution with anyone over the age of nine. And in whatever field this was, Wee Robby flourished, accumulating over $300 in under a decade. Wee Robby was the pride of his village.
Then one day Wee Robby decided that he had to see what a woman's breasts looked like so he journeyed to the Big City and went to an establishment where the women showed off their boobies and hung upside down on shiny brass poles.
It was a whole new world for Wee Robby.
It was then that two unwholesome strippers latched onto Wee Robby and brought him to an ATM machine. Wee Robby had never seen an ATM machine and was suitably intimidated, such contraptions didn't exist in his world. Fortunately for him the two strippers were there to ensure he wasn't eaten by the machine, something he was assured frequently happens. While one walked him through the the astoundingly complicated steps to withdraw money from his savings account, the other fondled his dude-bits and murmured at him seductively, distracting him from the painstaking process of withdrawing cash.
The next thing he knew his life savings were gone and the dancers nowhere to be found. He'd been bamboozled!
As he related his story to me from waist height I quickly became bored and I passed it off to a Manager who will forever curse my name for getting him involved.
The fact of the matter is that yes, he was ripped off by two predatory strippers, one who had been fired and hired back and another who should've been fired about a dozen times over, yet still stalks our floor. He ended up calling the cops, who just laughed at him. Literally, I'm not even kidding you.
It was impossible for me to feel any kind of sympathy for him because I think that if you're dumb or drunk enough to be taken advantage of like that, then you deserve to lose that money. Chalk it up to a learning experience and move the hell on.
Accept the possibility that you may be a total fucking idiot and do the best you can. If all else fails you can work in the mines.
Have a night,
-The StripperHerder
*1 i.e. A service industry employee.
*2 Read: Large, out of control, ragingly catastrophic drunk bent on ruining something
*3 This dude actually had a spare headlight in his trunk. Who the fuck carries a spare headlight except a seasoned drunk or madhat survivalist?
*4 West Side: An allusion to the helpful friend being from a more suburbanized side of town than was considered 're-ahl'.**
** Re-ahl. [Ree-all] As in "keepin it real"
How Karma Pays Me Back Rectally. Or, Feel The Wrath Of Mismanagement Devour Your Hope For Mankind's Survival.
In my opinion I've accumulated a small avalanche of good karma over the years and am patiently waiting for it to metaphorically sweep my inner ski village into a crevasse of cash and profits. So far karma has utterly let me down and has, in fact, drugged my beer and taken obscene liberties with my butt.
I am understandably unhappy with this situation. I've been a reasonably good person despite my online StripperHerder persona and feel like karma should make more with the determined fellatio and less with the angry, fiscal sodomy.
It's not too much to ask.
The reasons for my bitching are varied and well founded, yet admittedly, mostly my own fault. I keep doing stupid things over and over and somehow hope for a different result. These are the actions of a man with a subpar brain and it's time I admitted that I'm just another goat-brained jackfuck like every other service industry euglena floating around in similar dismal carp-ponds.
The list of why I'm a wretched fucklard is long, but for this post I will keep if short and sweet.
First off: my continuing delusions that anything above and beyond the call of my job description are appreciated or valued by the Mismanagement team. For whatever inexplicable reasons I seem innately compelled to obey the unreasonable whims of my bosses*1. They invariably play a game called 'Bullshit' and I always show up with a handful of cowpats and an idiot grin on my face.
I've never won a game of Bullshit personally, merely watched as every other Floor Guy raked in his hand.
I'll never get the hang of it. The rules seem to change constantly. Or they don't and I'm a complete fucking blanket monkey. I don't know which but I'm guessing it's the latter.
Secondly: I am the Bringer of Financial Woe. Among the many powers as such, I can Alter Reality and Change the Laws of Probability. Such as tonight. Us Floor Gnolls made about $325 each in tips tonight, which sadly is my second best night of 2015. We made this money because we were able to tack on gratuities to some pro athletes's tabs because they are rich and shit.
The irony is that there were far less sports superstars in the club last night (which I didn't work) as there were tonight and still somehow they spent WAY more money because the Floor Schlongs made just under $700 each last night. Now If I had been on the schedule that night, like maybe in a separate timeline or an alternate dimension, we would've only made $300. Somehow, some way, I poison economic ecosystems with my presence or even my lack of it.
Like when I'm driving a shuttle bus all night and am not physically in the club.
It's distressing.
The Wrath Of ManagerZilla Part One: Underground Bomb Testing
It has been scientifically proven that the underground testing of atomic bombs by several countries has led to the accelerated evolution of a species of Manager known for its volatile temper and unsympathetic suborbital ridges, Manageris Unreasosapien.
It's a sullen organism and its greatest pleasure on this mortal plane is to sow discord and demoralization on as large a scale as possible. Its ultimate goal is to butter the corn of unhappiness and it has been at the churn for fucking years.
I can't even go into details about how our CaveManager handled things tonight. It's too revealing.
What I will say is that there are two distinct Managerial styles in the service industry ecosystem. One is Ostrich Style: "I don't care as long as the Club makes money and in fact, the less I know about it, the more I can disavow later if shit gets all fucky."
The other is Cock Badger Style: "You will obey my will, even if my will contradicts itself unpredictably. Like what was OK last night is somehow NOT OK three days later. You will be punished or disparaged no matter what you do."
The Wrath Of ManagerZilla Part Two: This Club Is My Personal Tokyo And I Am Going To Stomp The Bejesus Out Of It.
When you are the boss, you set the tone for the night. If you're mellow and calm while going about you're duties, that feeling of serenity tends to trickle down to your minions and everything runs smoother and with less drama.
If on the other hand you storm into work with your guts twisted in hate and bile, seeking out underlings to crush under your mighty boots, then work is going to suck for you and by extrapolation, all your hench-people as well.
Cock Badger is the preferred management style of Sir Ponderous McFuckboots III, everyone's least favorite authority figure. He comes into work desperately looking for an outlet for his bottomless malice and almost immediately begins to spread the misery around like a hemorrhoidal marmalade, all chunky and acidic.
Lest you think I'm merely being a judgmental twat, let me cite an example or two to bolster my opinion:
1) We were horribly understaffed recently due to a big event in the Town and as a result got our asses handed to us. We didn't have enough Floor Grunts, Waitresses, Bartenders, Barbacks, Cooks or Managers. We didn't have enough anything to handle to deluge of business that swept through the club like an economic tsunami. It was all we could do to stay afloat, much less make our way towards the shore.
It was what I imagine it is like to be a retail employee on Black Friday; you're terrified and trapped in the seemingly endless whirlwind of a capitalist feeding frenzy. Your goals have been reduced to simply surviving the storm, hopefully with all of your limbs intact and crawling back to your hovel to cry in the shower and wash the footprints from your back.
So insert into all of this the extra madness of a boss who lashes out at the slightest request and belittles and shrieks at anyone who dares ask for something only a Manager can do, and it was miraculous that the entire staff lived through the night and no limbs were lost.
My favorite part of the entire night was when at one point Sir Ponderous growled through the walkie talkie that he was the only one doing anything in the club. I almost rage-shit*2 myself when he came up with that one and at that point I simply stopped asking him for anything and only pretended to call him on my mike when something needed his attention.
It turned out that he wasn't angry with the Floor Worms, but at the waitresses and bartenders*3. But when you say it over that radio, only the Floor Worms, DJ and Door Girl hear it which may lead them to believe that you're referring to them.
2) "Use your judgment." Is what Sir Ponderous told me that night while I was working the door and had a dude and his people wanting to come in without paying the cover. I knew this guy and his entourage and while he may not spend much personally, he pays for all the dances and other such nonsense his entourage enjoys every single time he comes to the club. Which is pretty much every weekend.
So Mr. McFuckboots was giving me permission to use my my Doorguy's intuition in doling out the free covers. Yet if you'll recall a few months back, I wrote about him charging me the cover for two people I let in because I used that same intuition.
Mixed signals? You fucking betcha. Decide one way or another to give me a measure of autonomy or not. You abso-fucking-lutely can't have it both ways.
3) I've never worked with a boss who so predictably manages to escalate every situation where defusing things should be the goal. Fights are bad for business, folks. If your club gains a reputation as an unsafe place to go, then the kind of customers you want will avoid your club, while the kind you don't want will flock to it.
Manager McFuckboots will take a contained situation and piss napalm and racial slurs all over it. He is literally one of the angriest people I have ever met and this is me talking, folks.
There have been many times where we Floor Guys had the situation utterly under control and then Sir Ponderous wades in and starts shit up all over again. It's a wonder he hasn't been stabbed by now.*4
In the immortal words of Sgt. Roger Murtaugh:
OK, I think that covers my discontent for now. If you were inclined to pity me based on what I wrote in this installment, don't. I have since made $1500 in a single night and that helped me climb from the financial rut I was hanging posters in.
Sorry things have been scarce lately, I've been busy and distracted.
Send money,
-The StripperHerder
*1 A search of the StripperHerder archives will reveal that my parents passed down an unreasonably intense work ethic that I have done my best to subjugate because my job is a meaningless pile of tripe flavored money shit.
*2 Rage-Shit: To become so angry that you just shit yourself. Even if your butthole is so clamped up that it looks like brown cousin of Easy Cheese haunted your drawers. A tiny yet persistent curling of fury-fudge frequently followed by a frenzy of frenetic fucking violence.
*3 Who, admittedly, are mostly terrible. But he even yelled at the two good ones we have and frankly, we needed double the workforce of what was scheduled.
*4 These paragraphs are fucked up because I had originally put a picture in this space but had to remove it and this fucking website thinks that it's still there and so my paragraphs are all fucked up and unfixable. It's not me, I swear.
Gospels Of The StripperHerder Apocrypha: Readings From The Book Of Jasmine. Or, According To The Poor Floor Guy Almanac, Dark Skies Will Continue To Rain Down Turds And Travails Throughout 2015 Culminating In A Late Year Plague Of Brittneys Which Will Ruin The Harvests And Devastate Whole Villages.
of stripperherding will be able to determine that this picture depicts a roll-call
on a friday or saturday night because the dancers are all in gowns and appear
to have club merchandise to sell.
Religion is a really touchy subject with many folk, especially when you're mocking it because of its obvious irrationality and innate silliness. As in 'my scientifically improvable avatar/rock will, on average, answer slightly less/more prayers than your weak, wool-based God.'
That being said, never underestimate the power of a wool based religion in a world of frequent rain...
Disclaimer aside, it doesn't take a very high Wisdom score for the average human being to realize that, even translated into 128 languages, Christianity turns out to be nothing more than plagarized hearth-tales from a vast array of older cultures. It's not very original nor inventive, but hey, it's got some great rape scenes.
I don't begrudge anyone their faith nor their ability to worship that faith in any way they see fit, with the following provisos:
1) Don't blow anything up because someone else said God told you to.
2) Don't knock on my door in an attempt to foist your beliefs on me.
3) It's never OK to kill another person because they are a sinner according to your dogma.
4) Don't mail me stuff about your religion.
5) Never make comic books about your religion.
6) Don't do breaded fish at your Friday fish-frys, batter dip those fish carcasses. Breading is for heretics and satanists while a great beer batter is fucking pious.
That's literally all I ask of anyone's religious views. I'm fairly forgiving about moral beliefs because they give me something to mock when I'm drunk or at any other time for that matter. And while I'm fundamentally accepting of anyone's beliefs, I'm still insensitive about their feelings concerning them. I think about faith in the same context I think about words; they only have the power we choose to give them.
Which, sadly, is a whole hell of a lot when it should be virtually nothing.
"The atrocities perpetrated in the name of religion will always outweigh its merits."
-Samuel T. Fookerson*1
The Stripperherder Apocrypha contains various bits that have been edited out of all the major religious texts over the last 2-5000 years. All significant cultures of recorded history have their tales of dancers and strippers and conniving ho's, they just don't like to talk about them or admit that they had any bearing on historical doctrine.
The Book of Jasmine is a well known collection of verses written by a particularly petulant cunt who lived a long time ago.
Excerpts from The Book of Jasmine. Translated by Father Yuwin De Taterhurl, c.779AD
Jasmine 1:7 "Hand bags are fucking sweet. I will eagerly watch gravy-dipped children fight various ravenous beasts if only a Fashion Priest will make me a uselessly small clutch from the scraps of brat skin he's able to salvage from the arena sands."
Jasmine 3:18 "Mine chariot has gold inlay, iron spiked 23" rims, and a three-pony power engine. It is painted an off shade of lilac because I think it's pretty and mine Priests tell me it's an easy dye to make from the spleens of nonbelievers."
Jasmine 3:21 "Whoa there Tentacle-Boy, keep yine suckers off thine musky secrets! Unless ye've paid for a champagne room, ye'll not be using me like a sun warmed melon. The very nerve of ye!"
Jasmine 4:6 "That asshole owes me $600, Floor Slave! Oh how I danced for him! Fetch it for me foul brute and ye shall receive a shiny tupenny coin for yine efforts!"
Jasmine 4:16 "I love gladiators. The scent of sweat and death really gets thine quince a-squishy."
Jasmine 4:23 "Fear not the Manager's wroth my Titty-Sistren, for their words may seem sharp and deadly but at the end of the day have no more power than a sandal mite. Asses like ours do not grow on trees as olives do."
As you may have guessed, Jasmine was a bitch.
Yanci of Gethsemane, stripper/occasional prostitute
Jasmine The Ahohite, stripper/liked small purses made from kid meat
Raven of Joppa, prostitute/occasional stripper
Delilah, stripper/cosmetology student
In Other News....
We are hag ridden.
-The trend of firing problem dancers which had lit such hope in my shriveled little heart, has seemingly been reversed, the flame extinguished with tawdry spike heels. The return of SkeevaTron was followed shortly thereafter by the sudden reappearance of Elsie the Sex Cow and I fear it may only be the tip of the iceberg. I literally fear the future now. Why not hire back Vodzilla or Stubblegut or Scabby the Thunderho too? Hell, let's comb the alleys and crackhouses for new talent while we're at it, can't be any worse than hiring back these wretched bog-crones.
-The kitchen at the club continues to be an ongoing nightmare of shoddy skills and nonexistent work ethic, punctuated by a monthly collapse and scrabble for new cooks. It's become such a joke that I personally don't think it can be fixed short of a firing squad, some vat grown cooks programmed to obey or a significant wage increase to try to lure some worthwhile talent in. Unfortunately the first option is illegal, the second is science fiction and the third is fantasy.
I've tried to help but am fresh out of answers and fucks to give. Deal me out please.
And there ya go my patient Herder'heads. I lob some meat into the clearing and retreat in my fully restored Tiger II tank which has been modified to run on the tears and shattered dreams of strippers.
Your servant as always,
-The StripperHerder
*1 A guy I just made up who was really wise and had deeply felt humanitarian views.
The Return Of SkeevaTron Part 3: The ReSkeevening. Or, Floor Guy Political Dynamics Volume XXIII: The Middle Ages Through Pre-Columbian America And It's Impact On Modern Times.
I'm going to do something a little bit different to start off this installment. I'm going to let you, trustworthy readers, decide which caption goes on the following picture. I rarely lead with a picture, so consider yourself incredibly important right now. There are literally people (or a person) in dozens of countries waiting to see what you decide.
Here is the picture, it is roughly equivalent to the SkeevaTron that has recently reappeared in my ecosystem.
I call her Undesirable Antler Wop Whore.
Yeah. What?
It's fitting.
Caption A) "My race have no teeth and breathe through our anuses. "
Caption B) "If you can stop staring at my hair, you'll notice there's no tape on my nipples. No. Keep looking further down. There ya go."
Caption C) "Although my snout and overall expression appears to be mildly disapproving of your presence, I'm merely constipated from methamphetamine abuse."
Totally unlike a cheesy sci-fi film's premise, a much hated dancer*1 has returned, again, to bless us with her presence. The members of the Floor Guy Local 617 are of course e-fucking-lated to welcome back her sharply protruding snout and spindly little legs; bracing ourselves for the inevitable moment when her internal clock goes 'Boing!' and she regresses to Hyde-state.
This is when her inner bitch-spirit loses it's ability to maintain a cohesive Field of False Contrition, thereby allowing her Self-Generating Aura of Cuntishness to collapse the Good Behavior Waveform, resulting in mass destruction and the phenomenon known as Deja (Coito) Pu, or...
shit you've fucking seen before.
When (not if) she goes Hyde*2, she will attempt to destroy everything within her reach. This will take a while because she is tiny, doesn't have much reach, and relatively speaking, is fucking weak. She makes up for these shortcomings by tapping into the heart of all that is evil, petty and annoying, distilling it into the pure essence of undiluted stripper malignancy, and then freebasing the living fuck out of it.
Hydes who haven been smokin on da broken dreams are incredibly dangerous. They have nothing left to lose and are fucking immune to pain, regret and reason. They become juggernauts of misery.
Us veteran Floor Squatches know about Deja-Pu. It is written into our history, our very culture and society. Deja-Pu is the boogeyman hiding in every little 'Herder's closet and under their beds, we grow up fearing it's wrath. All Stripperherders that survive to maturity have been ambushed so often by Deja Pu that that it just bounces off our soul-callouses, leaving an unsightly stain and vague odor of resignation.
Floor Guy politics and their detrimental effects on my personal economy.
I seldom write about this subject even though it is, in one form or another, a constant thorn in my yambag. Floor Guys frequently have just as many beefs and problems with each other as the average misery*3 of strippers do, they just don't act like strippers about it. We rarely attack one another with no warning, we don't generally gripe each other into the gaping maw of the strip club rumor mill. No, our differences are less pronounced and normally just boil under the surface.
What I'm getting at is that there is always a hierarchy among the Floor Brood in any club that has more than one bouncer. This usually amounts to either one all powerful Floor Lord, or some combination of power sharing between 2 or more Floor Guy factions.
A Floor Lord is the lowly Floor Guy who happens to, for all intents and purposes, run the show at any given strip club. He pretty much calls the shots but is able to run management in front of him and to his flanks as needed, shielding him from attacks like arrow-puppets.
A Floor Faction is much more common. Here two or more Hosts are favored by management over all others based on a lengthy work history together or maybe an epic victory over the forces of She-phalheim.. Everyone else on the team is expendable and the choicest shifts are split among them.
Let me cite you an example.
Once upon a time there was this gentle giant of a Floor Host that worked on Thursday nights because he was new at the club and Thursday nights sorta sucked and no one else really wanted to work them.
Then one glorious but otherwise unremarkable Thursday night a drunk Prince came into the club and pelted it's employees with gold coins, laughing at their welts. The new Floor Host made more money than he'd ever seen before and was delighted when he heard the drunk Prince loudly exclaim that he'd be back next Thursday to once again chuck dangerously heavy coins at comely naked girls for fun and diversion.
The young herder was overwhelmed with what money he'd made. He'd been able to buy his Old Mother a feeding horn so his fingers wouldn't be all bit up every other day. He'd gotten his Uncle Clytus out of debtor's prison and bought meat pies for his 34 cousins.
He had prospered. And very much looked forward to next Thursday, which was one of his nights. He'd been working Thursday nights for over a year and a half, for richless and poorer and finally his luck had changed.
The young herder strode confidently into work on the day the new schedules came out, expecting to see his humble name listed under 'Thursday' as it has been for the last seventy-three 'Thursdays'.
But his name wasn't there. For the first time in seventy-three Thursdays the name listed was not his. It read "Carlos, the Desert Hyena". No mention was made of 'young herder'. He sat out the next Thursday as the Desert Hyena made stunning amounts of money in his place.
This continued until the whale that enjoyed pelting people with money switched his 'chuckin' day to Wednesday, which was one of the young herder's day as well. Inexplicably the young herder found himself moved off of Wednesdays and on to some other unprofitable, bleak day of the weak.*4
Get the picture? That shit happens all the time. It makes me angry but what can ya do? The smart player knows when his position is weak. Let's face it, at best I bring my A-game once every ten days and even then it's not really that impressive. Most of the time I work the shit jobs and trade money for not being around drunk shitheads until the point where I lash out.
So, fuck it. That's it. Thanks for readin.
-The StripperHerder
*1 The stripper from this installment is whom I'm referring to.
http://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2015/01/a-touch-of-poignancy-followed-by.html
The only silver lining to this happening is that she didn't bring her ugly little sidekick, StubbleGut, with her this time. Lord have mercy.
*2 Seriously, there's no 'if' whatsoever. Every single stripper I've ever worked with that's been fired for being a drunk, crazy localized disaster and then later rehired, ended up going batshit fucking Hyde again. Just like the first time: Screaming, puking, trying to kill sentient life; it becomes typical. Transcendental even.**
** Soon you don't even flinch. Maybe there's a nearly imperceptible twitch under you left eye that suggests oncoming madness to the experienced watcher, but most don't notice because the plastic of your smile is so shiny and lifelike.
*3 Any gathering of more than three strippers is known as a 'misery' of strippers. Like a 'pod' of whales or a 'plague' of meth-heads.
*4 Ha! See what I did there? That's fucking literary as fuck!
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