The Least Subtle Vehicle In The Town™. Or, If My Manager Has Nothing To Be Angry About, So He'll Manufacture A Reason.

 Ya know, I've been really, really drunk in public a few times. Like combative, mindless drunk and I'm not proud of it. Even at that level of hammered I could still tell you what club or bar I was in, even if I couldn't explain how I arrived there. I don't think there's ever been a time where I didn't know what bar I was in, when I was in it.


  There may be an exception or two, but if I was drunk enough to not know where I was, I probably shouldn't have been allowed entry in the first place.


  So it amuses me when some functionally drunk shuttle patron asks "So where does this thing go?" I mean talk about an utter lack of situational awareness. You just hopped on a shamelessly corporate emblazoned limo bus the size of a garage, garishly painted with suggestive images in lurid colors, and you don't know where you're going?


  How can you still be walking around? How can you not have skinned by a serial killer by now? Getting into random vehicles piloted by a stranger with absolutely no idea where said vehicle goes, even when it's written in 10 inch lettering on the side in retina-searing hues.


  To me, it's astounding how trusting and utterly culpable people can be, especially when drinking.


  I'd love to buy a limo bus and paint on it in perfectly respectable lettering "Mikey's Rape, Murder and Sexual Torture Mobile!" right next to some cute corporate logo and see how many people climb aboard, blissfully unaware of what they'd just stepped into.


  I could have meat hooks dangling from the ceiling and blood drenching the floor and I guarantee I could still catch one or two on the weekends.



                      Odin have mercy on us all.




  Here's where the alcohol industry is in a Catch-22 situation because of lawyers. Especially upscale strip clubs.


  Getting searched at the door is an extremely unpleasant thing to have to go through, and our most desirable clientele aren't used to it because they don't go to the kinds of clubs where you get searched at the front door. I've never worked at a strip club where we searched people at the door and I've worked at seven different strip clubs in two states, some of them appalling in aspect.


  I've worked bars and concert clubs where we patted down or wanded people at the door, but never a titty shack.


  Therefore, people can generally get into a strip club anything they want provided it isn't something as obvious as a shotgun strapped to their back, or a chainsaw where their hand should be. We won't control what comes through our doors, and thus are forced to merely react to it, rather than being proactive about it.


  It's the strip club curse, People have literally come into the club with a dozen of those little airline bottles of booze in their socks or pockets and proceeded to get massively hammered even though they were told the only reason we were even letting them in the club in the first place was because they agreed to not drink anymore.


  If we're not going to search people, which will never happen, then these things will continue to occur. The lawsuits will keep coming, our lawyers will grow wealthy and we'll still amble about our jobs, going through the motions and hoping for the best. Seems counter productive, dumb even.




  So let's get into a few more slices of the shit-pizza, shall we?



  We had the best Friday night we've had in a long time and instead of being happy or god forbid telling the team what a great job we did tonight, our Manager, Sir Desperately Ineedov-Valium IX, starts yelling at the Floor Staff about how four or five of our dancers weren't 'checked in' but the House Mom.


  Some of you unfamiliar with titty shack procedures may be wondering at this point what the fuck I'm talking about. So let me explain.


  The House Mom, who is much less effective here than at any other strip club I've ever worked at, is supposed to give the girls a little card she has signed that states said dancer has been House Mom Approved. I.E. she has met all the club requirements on appearance, attire, nipple armor and various other esoteric mandatory bullshit that the club and laws demand.


  Whichever Floor Cunt is running the Counter is supposed to make sure they have this piece of cardboard before he signs a dancer in and thus puts her on the clock. We had almost 80 dancers tonight, which is a record number for the time I've been here. Well in the chaos, the Counter missed*1 roughly a half dozen dancers and since Sir Desperately didn't have anything else to bitch about, he selected this meaningless cause to get all pro wrestler about.


  Literally fucking screaming at us about how if we can't do our jobs right, he'll find some that will. Fortunately for us we've learned from past experience that this is just his way of letting off steam and we nod and put on our repentant faces and otherwise ignore him.


  But it still sucks to be rage-spittled at by someone who should be thanking you for a non-murderful job well done. It's fucking demoralizing on every level. I don't mind being yelled at when I've done something wrong, but here's the part about this particular situation that gave it an extra layer of shit frosting:


  While it is a Floor Guy's job to clock dancers in, it's the Dancers' job to check in with us when starting their shift. It's in their contract for fucksakes. They are also obligated check in with the DJ before they start "work" and required to check out with first the DJ and the Counter at the end of their shifts.


  Beyond 'Don't break the law', strippers here don't really have any procedural obligations other than what I listed above. That's about it.


  And because so many of them are so bad at it, many of these things end up as Floor Guy responsibilities. Literally stuff that is the responsibility of the Stripper, but becomes a Floor Ape thing because too many of the girls can't be trusted to do them.


  Let me give you two examples of this titty-centric madness.


1) "Check out with the DJ". The poor bastard running the Counter has to tell all the strippers to check out with the DJ first before they can clock out. Then he has to wait for the DJ to radio him that Whatsherface is checking out and then he can sign them out for the night.

 
  We were forced to start doing this because strippers would just plain lie about it. "Yes, I checked out with the DJ" they would say very convincingly. An hour after the girl had left the DJ's calling her to stage and this throws the rotation into chaos.


2) "Did you check out with the Counter?" Just asking this question proved fruitless in many cases because, again, bitches just plain lied about it. I know, I know, it continually shocked me too.


  So we began to have to call the Counter for each and every stripper we walked out, to make sure she'd done the two steps required of her.


 

  This is a recurring theme in all strip clubs I've worked in: Give It To The Floor Staff. Everything management doesn't want to be bothered about, or by whose lack of consistency extra work is created, goes to the fucking Floor Grunts. The buck, more often than not, stops with us.



  #floorguyproblems
-The StripperHerder













*1 And by "missed" I mean the dancers didn't bother checking in with him. Ain't his fault.**



  **But did the dancers who failed to check in get covered with scream-spit?


     Nope.

  

More Republished Classics Because, You Know, It Doesn't Matter Anymore. Or, Enjoy That Rich, Vintage Flavor Of A Properly Aged Post.

Four more Classic Herder post for your consumption.

Bone-Ape-Tit.







https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2017/09/porn-stars-sometimes-they-can-be-50.html


https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2017/06/so-much-to-talk-about-so-little-vodka.html


https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2017/04/every-little-thing-she-does-is-tragic.html


https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2017/03/thank-you-for-making-me-600-heres-your.html

Six Sauced Strippers Sliding Slowly Sideways In A Silver Saturn On Snowy Streets Seems Super Scary. Or, Look Angry And Carry A .45.

Most strippers aren't very good at driving under ideal conditions, much less when taking selfies in a blizzard while two of them are having a fight over a picture of a drug dealer's penis in the backseat. I'm constantly amazed when certain strippers turn up for work each day, continuing to triumph over statistical probabilities."Life hasn't killed you yet?" I think to myself. "Huh".*1


  The sheer amount of effort they put into doing what a normal person would call 'waking up and getting to work' is astounding. They've complicated their lives so thoroughly with their drug problems, their drinking, their unplanned children, their DUI's, social media feuds, their frequently hostile relationships with their "boyfriends/bebbydeddy's" and all the related chaos these things bring, that's it's actually something of an accomplishment when they get to work within three hours of when they're supposed've been there.



  Many strippers who started in the industry at a young age aren't like you or I, they seldom have any idea how the real world works, or at least how it works for normal looking people and/or those unwilling to take their clothes off to support themselves.


  I know a couple of dancers that never had a "real" job. Their first and only occupation is being a stripper. They have no real concept of the value of a dollar, no interest in planning for their future because they'll be pretty and young forever and money just happens, yo. Guys like to buy them stuff and usually drugs are free.


  It's these kind of girls who go one of two ways, they either learn to pull their heads out of their own vaginas in time to see that the lifestyle they lead is using them up fast and that they'd better start putting some of their large, untaxed income to good use instead of buying purses, shoes and cocaine with it.


  Or they just go with it and look haggard and frontier-ish by the time they're 27, well established with their drug of choice and with multiple children that various other people care for most of the time because they're either sleeping, partying or at work. Which is oftentimes all the same thing.





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





  Some hardcore readers may be wondering who is my current nemesis and I have to say, at the moment I don't have one. Sure there are dancers I like and dancers I don't like, but there's no one glaring ultimate overbitch that I'm slugging it out with.


  No Vodzilla, no Elsie the Wonder-Cow, no Rattie, no SkeevaTron.



  That being said there are still girls I dislike working with and there can be various reasons why I don't like working with them. For the sake of clarity I'd like to mention that there is a very easy way for me to like you as a stripper: fucking tip me.


  It's seriously that simple. Tip me something and I will suddenly forget, overlook and/or ignore any facets of your behavior and practices that I may not care for. I'm willing to put up with a tremendous amount of horseshit if I'm getting paid. I work with a large number of girls who are very nice and trouble-free as strippers which is a lot to like quite frankly, and I still act neutral towards them because they don't tip.


  Ever.



  Say a Floor Host makes you a grand by getting you into a champagne room with a whale. That Floor Host deserves a tip and if you ever want him to do that again, you goddamn well better give him some money. But what about the Floor Cunt who makes sure you're not robbed of that $1000 while walking to your car? Surely he may one day prove to be equally important if not more so than any VIP-Host guy, right?



  So tip him you silly twat. The reason dudes lingering in the parking lot don't fuck with you and try to throw drunk game at you all the way to your car is because of ME, the giant lumbering and unhappy looking guy at your side. If I wasn't there, you can be assured that you'd have many more uncomfortable encounters while walking to your car, with a much higher possibility of something really bad happening than if I wasn't.


  But not on my watch. I'd literally kill a guy if I had to to protect even a non-tipper and I carry the tools to do it. This is a fact, missy and should be worth something to anyone who's not an oblivious, self-absorbed jizz-sock.


  .
   I am the fucking reason the parking lot is safe even if you take it as granted. Give me money so I can afford air conditioning in Summer and the occasional gyro.

                                      30 rounds of .45 ACP at 25 feet. Better than most.




  To continue with this theme, here are some dancers currently on my Naughty Bitch List:



-Channing: Non-tipper. Like many strippers tries to hide/enhance her plainness and insecurity with prison-biker amounts of tattoos. Hasn't worked yet but maybe if she gets a lifesize picture of a pretty girl tattooed on her face.....

                          "I'm thinking flowers on one side and steampunk gears on the other."



-Nurney: Non-tipper. Also fat, gross and embarrassing. FUPA doesn't even begin to describe it. Midriff wraps and onesie outfits are only going to hide so much you fucking orca.

                Still allowed on stage despite the structural risk. Those are load bearing stripper poles...






-Ming-Soo (Russian girl believe it or not): Serial drunk, non tipper. Dumb as yeast.

                                                   "I wike wodka, not know chess."







-Apocrypha: Uglier than rat scrotum. Non-tipper.


-Elwood P. Grimsby: Looks like a retired NFL linebacker with giant fake titties and artificial ass. Tips, but in small ways.


-Eleanora I'm Gonna Bore-Ya: Tee-Dee-Us. This stripper creates a fear in me whenever I see her approach, or more specifically, if we make eye contact. She will talk the flesh off your bones, boyo. Unending chatter about the most innane of subjects until you're looking for a sturdy rafter and an extension cord.


  She lives her life under the comforting illusion she's more intelligent than most people. And while this may be marginally true, one must remember that the vast majority of human beings, regardless of race, religion or creed, are idiots and in a Strip Club, that bar is set even lower.


  Run, lad. Fucking RUN.


  Tips crappily every once in a while.

                            "You don't want a dance? OK. Let's talk about religion and politics!"






Molasses: Used to tip OK then decided we weren't worth it unless we look the other way while she gives an apathetic handy. Currently residing in "non-tipperville".

                                           Don't judge. She looks great in near-darkness.







Wanda: Drunk 80% of shifts. When confronted immediately starts crying. Total fucking mess. Tips a wad of crumpled singles that never amounts to more than $7, then cries. Spreads all the crap in her purse all over the ground then can't remember what's she's looking for then cries. Complete plane crash, that cries.


Tulsa: Good looking, yet utter 'hood garbage. Extreme non-tipper. In fact she's one of those wretched girls that siphons off dances from strippers who might have actually tipped if they'd made money. Tulsa is the equivalent of an intestinal parasite in our dancer stable, stealing nutrients that at some point may have nourished the Floor Staff.


-Lucinda: Serial drunk, part time Hyde. Is so fucking stupid that if she played a game of checkers against herself, both sides would lose. Also really short. She looks kinda like someone left Ronnie James Dio in a dryer too long and he emerged smaller yet amused about it. And in a pink bikini.

                               "Welcome to the Silver Mountain. There's gonna be lightning...."








-Wysteria: Fragile, demented, alcoholic, emaciated white girl trapped in a black girl's body.*2 Always wasted, but denies it. Non-Tipper but frequently loses money which we find and don't return whence we establish it's hers.


-Scirocco: Lifetime Achievement Award Recipient for Non-Tipping. Has never been caught tipping and never will. Current owner of the 39th Ugliest Tits I have ever seen, which is saying something. Seems to be still growing taller and stronger into her 30's. Odd.




  Which leads me to:


  
Simple clues that a patron may be too intoxicated to be allowed entry into the club.




  I've included this helpful section for the sole hope that it may lead, even once, to me not having to explain to someone why they are too drunk to come into the club. The ultimate lesson to be learned here is that a seasoned drunk, who's not a total dick when he's hammered, will not only accept a Door Guy's decision not to allow him into the club, but will actually respect it.


  "Well spotted, lad. Yes I AM a shitfaced mongrel, ill advisedly seeking more booze because it seems like a great idea. And I believe you when you say it's time to call it a night. Not only are you fucking big, you are wise."


  *fist bump*



-Among the very first obvious clues is the ability/inability to walk. Many really drunk people have a rough time with balance while performing simple motor functions. I am one of them, so I should know. When someone rolls up to the door supported on one or more sides by a friend(s), they aren't coming in.


  I've watched people literally crawl up to the door, somehow so drunk they thought I'd let them in. Not even kidding.


-Another is having barf all over your shirt. This is almost always a dead giveaway because if you were sober enough to enter the club and that was really "a friend's" vomit splashed across your torso, then you would've changed clothes or made some effort to clean it off at least. That fact that you're sporting it with zero awareness that it's even there tells us you're housed, mate.


  How can you not smell it?



-Reiterative speech is another huge clue. You explain/ask the same fucking thing over and over and no matter how carefully slow and using really small words we tell you the same goddamn thing, no amount of repeating ourselves gets through your booze-fucked brain.


  It's like you don't even hear us. Or believe for some reason that asking why you're not allowed in fifteen times will magically result in us allowing you in the sixteenth time you plead your case.





  At this point I'd like to add in a comment that very well could've been a footnote, but I felt was worth mentioning in regards to my perspective on this topic.


  I have never waited in a line to get into a bar or restaurant because I refuse to do so. There are plenty of other places I can go and there is no food, drink or product that I'm willing to stand in line for like a steer waiting to be branded. I don't do standing in lines. Even when I still liked going out to bars, before two decades of the service industry raped and set all that on fire, I still wouldn't stand in line for a bar or club.


  The reason being that if you're the kind of person who will stand in line just to get into someplace that's going to overcharge you for everything, then you're a type of person I wouldn't want to hang out with in the first place.


  Fucking sheep.



  Just wanted to address that to all the ovines I see standing in lines a hundred yards long to get into some shitty nightclub. God bless ya, bah-bah.






Lastly I'm gonna close with the subject of closing. As in the end of business hours. To my knowledge and experience, there is no industry outside of the hospitality sector where "we're closed" doesn't seem to register with some people. They feel as if somehow we should just continue to accommodate them until they feel they're ready to leave even if they're not spending any money.


  The vast majority of patrons who come to the club late are people who don't really care if they're at a strip club or otherwise, they just don't want to go home yet, as customers they are completely worthless.


  And not only are the shitbags already in the club at closing time always a lingering problem, the amount of people trying to still come into the club after we're closed is fucking astounding.


  This shit doesn't fly at banks, law offices, fast food restaurants, government offices, retail shops, oil change garages, airports, home improvement centers, cinemas or the vast fucking majority of other businesses as well. When they're closed, they're closed and no amount of drunk pleading will change that. So why would it at a place that serves booze or titty or both?


  But bars and clubs? Totally different world, kiddo. People ask ALL THE TIME after the doors are locked and the lights are on*3 if they can come in. They promise they're going to spend money. Then when I quote them how much it will take, up front,  for me to let them in based on how many people in their party, they inevitably decline or demand illegal extras we can't do, like after hours bottle service. Those days are long gone I inform them, 'gone the way of the smilodon, me bairns" which none of them has ever understood.


  Turns out they weren't able to ball on even a pathetic, 10th rate Town scale. Mouths' writing promissory notes their wallets' can't cover and so forth.


  Assholes. Amateur assholes.


  Only a disorganized, spontaneous group of drinkers would ever dream of going out without a backup/post-last-call plan. How hard is it to imagine a scenario when you all may want to continue partying after the clubs close? Like, has that never happened to you before? Then God bless ya, teatotaller or early crasher....


  But if it has happened to you more than once and you still haven't developed the keen sense of designating a Plan B location properly stocked with shit to drink, then you remain in the Pee-Wees, laddy. That scenario happened to me exactly three times, two of which were my fault and the other a wuss-out on a promised hang out spot.


  But that was all before I was legally allowed to drink or purchase booze. After turning 21 this has never happened because it's astonishingly easy to plan for once you're able to acquire alcohol legally.


  You fucking amateurs.


  Bah.






A Tongue In The Bush Is Worth Two In The Hand,
-The StripperHerder












*1 Some of my more sharp eyed readers may come to the conclusion that it's fucking June and that me writing about strippers driving poorly in snowy conditions may seem a bit out of place. But it's not. Don't question it. Move onto the next paragraph, gentle reader. Forget what you've read here....


All is well.








*2 Her words, not mine. Step away from the keyboard slowly.....







*3 The strip club being the opposite of all other business in the fact that when the real lights are on inside, we're closed.

Italy Almost Tied With Amurrika For June Views, Author Stunned. Or, Some Archived Installments Offered To The Romans, Like Barbarian Tribute.

  I gotta tell ya, Italy's fucking impressive right now. There must be some kind of StripperHerder Underground there, spreading the gospel. My growth there has been unnatural in the nine years I've been writing this blog. Italy went from not-even-on-the-top-ten to 2nd place in a well established readership in something like 6-8 months.


  For me, who never promotes this humble blog anywhere, this readership spike is fascinating to me. Flattering too. It's nice to know that my brand of universal hatred and generalized loathing transcends national boundaries.


  In honor of my growing Italia fanbase, I'm going to re-publish two more StripperHerdrer CLASSICS.



  They are:



  https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2016/12/the-stripperherder-2016-year-end.html




  And




https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2013/10/stinkier-than-rancid-chutney-on-raccoon.html






  I hope you enjoy them. Thank you for pizza.




The StripperHerder

Mosser's Guide To Strip Club Fauna, Pt 2: The Denizens. Or, Saturday Night Scripts: A Selection Of Sixth Day Stereotypical Shitheadedness, Saturday-Related Shatnanigans*1 And Suchforth.

  Nearly as important to the functioning of a strip club biosphere as the Strippers, the denizens who inhabit the titty bar ecosystem are equally critical to a club's survival. In a perfect world all of the Regulars would be generous wealthy and classy guys who harbored no secret agenda of panty-sniffing, clandestine BJ's or renting various orifices for later use. But when was that last time you looked around and thought to yourself, "Golly. What a perfect world."


  That's what I thought.


  There are nearly endless varieties of strip club Denizens, all neatly subdivided by the esteemed Dr. Mosser into their Family groups, such as Drug Dealers, Regulars, Occasional Enthusiasts, Frustrated Pervs, Predatory Part Timers, etc etc.


  What I'll be detailing in my selections from the good doctor's work will be examples that pertain to my club, all the fair minded, generous types I deal with.






Lurking Larry's: They're like shadow people, they melt away at the approach of a Stripper, backing into a hole like a retreating meerkat. They aren't at the club to spend money or talk to pretty girls, they're far too socially awkward/psychopathic to actually talk to one of the Vagina-ed, they just like looking at them and thinking about whatever it is they think about.


  I've found it's best not to ponder too deeply on the matter, just be prepared to eventually hit one of them with a barstool when he finally goes feral on some girl he's been obsessing about.

                                                     "Stop. I have no money...."





Dayshift Daycare: We have a slew of Dayshift regulars that clearly have psychological issues who hang out at the club all day every day as if it was some sort of topless-staffed Halfway House. There's no cover charge if you get there early enough, maybe an hour or two after the shelter kicks them out for the day I'm guessing. I don't know what the fuck's going on with them, but so far they haven't caused any problems that I'm aware of. Still I'm suspicious.


  Now call me paranoid, but seeing as how there's ZERO security on our Dayshift, it means these obviously troubled folks can waltz in with whatever they want on their person, they certainly aren't gonna get frisked at the door.


  And some day I wouldn't be surprised if one of them went all stalky-stab on a dancer or anyone else who gets in his way or tried to stop him. Like a Floor Host. Like me.


  I'm sorta like a Panda Bear in fight. Yes you can stab me and eventually you'll cut something critical, but with a blade under 5 inches and stabs to the torso with me resisting, it'll probably take a while. But to further complicate survival scenarios on my part, I'll probably need a rest before my crazy-powered attacker does, thus meaning I'll more than likely just get hacked to pieces unless I can break his spine or neck quickly enough.


  I give it a 60/40 chance in favor of the blade wielding maniac unless I can get my hands on a bottle or a previously deceased stripper carcass to use as a shield/unconventional weapon.*2

                                                   "I will always love TIFFANY. Any TIFFANY!"
                                     







Eldertharios: A portmanteau of Elderly and Lothario, meaning an old pervert. Like a guy in his 60's or 70's still trying to buy teen poony. Or just look at it. Or buy panties that have touched it. Whatever. It's creepy and I don't care for it one bit. No I don't. Keep it to your browser, grey-dick.


  Doesn't help that it's a rare Elderthario that actually fucking tips. Most just want to grunt one out as cheaply as possible with the help of a drunk girl's thong, with or without her in it.


  Fucking despicable, but there you have it.

                                 "Why are none of your strippers in Girl Scout uniforms?"






Remoras: Small sucker-like losers that somehow attach themselves to Hotty-Shark Dancers. They almost never mate with these gals and are constantly forced to merely swim around while their hotty-shark is getting banged by much more aggressive and frequently criminal sharks. They're used to it.


  Remoras are often a default landing pad for strippers rejected by the latest guy to get sick of them. Remoras offer the refuge of a financial coral reef in exchange for the merest whiff of gangster-pounded pudenda and seem to enjoy hand laundering semen stains that aren't their own.


  Sad really. Seen it a million times. Always gives me a skeeve-chill.

                                           "Please let me eat you when he's done."






Rappers: Listen, I get it. You're a rapper and thus incredibly important and make WAY more money than me, which as we all know automatically makes you a better person. Please relate to me how much better you are than me based on income when I don't know who you are. I don't know rappers because I'm not a rap fan.*3


  Before you get all offended allow me to state that 98% of musicians from bands I really love could come to the club and I wouldn't know who the fuck they are either.


  I'm not up on shit. I like what I like but don't always look at pictures of it or remember shit if I did.


  Don't take it personal and things will go better for both of us. This is a great guideline for almost the entirety of the human experience:


              

                    DON'T TAKE IT PERSONAL*4

             "Yo dog, I'm Whyt Noiz, straight outta central Indiana. How you not know me, son?"






Gropers: Gropers are usually virgins. Doesn't make any difference how old they are, 21 or 81, what they all have in common is that they've never had their wang in a cooch, or to be fair, maybe once or twice in their miserable, lonely lives. Probably for less than thirty seconds in all.


  A groper's MO is to grab as much ass and squeeze as much titty as they can get away with for the price of admission and a tap water. Then they take the memory of the suppleness of said ass or titty home with them and savage their members remorselessly until the inevitable happens. These poor fucks have realized and more importantly come to terms with the fact that they have no qualities that the opposite sex might find attractive and therefore embrace the Groper ethos: grab her and then grab yourself, preferably with the same hand.


  I'm not opposed to this doctrine on a moral basis, I've been known to crank one out after having only gotten to second base with a girl. You gotta do what you gotta do. The difference is I wasn't groping a girl who made her living from being groped (mostly) and ergo I didn't feel obligated to tip the gal whereas a Groper should definitely tip the girl he's gonna fap to later.


  It's just the right thing to do. Consider it a rental cost for the spank-bank download it created.








      Amusing things I've heard from customers lately:






1)  We had this wee, passport carrying Irishman in the other day. He was shitfaced when he came into the club and I tried not think stereotypical thoughts about that. Anyway, I see him at various points in the night and I'll give the guy this-although he could've been outsmarted by bacteria at any point I saw him, dude walked just fine. I wouldn't have been able to tell he was drunk by watching him walk, which is normally a dead giveaway.


  But if he spoke more than a word to you, shit became obvious real quick.


  Like the time I was headed out to the patio to check things out and he was headed back into the club. He stopped me and said something like: "yer door's not working anymore, lad." Referring to the door he had literally just walked through.


  I replied that it was never designed to 'filter wee drunk Celts' and he just blinked at me, crinkled up his brow and walked away.


    It was very satisfying.

                       "Yer fookin dooor's unworkin, scrogglin. Best ya be seein ta it, soonish."











2) "Dis ATM not give me money. Why it not give me money? I try tree times, a-whooga whooga whooga."


  

  Hmmmmmmm, baffling. Let's look at the receipt for valuable clues, shall we? Ah yes, there it is.


  YOUR FUCKING CARD IS EXPIRED, YOU SHOT GLASS FULL OF CYST FLUID.


  I would submit to you that maybe more money is the last thing you need at this moment. That being said, let me help you obtain more dough, valued customer! Let's see what other credit cards you have it that stinky wallet and start thrusting them randomly into that bastard of an ATM.


  The ATM is the enemy who is withholding your hard earned money from you. The ultimate nemesis. The only way to achieve victory is to successfully pull out some cash. Make it cum money into your hand, you shitfaced sock-molester!

                               "Me PIN number is 'grunt-grunt-stagger-kill', me sure of it."







3) "I'm going to call my lawyer because I did not receive the totally illegal act promised to me if I paid for a Champagne Room. Gonna call the cops too."




  Think for one moment about the utter ridiculousness of that statement and tell me, dear reader, if that's something you'd actually do, think about doing or use as a threat against your perceived transgressors at the good ole neighborhood Slitty-Shack. Only a mongoloid-level drunk motherfucker could possibly think that it's either a good idea or that somehow it may work out for them and not cost them 10 times what they lost in the club.


  Listen, if a stripper says she'll blow you in a champagne room or that she'll bang you senseless for an extra $100, take it with a grain of salt you wasted, dickbrained sot. Prostitution, which fucking in a champagne room definitely qualifies as, is illegal nearly everywhere in Amurrika.


  This is the equivalent of calling 911 and stating to them that the guy you gave money to for an 8-ball of cocaine and a willing boy-child ripped you off, providing neither blow nor pre-teen and you'd like law enforcement to do something about it. How dare this guy not provide the narcotics nor pedophilia you prepaid for?


  What is the world coming to?


   'I pay your wages' and so forth you should tell them when you report the crime, they can relate to things like that. No seriously.


  Any attorney worth his salt would give you the following advice: "Give up. Chalk it up as a loss and for God's sake go home before you make things worse for yourself. I bill in 15 minute increments, you owe me $75. Goodnight"


  AND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS YOU HOLD SACRED, LISTEN TO YOUR LEGAL COUNSEL. HE/SHE IS WISE WHILE YOU ARE DRUNK AND/OR AN IDIOT.


  If they bill you $75 for this advice, you should tip them. By suggesting you walk the fuck away and make it into some kind of brolktale*5 you tell your drinkin buddies, they have done you a service, genius.


  But only if you choose to follow that $75 advice. It's up to you..


  There's always the hard way...





4) "Why you not have no girls with big booties? Best ho in dere couldna been a buck-sixty!"*6



  Different clubs serve different clientele. What one demographic considers attractive, another may not. There are many examples of this, in my experience, all across ethnic and socio-economic lines.


  None of these are rock solid realities of course, but they are generally pretty fair assumptions to make. You'll be correct more times than you're wrong, if you're a betting person.


  Although based in majority consensus over my 20 year career, These observations will nevertheless be offensive to the sorts of folks who probably shouldn't be reading this blog in the first place.



-Asian men, i.e. actual men from Asia as opposed to Asian-Americans, generally aren't interested in Asian strippers. They normally like blonde pale types, black girls or latinas. Who can blame them? Everyone likes something exotic, something different that what you normally see on a day to day basis.


-Indian men are much the same as Asian men, they like pale girls with rosy pink naughty parts because it's out of the ordinary for them.


-Black guys seem to like dancers with no upper limit of ass. A stripper could drag a Death-Star sized ass up on stage and as long as she could make it clap in a way that is seismically measurable, they'd be lining up to make it rain on her. There is no such thing as 'too much ass'.

                                        "Yo get that skinny ho off da stage!"






-Hispanic dudes tend to like white girls and hispanic girls.


-Arabic guys like anything with a vagina because they don't really consider them human per se. More like collectables you can jizz in that also do the housework.

                                              







  And all that horribly offensive shit being said, it's time to end this installment, for the good of mankind.



  Tune in next time when I talk about something I haven't thought about yet and hope I can finish in a timely fashion.



Until then, I remain

Your StripperHerder























*1 Shatnanigans: Past tense of Shitnanigans, or dumb -uckery that has already happened.





*2 Such as a Buckler-Corpse, a Cadaver Mace, a Meat-Heater, a Stab-Absorbing Puppet or a Gristle-Targa





*3 Listen here's the deal: no one in the 'real world' will take you seriously as a VIP of any sort if you brag about how much money you have/make, but don't give anyone any of it. Someone who has "millions" and likes to boast about it yet is a non-tipping cheapskate, is not a 'VIP' and never will be.


  If I was worth "millions" and I liked to brag about it, I would hand out $100 bills like they were fucking candy. I would ooze them like a snail travels on a trail of it's own slime because why not? Thousands of dollars don't me shit to me, ninja, I make that every four minutes, yo. I tipped 300 people a hundred dollar bill one night and it made their fucking day. They will ALWAYS remember me as one cool, generous motherfuckering celebrity as opposed to the average tightwad famous egomaniac who felt his presence was tip enough for any establishment.


  Like I can pay my fucking rent with apathetic celebrity selfie pics.


  Fuck you.





*4 As someone who takes a lot of verbal abuse as part and parcel of his career, let me pose a question to my general audience:

If I showed you a picture of someone you've never seen before and didn't know from Adam and asked you if this person's opinion meant anything at all to you, I feel like most people who say "No, I don't know this person and thus his/her opinion probably doesn't mean shit to me."

I may or may not be correct in this assumption, but I feel I'm close enough to 50/50 to stand by my following statement:

Then why would it matter if you met this person, whose opinion doesn't matter to you, face to face and they insulted you in some generic way. How is it different? They are posing an opinion, that you're a jizz-bonging sweat-shrimper who's looser than moose cooze on a hot day.

If their opinion didn't mean anything to you when they were just a picture, then why does it matter if they're juts a face in an asshole crowd?


Seriously, think about it. It all goes back to a basic FACT of human behavior i.e: on a one to one basis any person's words only have power over another person if said person allows it.





*5 Brolktale: A portmanteau of Bro and Folktale, or the lies you tell your buddies about sex you never had.





*6 Literal quote. Not making things up like I am sometimes wont to do. Customer expressed dissatisfaction with the perceived lack of portliness of our dancer corps. Like a 5'5 dancer who only weighs 140 lbs is somehow hideously emaciated and needs 80 lbs more of pure ASS. As if a perfect ass is so large and unwieldly that it needs training wheels or a cart to haul it around.


  Fucking get over it.

On This Date, 5/5/2019, Italy Passes Russia In StripperHerder Readership. How Will This Affect World Markets?

  Congrats Italy! You have clawed your way into the number 2 readership rankings, bypassing Russia by 20 views.


  Well done, lads and lassies!



-Unky Herdy

I Might Change The Title Of This Blog To "Plight Of The Adult Babysitter" Because That's All I Am Anymore, And Paid Accordingly I Might Add. Or, Das Finale IS Nigh.

  Now accepting job offers: one grizzled, haggard motherfucker, large. Lazy but with a solid work ethic, sorta. Doesn't like talking to other humans or interacting with drunk people. Not especially friendly anymore, but able to fake it for the right amount of pay. Seeks job where I work alone, in a least a square mile of space devoid of other bipeds. Would prefer not to digs ditches for a living but what does it pay?


  SO fucking tired of dealing with alcoholics, drug addicts, criminals and garden variety scumbags for half the money I used to make that it just doesn't seem worth it to me anymore. I might have better things to do, I just have to figure out what they are and how I can make them pay the rent.


  That being said I'm going to start a Patreon account. If the entertainment this blog brings you is worth the tiny amount of money I'd ask for then great, I'll write more.


  If not then I'll still publish the blog, no worries. But if you're a regular reader and sympathize with the cuntery I put up with every day, then throw a bit my way if you can spare it.


  But enough about all that whiny ass money shit. I'll survive even if I have to live in an abandoned shack in the woods somewhere eating possums and stray children.





  Let's kick this bastard off with a fun round of multiple choice questions centered around a central theme.


  Ready?




 1)  In a very crowded club I put a table together for eight shitheads. It wasn't easy. I had to ask a table to move down one so I could accomplish this and most people don't like moving once they're settled.


  In exchange for this tiny miracle I received the following tip for my efforts:


A) The keys to a running '87 Corolla

B) A Fiver

C) A complete stranger tousling my hair like I was 5 and telling me I'm going to amount to something some day

D) I got told I "was the best".




2) I set up a champagne room for a guy with a credit card carved from the world's 6th largest diamond. I think you could buy a small country with it no questions asked. This room included 2 of our Premium bottles of booze, 4 dancers for two hours each and I let them smoke in the room even though it's a crime punishable by lethal injection in the state I'm from. The tab came to something like $8-9K.



  What was the tip this customer left for me on this transaction?


A) $11.63

B) 4 grams of gold dust

C) An offer for a line of coke and any beverage I wanted from the bar I work at

D) Fuck all. Absolutely nothing.




3) I had a customer who was almost berserk because he'd lost his phone. Clearly his child pornography pictures and snaps of his weird mushroom-goat dick were in danger of falling into the wrong hands. I fucking found his phone for him and he thanked me by tipping me:


A) An offer to text me some 'seriously hot pics'

B) Fumbling around in his wallet as he exited the club, then breaking into a sprint once out the door

C) $20

D) A sweaty handshake and a promise to leave a positive Yelp review



4) A customer was being accosted in our parking lot by several beer muscled twats in sideways hats. I intervened, calmed the situation down and allowed said customer to leave the parking lot unbeaten, unshot and in possession of all his belongings, teeth included..


  He amply rewarded me by:


A) Throwing his fast food wrappers out of his window as he safely exited the parking lot so I could clean them up later and lick the excess condiments off the wax paper before the raccoons got to them.

B) A spray of fast moving gravel across my shins as he sped out of the lot like a scared school kid.

C) A hurriedly mumbled 'thank you' and a $50 bill pressed into my hand.

D) Yelling racial epithets out the window as he sped off, thus making me look like an asshole to people I don't care about.



5) I picked up a group of 11 fucking idiots in the shuttle one night. They asked me if I was going to give them free passes (which I was allowed to do, but they didn't know that) and I said "I'm not supposed to, but if you take care of me, I'll take care of you". I said this making the erroneous assumption that at least one of them spoke Service Industry, but as usual, I WAS WRONG.

  My tip for saving them $110 at the door and a $30 ride?


A) An enthusiastic chorus of shit souled cheapskates praising my name

B) A Fiver

C) Three 'thank you's' and a 'you're the best'

D) Some brotherly patting of my shoulder








  I'm going to post this because I'm hammered and this is as good as it's going to get for now.




God bless Munerika,
-The StripperHerder























































ANSWERS: D, C, B, A, B
  

Classic 'Herder's For My Rabid Italian Fanbase, To Fuel Their Usurping Of Russia As My #2 In Readership After Amurrika. Which Will Happen In The Next Week, Tops.

In a pre celebration of Italy surpassing Russia as my #2 country in readership after the good ole US of A, here are some choice bits from the archives to sustian you while I work on new shit.


Thank you for reading...




https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2017/08/two-junkies-fighting-over-chicken-bone.html




https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2017/04/the-stripperherder-presents-another.html




https://plightofthestripperherder.blogspot.com/2016/03/st-fat-pricks-day-postscript.html





  There ya go, you rabid Ferrari and Fiat driving bastards, 3 republished classics like meat tossed in a clearing.


 

Go to town...
-The StripperHerder

Millennials: God's Punishment For Our Hubris. Or, Initiative-The Mark Of Someone Who Can Think On Their Own.

  I really hate to slam a whole 'generation' of Americans, but to start this post off, that's exactly what I'm going to do.


  Some website I can't be bothered to acknowledge defines a Millennial as a person born between 1981-1996, with folks being born from 1997 and on known as 'Post Millennials'. Don't get me started on Post Millennials because I'll never stop. Weakest, dumbest, rudest generation of Americans EVER.


  It's not all their fault, they're young and young people by definition are stupid. I was stupid when I was young and I'd bet a fair amount of my readers would admit to being a shithead back in the day as well.




  I'm forced to work with a few of these cheerful yet mentally deficient humans nowadays. Management has decided to give them a chance despite their chronological handicap and I gotta say, it's been working out really well.


  I guess my biggest gripe about these kids is that they 100% lack any sort of initiative whatsoever. They're perfectly capable of doing simple tasks without much supervision if you tell them to do it, but expecting them to take it upon themselves to do something that needs doing is setting yourself up for disappointment.


  Now lest you all think I'm just being a grumpy old prick, I'll cite you a few examples in one of my famous......anyone?..........


  Yep, you guessed it, list.



Dayshift Floor Guy: Day shifts are a whole different world from most night shifts. For one thing the entire non-dancer staff at the club consists of only 6 people: Manager, Bartender, Doorgirl, Cook, DJ and Floor Guy. Most of our dayshifts don't even have a waitress.


  Therefore how the floor area of the club looks is completely up to the Floor Mook on duty. Bussing tables, straightening shit up, keeping things looking nice and orderly etc etc.


  YET, every single shift I work where I come in early evening, I have to run around and fix all the tables and chairs, throw away all the empty beer bottles just sitting on tables and bring all the derelict glassware to the bar and plates to the kitchen, all the while thinking to myself, why the fuck hasn't the day shift cunt done all this? And not only that, but how many times do you have to watch some other person doing all the stuff you were supposed to do before it dawns on you that all of said stuff should've been done already. By YOU.


  Every day I come into work where the Day guy is Little Ricky Miracle Whip, I am immediately met with a barrage of OPW, or Other People's Work, which seems to be a defining characteristic of my service industry career


  This shouldn't need to be something an employee has to be told to do unless that employee is a fucking spoiled 12 year old. There shouldn't be empty beer bottles and glasses all over tables. There shouldn't be shit on the floor. The tables and chairs should be goddamn tidy, not all cattywumpus and willy nilly.


  It is absolutely NOT rocket science, but it might as well be.


  Finally this past shift I came to the painful realization that Little Ricky wasn't ever going to grasp the concept unless I told him, so today I fucking well told him. "This shit falls with the purview of your job description, young man and I grow ever so weary of doing it for you every shift I take over from you. You're like a wolf cub that refuses to learn how to hunt for yourself because The Pack has always done it for you. Quit doing your best Leave It To Beaver impression and pick some shit up every now and then."


  We'll see if this has any effect on the problem and I'll be sure to keep you all posted.



Can't do math Motherfuckers: This is not a single person, but a variety of people from various walks of strip club life that have to occasionally cover a Doorgirl's shift but aren't accustomed to doing that job. The most recent conundrum I've have to square off against in this arena is one particular Millennial who either never learned or has forgotten 2nd grade math. This person had an inordinate amount of problems determining if people are 21 or not, even when handed a card which had the person's birthdate on it.


  Now call me old fashioned, but subtracting a two digit number from a four digit number is something I learned when I was maybe 6 or 7 years of age and to my credit, I've never forgotten how to do it. You could give me any four digit number you cared to name and ask me to subtract any other two digit number from it and I'll be able to tell you the correct answer within 5-10 seconds. Slightly more if I'm drunk.


  Why? Because it isn't very difficult at all and we all (supposedly) learn basic math from a very young age.


  But not tonight's Mystery DoorPerson. The whole '21' or not thing just stumped the living fuck out of them. After the third time they requested assistance from me, I literally wrote them a flash card that looked like this:




2019
-  21

=1998  So if someone is born BEFORE today's date in 1998, they can come in.

If they were born AFTER today's date in 1998, they CANNOT come in!

 
SCIENCE!



   They failed to see the humor in it, but totally picked up on the scorn. Perfect.




Waytrezzes: Not all of the waitresses I work with are Millennials. We have a couple of seasoned servers to anchor an otherwise fairly ineffective team of pre-25 year old idiots who aren't very good at their jobs. Being a strip club waitress is not a hard job by any means. A server job in a high end restaurant, by comparison, is far more demanding than a cocktail bringer in a titty bar.


  That being said there is a sliding scale of difficulty depending on how busy we are. If we're slammed, a lot can be forgiven because of the chaos. However in a NOT VERY BUSY club, here is a Sublist of shit I should never have to do if we have more than one waitress on staff:


  A) Have to locate a fucking server to do her job. If we literally have 3 tables and 3 Waitresses on staff, I should never have to alert a drink mule that there is a new table, or have to hunt one down to deliver this news. Yet I do it all the time. There is social media to be checked, baby pics to be looked at and makeup to be discussed, fuck those customers who they rely on to make a living.


B) Having to pick up any empty glasses or bottles from a table. NOT IN MY JOB DESCRIPTION ON A NIGHT SHIFT. But I do a fuck of a lot of it anyways because I hate working in a trashy looking environment. Empty tables full of abandoned drink vessels look TRASHY and I fucking won't stand for it.


  At previous clubs I've worked at the Wait staff tipped the Floor staff for helping them, or guiding them to a worthwhile VIP room. The young twats working here haven't the slightest idea what any of that is all about. We could put them in a champagne room with a whale who tipped ludicrous amounts of money and we'd never see a dime in thanks. I could clear every single finished drink sold by any waitress working on a shift, every last one of them and I might get thanked but certainly wouldn't get tipped.


  Garbage: See any on the floor? Pick it the fuck up, you lazy, infantile twat. There's no excuse for any employee outside of a stripper NOT picking up any stray paper garbage on the floor, yet I watch my fellow employees walk over such crap all night, every single shift. Waitresses, Floor Guys, Barbacks, whatever. Step over and around the detritus, it's beneath you to keep the club you work in clean. Some other fuckhead can do that....


   Well call me Mr. Fuckhead then because if I walked into a pricey club with random garbage lying all over the floor, I'm not staying. This tells me the employees here don't give a fuck about their jobs and subsequently, aren't gonna care about me in the slightest either.


  What the hell ever happened to pride in your job? Even if you're ashamed of your occupation, which I am, it should never be beneath your dignity to do some trivial upkeep of your work environs. I've mentioned in a couple of previous posts that if it weren't for me cleaning the front of the club, then the door would be buried in a six foot drift of cigarette butts, wing bones, shattered Hennessy bottles and maybe a dead stripper or two.


 We've actually made bets as to how long it would take one of our dedicated, goal-driven waitresses to pick up a various empty bottle or dirty plate. I think something like 5 hours is the current record. Pretty much a whole shift.



  It's all about initiative, young people. If something needs to be done, just fucking DO it. You shouldn't have to be told to do it, it should just get done. There's no reward or praise for doing it, trust me on this, your actions will be taken for granted and no one will tell you 'good job then, who's a good boy?'


  But you shouldn't need that. Yes, it's nice to hear that someone acknowledges and appreciates your work ethic, you doing something the past thirty employees have failed to do, but don't expect it. You do it because that's what a good employee does. Set yourself apart from the others.


  Some day, in some industry, someone who can make a real difference in your life will notice your extra effort and you may even benefit from it. Doubtful, but better to feel good about your own work ethic than to suck like the average knuckle-dragging, hate-souled service industry employee.


  To sum up this millennial tirade, let me offer the following advice to the following folks:


-Millennials: Get the fuck out of the service industry while you're young and have lots of options. Go to school, earn a degree or acquire a trade. Even if you're just waiting for your parents to die so you can inherit their money, get out of the hospitality sector as soon as possible because it will almost certainly ruin your life and make you hate things that should be fun.


-Management: Communication is your greatest asset. If you're having a problem with an employee you can't expect them to change their behavior unless they are aware there's a problem. Passively aggressively fucking around with their schedules or treating them like shit for reasons they haven't been made clear to them is both counter productive and idiotic. Figure it out, it ain't that difficult.


-Customers: Eat a dick. I hate you all.








  In other news, things have taken a fighty turn of late. Been lots of fisticuffs and related ghetto nonsense. So far in 2019, I've been involved in more frakases and donnybrooks that in the past 4 years combined. In over twenty years of doing this stupid job, I've only had to injure people maybe a half dozen times, every other occasion has been containment, deterrent or dispersal.


  But I've rendered dudes unconscious more than once this year already. Fucking out like smack-harpooned strippers. Never had to do this before and while I'm not ashamed, I'm not proud either. Real life isn't like the movies where you club someone over the head with something heavy and they conveniently just go to sleep. In the real world skulls get fractured, choked out people have strokes or don't start breathing on their own again, and knocked out people sometimes don't wake up again. Ever.


  It's a manslaughter charge waiting to happen, especially in today's litigation obsessed society.


  I'm struggling with my desire to get out of the industry versus my craving to not be homeless again. It's a tough conflict....




  In closing I'd like to say fuck your pictures with amusing captions, I just don't have it in me right now.


  So I'm going to publish this not-as-funny-as-it-should-be post for the simple fact that I need to post something new, to feel a tiny sense of accomplishment in an otherwise unsatisfying life.


  Tune in next time where I cover more of Dr Mosser's incredible insights into Strip Club Biospheres.


  It's gonna be like totally awesome or something.




Too Old To Be Heavy,
-The StripperHerder



 






 


 

Mosser's Guide To Strip Club Fauna, Pt 1:Strippers. Or, Baggle-Skags, Not Much Of A Threat Alone But They Always Return, And In Greater Numbers.

  There once was a man named Dr Moebius Mosser who lived from 1906 to 2005 and who earned multiple PHD's in his often tumultuous lifetime. He was a doctor of anthropology, psychology, sociology and a chiropractor (although he admits he earned that doctorate by mail so he never took it seriously except in the mid 70's when he successfully ran "Sexual Chiroprackty"*1 for a number of years just outside of San Francisco)


  Born in Erie, Pennsylvania to first generation Austrian-Americans. Moebius, or "Mo" to his friends was the seventeenth of thirty-four children, twelve of which survived their first three years. Of those who made it through the child mortality gauntlet that was early 20th century America, he is the fourth oldest, having two older brothers, one older sister and five younger brothers with three younger sisters.


  His Father, Albert Franz Mosser was an accordion maker by trade and an alcoholic by life choice. He was a smallish man, but suffused with boundless rage and ill will when drunk, which after the move to America became all the more frequent as he was unable to find work making accordions or related bellows-powered instruments. He was forced to rely on menial labor jobs to keep a roof over his family's head and keep cabbage on the table for them. Literally cabbage, Family Brassicaceae leafy stink-lettuce. It's pretty much all they ate.*2


  Dr Mosser was a man fascinated by his fellow humans, he wanted to know everything about what made an individual tick or sometimes explode as the case may be. He become quite interested in human sexuality in the late 60's after attending a post doctorate orgy with some fellow sexuality enthusiasts. It was from this point on that the focus of his work for the next decade became human sexuality and the silly shite it makes people do to get laid.


  Chief among his interests were Go-Go bars, a thing in the 70's. Kinda like a titty bar but the girls wore bikinis, kind of. Being as this way the age of the Bush, wild and free, the bikinis were more like thongs stretched over unconscious muppets, fur all akimbo and uncontainable.


  It was in this area of research that he wrote what became regarded as his finest work, and the seminal example of the Strip Club Field Guide, the aforementioned Mosser's Guide to Strip Club Fauna.


  It's mandatory reading for anyone who either has to or wants to interact with strippers and idiot strip club patrons in a reasonably successful fashion.




  So I recommend to all my readers to find a copy of this book and read the shit out of it, it will make any strip club experience far more entertaining as you and your friends suddenly become amateur strip club biologists!


  That being said, here are some of the more interesting examples of Strip Club Wild Life as attributed by Dr. Mosser





A) Predators:





1) Rural Baggle-Skags: Always operating in packs, like hyenas, your average Baggle-Skag is about 5' tall and weighs 90 lbs. There are the goblin of the stripper races. Any group of more than three Baggle-Skags is known as a 'Trailer Park', as in a pod of whales or a murder of crows.


  Used in a sentence:


 "The other day I was at this hillbilly strip club when I got cornered by a trailer park of baggle-skags. I had no choice but to throw down my previously prepared tiny baggie of Drano crystals and tell them it was meth while I fucking ran like hell. The sounds of them fighting each other over it will haunt my dreams forever."

                          Not much of a threat alone, Baggle-Skags hunt in packs of up to 20.






2) Fright Weaved Ghetto Beak-This fierce hunter intimidates rival strippers with its medusa-like hair, wild rolling eyes and four inch long polycarbon nails. When even the slightest thing doesn't go its way it gets extremely loud and causes a scene before attacking something....anything.


  A group of three or more Fright Weaved Ghetto Beaks is known as a 'Drive By'.




3) Midwestern Trap Door Stripper: Comes out of nowhere when she senses the gait of a very drunk customer. Super attuned sensory organs in her feet can pick up staggering footsteps in even the most crowded strip club from a distance of more than 80 yards. The very best of them can tell you the age, weight and race of a man just by the vibrations his unsteady footsteps make on the stained carpet.


  There is no fun group name for Midwestern Trap Door Strippers because they are solitary hunters.




4) Gin Harpies: See also Liquor Lichs, Boozeferatu, Jerky Loins, Corduroy Titties. These are strippers who are so far past their Sell By date that Paleontologists have literally started to study their cultures which are so antiquated they have largely been lost to human record.


  As some of my longtime readers may guess, my former adversary Vodzilla is a classic example of a prematurely aged Gin Harpy*3. She looks easily 10 years older than she really is, 30 if the lights are on, which cause her skin to smoke and crackle....


  A group of three or more Gin Harpies is known as an 'Apocalypse'.

                                        "My finishing move is called the Salmon Slam"






5) Whoracuda: This example of a titty bar huntress is what's known in the real world as a fake prostitute. These are strippers who claim to be up for meeting outside the club to lay some stink on your genitals, but they are not truthful about it and are subsequently divided into two distinct subspecies:


  a) The Domesticated American False-Promising Sex Liar:Tells their prospective prey they'll do all kinds of sick shit outside of a club but require a 'retainer' because men line up to pump their shame-barrages into her. If you give a DAFPSL money up front, not only will you never see that money again, you'll never bang her either. Or maybe 10-15% of the time, to be fair. Not good odds.



  b) The Fake Crested Felony Hawk: This girl absolutely will meet you outside of the club and then at an inconvenient moment, her pimp/boyfriend/business partner will burst in and rob the living shit out of you. If you try to resist you'll probably get shot so just give up your cash and anything else of value, like your car, then pull up your pants and try to be smarter next time.


  These crimes go unreported more times than perhaps any other just for the simple fact of having to answer "So why were your there in the first place, Mr. Doe......?" when you're trying to report a robbery.



  A group of three or more Whoracudas is known as a 'Trap'.

                                              Not worth $150, much less your Ford.




6) Shark Eyed Wallet Raper: Only a really drunk spunkcrust could fail to notice the black, dead eyes of this serial predator as she closes in for some fiscal savagery.  Her smile says "let's have some fun big boy!" but her eyes say "I smell chum with a credit card."


  Don't be fooled by looks, a lot of SEWR's are still hot and rely on their sweet bods and pretty features to distract from the greed and hunger evidenced in their gazes. All hope bereft and shit.

                                                     "I smell AMEX in the water..."

  A group of three or more SEWR's is called a 'Gang Rape'.




7) The Freudian Fraulein: These strippers are rarer that albino black cats, but they do exist. I've worked with a few strippers so fucking adept at getting into a man's wallet via his mind and emotions, pushing all the right buttons to make him spend, that it's scary. The majority of the scarce critters get out of the industry early, having invested their earnings wisely because they are much smarter than your average clam club employee.*4





8) Sundance Sallys: Ugly fucking strippers who have a symbiotic relationship with a much hotter stripper and who are only able to pay the weed and pizza bills because of their partnership with the dancer who is actually desirable.


  Current example at my club:


  Saddlebags and Jumanji- Two joined-at-the-hip strippers who normally work as a duo, like Batman and Frankenstein. I don't like either one of them because neither of them tip and both are more or less garbage. Normally I can find something positive to say about a stripper, any stripper, no matter how much negative shit I could follow it up with. But Saddlebags....I don't know. Nice hair maybe?


  Saddlebag's one of those tallish girls who carries weight on top of her hips instead of to the sides or down low. Makes her look like she's got two fannypacks riding real high on her sides, probably stuffed with drugs. Her tits inspire sadness and a reflective introspection that can cause you to question why you came to look at tits in the first place. As if the joy you felt at seeing all the pretty breasts just evaporated into a fugue of discomfort at the sight of her gravity defeated milk-socks. She gets super annihilated every now and then but can't be bothered to woman up and just apologize for her actions the next shift, pretends all the heinous shit she said previously never happened.*5

                                         Beauty and the Beast, Stripper Edition.






9) Generic Pierced Nipple Dance Stackers: Comes in two variations, thick and thin, never just right. Usually drunk as fuck too. Gets a wasted Dirt-Prodder to agree to a dance and then weaves a tale of bullshit and scandal in his ear while she stacks 5 or 10 dances on him and when he's overwhelmed by how much he owes, relies on Floor Guys she won't tip to get the money for her.


  We've been teaching them, the serial ones. I've held the door open for guys some GPNDS was trying to fleece. The fact of the matter is if I control the portal and you're a habitual non tipper, I refuse to put hands on a guy for that, because that could lead to a lawsuit, no?


  Sorry hon, should've once in a while looked out for those who look after you. We're only gonna put up with your ratfink cuntery for so long. Time for a new club or a new work ethic, or possibly less alcoholism.


  And this from a guy who advocates recreational alcoholism...

                                                 Like I said, it's never JUST RIGHT...






B) Parasites


1) Sad-Breasted Twerk-Hag: Was never a top tier entertainer, just 'filler' material to make the dancer count look better. The majority of many clubs' stable of strippers of will be these garden variety strippers, nothing remarkable about them, maybe one feature that stands out in an otherwise bland package. They drift from table to table, asking customers if they would, against all reason, like a dance. These gals never land whales, they just nibble at krill and worry away at the corpses of big spenders after the real operators have bled them dry and cast them adrift.



2) Bottom Feeding Thong Carp: Just floats around in the club current, glomming drinks and every now and then doing a dance. Makes around $350 bucks a week on average with the occasional $300 night just to keep up the rent on her hotel room. Buys a new thong every time her old one gets too stiff to wear since she has no washing machine or interest in doing laundry. Chinese proverbs claim that the Dragon of Unhappiness infests her loins, but I only give that a fifty-fifty chance at best, I think it would die in there.



3) North American Opioid Sloth: This species of stripper live life on the edge of dying everyday. They are seldom aware of anything going on not immediately related to how they're getting their next fix and anything more than ten seconds of conversation with one should make that evidently plain to anyone not retarded drunk.



4) Southern Slack-Bellied Pork Goddess: Big and round all over. Perfect serf-wife material for someone who needed a ridiculously fecund wife who could dig turnips with the best of them well into her third trimester and shrug off childbirth like it was a mild rash. Someone who could fight off Saxon invaders like they were schoolchildren and still whip up a fine turnip porridge when the bodies had been cleared.*6




5) Geriatric Carpet Bomber: This is an ancient stripper whose mortal nemesis is fluorescent lighting. She can remember when variety shows were a staple on all three channels in America. 'Carpet Bombing' is a tactic frowned upon at a lot of higher end clubs, it involves just wandering up to every fucking customer in the place and asking them point blank if they want a dance. No introduction, no conversation, no warning.


  This is a strategy adopted by many strippers who really should've retired by now, but having the fiscal planning acumen of a mayfly, are still broke in their 40's and 50's despite the massive amounts of tax free money they've made in the past several decades.


  The thing about Carpet Bombing is that it works a lot of the time, even if the dancer in question is haggard as fuck.


  The reason that this practice can work is because a large percentage of strippers in this day and age have no real clue about how to close the deal. They don't know how to ASK FOR THE SALE. They're not bold enough to suggest to a guy that he spend some money, yet state it as a foregone conclusion and be confident enough in their hotness to get away with it.


  Some girls just don't realize how hot they are, or haven't figured out how to spot spineless money guys who crave domination by an attractive, powerful valkyrie of a woman.




  This is where I'm gonna end in one of my trademarked Abrupt Endings™.



  Stop by next time when I take a look at more of the amazing Dr. Mosser's strip club denizens! Whenever that may be...




Viva Italia,
-The StripperHerder

































*1 Sexual Chiroprackty was a boutique that featured a mix of erotic self help books, mystical thingamajigs and doodads, various counter culture paraphernalia and penetration-optional spinal adjustment by appointment only. Mostly for the female clientele, but if he was getting paid......






*2 Some later Mosser biographers claim that up to ten of his other offspring could've survived childhood if they'd had a diet that consisted of more than cabbage with the occasional tiny portion of fish, rat, pigeon or cat.





*3 Although she is classified as a Gin Harpy by Mosser,  Vodzilla prefers vodka and will only drink gin if it's free, there is no other alcohol available or it's a weekday.





*4 I used to work with a gal who is now an aeronautical engineer with an additional degree in physics. Meanwhile I barely finished high school because it seemed kinda pointless at the time. That being said no matter how divergent our life paths became, at one point we both made our living in the titty business. Fuckin small world, eh?**


    **Freudian Fraulein are extremely rare nowadays. They never work in groups because all the other strippers sense their superior intellect and hate and fear them for it.






*5 As a seasoned alcoholic who has done much he needed to apologize for in the past I can tell you that pretending something didn't happen isn't the way to make it not have happened. We're all adults here so fucking nut up or vagina up or whatever and just say you're sorry for being a miserable twat. Goes a long way.





*6 To be fair, I am the male counterpart to the Southern Slack-Bellied Pork Goddess in that I am mostly desirable as a mate to a girl that expects her man to hack marauding raiders to bits, club the occasional polar bear to death and gift it's lovely pelt to her as an oversized slanket/sunggie, pillage some foreign lands for some goods, gold or slaves while she minds the farm and generally be a savage merciless cunt who nevertheless loves her in his own way but may or may not smell good while doing it.


  Or just be the guy who pumps children into her and does a reasonably good job of providing for them until they die or hit puberty. Whatever.