Naked Women and Beer

Hmmm...

2009-11-14T09:06:00.003-06:00

So, I think the hiatus may have been long enough. Anybody still out there? Read any good blogs lately?

Heh.

Taking a break from school to focus on motherhood has left me with entirely too much time on my hands, and too many stories that haven't been written.

So, basically, I'm thinking about blogging again. We'll see. Guess you'll have to check back to find out, won't ya!

XOXO
Jennifer

Exploration and the Expansion of Ego

2009-03-30T23:36:00.000-06:00

Sometime, anytime, another time, I changed. Became a different person, another person. A totally new being completely unrelated to the person I was before.

I became a mother.

And with that, I became something completely bigger than myself. Something that would begin to define me, absolutely separate from anything, any term I had used in the past. Something that would belong completely to me, yet have absolutely nothing to do with me.

Somewhere along the line I became more than one person could ever be expected to become. I became responsible for more than just myself. And more than that even.

In trying to pinpoint the moment of transition, in attempting to determine when, where, what the catalyst was for this momentous exchange of emotion between myself and my new purpose; it seems infallible to try to narrow it down to one set of moments. One time where the sleepless nights, and the incessant questioning started and my other life ended. When the worrying began, where the road from point A to point B became the new blueprint of authenticity, where all exits led to another person and selfishness became a one way street.

Then the questioning began. Am I going to fail? Is it possible to succeed? In building another human am I losing the parts of myself that I loved the most? Am I worthy? Am I embarrassing? Will I fuck him up before he has a chance at happiness? Is he bonding, independent, too needy, too ahead of the curve, too far behind? And am I the person capable to make the decisions that I can't make for myself?

And you breathe.

And you push.

And somewhere between the blood. And the shit. And the tearing of flesh. And the creation of life from where once there was nothing you realize:

I know nothing.

I am nothing.

And you cry out. To God. To friends. To anyone who knew you when. Knew you before you woke up in this new reality. This new prison of expectation in the fog of insecurity and abhorrent idealism.

To anyone, everyone, Someone. Willing to walk with you. Willing to lead you, teach you, prepare you for preparing someone else to prepare yet another generation of preparation.

And at some point, when you're not fully convinced, when you've turned your back on the former life you once strove so hard to protect, when all your work and efforts at becoming the person you used to be take a back seat to the person you have to be, for him, for you, for them; it becomes painfully obvious that you don't know what the fuck you're doing. That you're just as blind as he is, as they are. That you wander through this desert of independence, co dependence, and know that nothing will ever be the same. Nothing will ever look the same. Nothing will ever feel the same.

And everything you never thought you wanted becomes completely worth it in the end.

And you breathe.

And you expand.

And you sleep on it.

Random Update

2008-01-03T01:40:00.000-06:00

Just thought I'd let everyone (or the few who still check in) that my thesis is well on its way. Hopefully in the next few months I'll be able to give ya'll a snippet or two.

Oh yeah... and I got married.

And I'm pregnant.

How's that for an update?

Love,
Jennifer

Strippers in the Making: or, Why Kid Nation is Making Me Fear for our Future

2007-10-04T22:08:00.000-05:00

Ugh... I hate people.

And I really dislike children. Say what you will about being bitter or insensitive, or quote Whitney Houston all you want, children really drive me up the wall. I am sure that when it comes to my own- actually, if it comes to my own- I will have some sort of maternal instinct which will make them tolerable; however, as of right now they simply annoy me.

Hence the reason I'm not going into social work.

Have any of you managed to suffer through this new CBS drama, Kid Nation? If this is a direct link to the future of our nation, I might as well off myself now and be done with it. For those of you not in the know, let me give you a brief synopsis.

CBS has brilliantly decided that it would be better, rather than exploiting consenting adults on reality television for monetary gain, to allow consenting parents to exploit their children on television for monetary gain. Recently, an article on The Smoking Gun provided a liability waiver requiring signature by the parents which relieves CBS from any lawsuits if the children suffer any injuries, death, or sexually transmitted diseases while taping the series. I shit you not. This is a town composed of forty children, ranging in ages from eight to fifteen, and you have to sign an STD waiver? My faith in humanity is exponentially increased, let me tell you.

So, along the way the children must create a working town by assigning jobs, actually completing these jobs (no thanks to that cunt Taylor- I'll get to her later), establishing some form of law and order, and competing for "class status," ranging from laborers, making ten cents for doing janitorial work, and the upper class, who receive a dollar for doing absolutely nothing.

Wow. This is really teaching our children great values. Really. Not helping the situation is the token Jewish kid, Jared, who, upon his groups entry into the upper class, goes on a slight tirade during an interview about how much he loves money. Thanks, Jared's parents, for perpetuating a stereotype in your children that I must continually face. The Jewish community applauds you.

In the first episode, one child, upon being placed in the lower class and realizing she doesn't have enough money to afford a bicycle, resorts to dancing in the street for money. Ten to one she's on the pole in six years.

And then, there's Taylor.

Taylor, Taylor... you little cunt.

Is it wrong to call a small child a cunt? I don't really care at this point. I have the overwhelming urge to bitch slap this child across the face, as she represents everything I dislike about humanity.

First off, she's a pageant queen. This alone gives her an unabashed sense of entitlement and egomaniacle attitude, probably attributed to her fat mother's issues with her own appearance and her need to live vicariously through her children. Pageant kids are just weird, and I seriously believe it's a form of child abuse. Have you seen some of these pageants? Little tiny children are dressing up in less clothes than strippers, dancing provocatively around for adult male judges, whoring themselves out with enough makeup and hairspray to make Tammy Faye jealous- it's sick. It freaks me out. Not only that, but it's perpetuating a stereotype that external beauty is the only attribute that matters, which is probably why Taylor is such a disrespectful little bitch.

Her favorite phrase? "Deal with it."

For example: Taylor is supposed to be working in the kitchen. Where is she? Hanging out in the bunks with her little posse of less attractive girls who think hanging out with her will make them cool by association. When someone stops by to ask her to please do her job, she says "deal with it."

When the other kids complain that her group (as she is the "council leader" for her team) isn't pulling her own weight, what does she say? "Deal with it." Also, she's been known to say that "pageant girls don't clean dirty dishes."

I hope her parents watch the show. I hope they realize what a monster they're creating. I hope it embarrasses them to know their daughter acts like a pompous spoiled egotistical brat around other people. I hope they are ashamed. Otherwise, one Taylor grows up and realizes the world doesn't function like pageants, her parents are going to be in a world of shit. Daddy's little pageant queen, suffering from an overwhelming sense of insecurity and a fragile ego will start searching out validation wherever she can find it. My prediction: she'll end up pregnant by fifteen, dropping out of high school, and either ending up on the pole, or getting fat and coaching cheerleading.

Either way she'll still be bitch.

Okay, Mom... You win.

2007-06-21T06:58:00.001-05:00

Okay, so I started another blog. It's here. I'm not writing about the strip club, but my mother seems to be going through withdrawls without reading something I wrote on the computer. Far be it for her to call and find out how my life is going (hah, just kidding). Anyway, this new blog is what it is. Read it, or don't.

I do miss you guys, though!

Jennifer

All Good Things

2007-05-28T10:48:00.000-05:00

Well, folks, after a lot of quiet consideration, I've decided to stop writing this blog. I've been approved to write my own thesis next semester on the evolution of male customers in a Gentlemans' club, and I really need to keep my observations private for the purposes of that paper.

I have really enjoyed writing this, and I hope you all have enjoyed reading it. Thanks to all who gave me links and read my little stories about a titty bar in the south.

Take care, everyone, and I hope you all fulfill whatever your heart desires!

Love,
Waitress

P.S.: I'm in Arkansas

P.P.S: My name is Jennifer :)

Sorry...

2007-05-23T09:03:00.000-05:00

Sorry guys, I've been out of commission for a while. Right now the only thing(s) that are happening at work (drama related) are personal between staff memebers, and not to be posted on the internet. No offense.

Hopefully there will be some juicy drama this weekend. Until then!

Love,
Waitress

Aww, I won something!

2007-05-11T01:16:00.000-05:00

Yay you guys! I won the contest! How cool is that?

I was wondering, though; Ryan mentioned for me to email him to claim my winnings... What happens if someone else emails him pretending to be me? He better not send my shit to another person- I'd have to hunt someone down!

This last weekend was pretty boring, hence the lack of posts. I do have a few stories I'm working on but they're personal in nature and I'm waiting for it to become "old news" at the titty-bar so that no one who reads this gets their feelings hurt.

Or tries to jump me after work. That wouldn't be too nice.

:)

Waitress

Pause for Commercial

2007-05-03T14:18:00.000-05:00

I'd like to take a break from our regularly scheduled programming and deter to the topic of prostitution.

As many of you (may) know, I get several of the strip club = whorehouse comments quite frequently; however, I have only chosen to publish one from a particular commenter, because he was quite literate and well spoken on the matter (more so than the trolls out there). That said, I requested that this specific person give me some reason as to why he believes that strip clubs are whorehouses, and he did- which you can find in the comments of the last post. One interesting thing he said; however, was that "Also, in my humble opinion, the act of lap dancing in itself for money is an act of prostitution."

This made me think for a moment about where we draw the lines between prostitution and enterprise.

When I think about prostitutes, the image that usually pops into my head is the seedy streetwalker, dressed in yellow Lycra and permed hair. (Think Julia Robert's in Pretty Woman, just not as pretty and more bad ass). When I think about what constitutes prostitution, it's always sex with a random stranger for money. The afore mentioned commenter deems lap dances as a form of prostitution, because you are gyrating on someones lap for money. We could also take this one step further if we wished.

A housewife whose husband has just bought her a diamond necklace and she subsequently sleeps with him- is she prostituting herself? The diamond necklace has monetary value, and she is choosing to accept the gift and then perform sexual acts with the man that gave it to her. There's a funny parody commercial of the Debeers Diamond company: "Diamond's... she'll pretty much have to." If a husband gives his wife a diamond necklace, expecting a sexual interaction in return, does that then make him a John and her a prostitute? What if they weren't married?

If Boyfriend cleans the whole house, and I am so thrilled I ask him "is there anything I can do for you," and he jokingly says "you could give me head," and I comply- am I then a prostitute? We usually pay a cleaning lady to come clean our house once a week, so Boyfriend has just engaged in an act which is worth monetary value, in which I am repaying him with sexual favors. Am I now prostituting myself?

If a young, virile woman decides to marry an old man who is worth billions of dollars- is she prostituting herself? If she enters into a marriage contract not because she is madly in love with this man and wants to spend the rest of her life with him, but because she is aware of how much he is worth and how easy her life will become, is that prostitution? Are we now loosening the boundaries of the definition to include marriage contracts as well as just acts of sexual gratification?

The floor is open to you, dear readers; and I wait in anticipation to hear what you have to say.

Don't Bring Your Hooker To My Titty Bar

2007-05-01T22:59:00.000-05:00

I'll never understand why men bring their hookers (ahem, escorts if you're p.c., and women who will have sex with you if you're honest) to a strip club. To me it rather defeats the purpose. A strip club, despite all it's drama and subsequent interference, serves as a safe-house where men can come alone or in groups, and engage in titillating conversation *pun intented* with attractive women. Paying is an option (albeit a strongly preferred option).

That said, I don't understand why some men bring their hookers to a strip club. It would seem a rather distracting and financially draining expense; especially if she is charging for the hour. I can sympathize to a degree with men who choose to get a hooker after leaving the strip club- unrequited sexual interaction and proverbial blue-balls have been known to cause a few rash decisions. And engaging with a hooker or two has been known to cause a few rashes. (Bad-um chaa)

I suppose the rather ideal situation in this case would be to meet a hooker at the strip club.

Why would that be ideal, you ask?

Because it segways into my next topic: the hooker who once danced for us before we knew she was a hooker.

About a year ago we had a dancer who came to us from another bar, and her name was Monarch. She was a very tall, boisterous black woman; and boy could she drink. This girl would down seven or eight LIT's (Long Island Iced Tea's) during the evening. She was loud, strong, crass, and a hooker. At least, we found out she was a hooker later.

We had an idea she was prostituting herself a few weeks after she started. She was a really good tipper. Really good. Not to say that all hookers are good tippers- this was just a little extreme. She would tip five or six dollars on a drink. When the girls onstage weren't making any money, she would tip them out of her pocket. She tipped the DJ's out fifty or sixty dollars, which is quite more than they're used too.

One night, our DJ was up in the booth with his girlfriend, also a dancer. When Monarch tipped him out for the evening, Girlfriend made a comment that she really liked to tip well.

"This is my fun money," Monarch replied. "I make my real money selling pussy on the side."

Wow. When we heard about this, we weren't really sure what to do. It's really not a good idea for a strip club to knowingly employ a hooker/escort. You can get into all sorts of crazy litigation's, not the least being soliciting. Luckily for us, we didn't have to wait long for proof.

Monarch was an entrepreneurial hooker. This bitch had business cards. She was passing them out to customers after they tipped her. It was one of those "you like what you see here? Why not give me a call later and we'll meet up. Here's my card."

We don't even allow the dancers to leave with customers, let alone meet them later for a quick "hide the salami" for an undetermined sum of money.

We found one of the business cards on the table, but were unsure of who they belonged to. We decided, in the best interests of the club, to perform a mandatory bag search. The rest of the cards turned up in Monarch's bag.

Monarch went nuts when we confronted her with the business cards. She didn't deny they were hers; however, she just resented the fact that we would no longer employ her at our establishment. She began screaming at everyone in the club. Here we are, attempting to close our registers and wipe of our tables, and she's screaming- no, preaching at the top of her lungs about how she has a business that doesn't involve us, and she's just trying to make a living and take care of her children.

During all of this she's prancing around the building, getting in anyone's face who will listen to her, all the while attempting to convince us that she deserves to keep her job. It was quite the spectacle.

The trouble came when the DJ told her to shut up, she was giving him a headache.

Monarch went off like a fuse had been lit underneath her ass. It was "bitch I'll fuck you up" and "don't talk to me like that you fat asshole" and she went as far as to call someone (and I swear to you this happened) a "dookie eating bitch."

Who says dookie anymore? Hookers, apparently.

It was then that they decided, in the best interests of everyone, to escort Monarch outside to her vehicle; however, not before she managed to slug our door guy across the face a few times.

Moral of the story: don't piss of a hooker. They fight too.

Procrastinating Polly

2007-04-29T17:46:00.000-05:00

I'm deviating (a nicer word than procrastinating) from studying for my finals tomorrow by posting this short little diatribe.

At the bottom of my blog, I have this little green button; called "site meter." One of the many handy things that it provides is a listing of how people came to my blog. If someone were to search for me using Google, Msn, Yahoo, or any other search engine, it tells me which engine they used and what keywords they typed in.

That said: ewwwwwwwww.

To the person who came to my blog while searching for "8 year old sluts;" I have nothing to say.

To the person who came to my blog while searching for "daddy's and girls naked;" again, nothing to say you freaking pervert.

Mostly, people search for "naked women" and they get my blog. THIS IS NOT A PORN SITE!

Although I do have to say that I'm quite pleased to have surpassed porn. And Hank Williams Jr.

:)

However, "pussy sluts naked" and "fucking naked women drunk" and all the other wonderfully colorful search terms that brought you freaks here, this is not a porn site. By all means, feel free to peruse through the blog; but don't expect any pictures.

That is all,
Waitress.

P.S> The dancers drove me CRAZY this weekend. More on that later.

When It Rains

2007-04-26T15:31:00.000-05:00

Oh, Dear Readers, Saturday night was an awful night!

It didn't help matters that I was cranky; quite possibly the crankiest I have been in a while. I don't really know what put me in such a bad mood, I think just the pressure of finals (next week) and all my papers due (this week) was wearing on me, and I was not in a good mood. Apparently, misery does love company-- and most of the customers were jack asses as well.

The night started off dead. Dead dead dead; and as any server worth their salt can tell you- they would rather be slammed and weeded all night long then have a small trickle of people coming in every once in a while. I just couldn't get the motivation to work hard (not that it was particularly needed, mind you) and it made matters worse that I really didn't know anyone that was in there.

Usually my bar consists of 75% or more of regulars. The rest of the people are random- frat boys, guys getting off work, and people just driving by and deciding to stop in. There were NO regulars Saturday night and it was pissing me off. Not only that, but the few people we did have in there were disgusting.

Disgusting.

Trailer trash, hick town, cheap motherfuckers; and they all seemed to be perpetually perverted. And cheap.

I can handle perverted as long as you are tipping me. I can fake it for the few hours you spend in my section, as long as you're making it worth my while. I can smile and fawn while you sexually harass me, as long as you're paying my bills.

On the other hand, I can handle cheap as long as you keep to yourself. If you want to sit alone in a corner and drink your beer by yourself without tipping me- that's fine. You leave me alone and I will continue to bring you your beer without making a snide comment about the fact that you're cheap.

When you put the two together, that's what pisses me off. Not only are you cheap, sitting there, looking anxious as you wait for your quarter change from your $2.75 domestic beer. Not only am I standing around while you count out nickles and dimes to pay for it; but you want to make some comment about my ass, or about how you would "love to take me home," or some other generic line that probably took your dumb ass two hours to come up with.

It really pisses me off.

You see, there's a subtle exchange that happens in the titty bar between the customers and the dancers and wait-staff. An "invisible bidding war" if you will; where the dancer/waitress decides how much shit she will put up with based on how much money is being handed over. It works somewhat like this:

If you stiff me on a drink, I will give you one more chance. Possibly, you didn't realize you hadn't tipped me, or maybe you just thought I took my tip myself (some people think this). If you stiff me on the second time, I will make a comment about it in a joking manner. Usually "darlin, you know you're going to tip me, so why are you making me stand here?" If you still refuse to tip me, one of two things will happen: 1- I will continue to wait on you (if you're sitting alone), but I will wait until your drink is empty and you are waving the bottle around like a flag; or 2- I will make your ass walk to the bar. Most people tip automatically; however, so this doesn't happen often.

If you tip me a dollar on a beer or a drink, I will pay attention to you. I will pat you on the head, maybe squeeze your shoulders a few times. I will come up with some pet name for you, and check on you often. If you make some perverted comment, I will probably laugh it off.

If you tip me more than a dollar on a beer, I will learn your name, and use it when I come by the table. I will hug you, possibly kiss you on the cheek, and try to make you feel special. I will remember what you drink and offer it to you before your last one runs out. If you make some perverted comment, I will come up with a witty response that will make you laugh, and wink at you so you know that everything is o.k.

If you tip more than that, and I'm talking about the guys who run tabs and tip me upwards of $50 to $100; I will not only remember your name, but I will find you a table. I will have your drink ready the minute I see you walk in the door. I will sit at your table with you, ask you how your day/job/wife/kids are doing. I will have a drink with you, and if you want a certain dancer, I will go track her down for you. I will remember your birthday, holidays, etcetera; and sometimes I will buy you a card on these occasions. I will give you a back massage when I'm not busy. I will remember/put up with your slight neurosis, and do my best to cater to them. I will let the dancers know you are there, and soon they will be filling your table, hanging on your every word. If you slap me on the ass, I'll let you get away with it. Soon, other customers will be looking at you, wondering what makes you so special to be treated in such a manner. Basically, you will be treated like the king of the titty bar.

Does everyone understand how that works?

Say what you will about it, that's how the system works. Attention and privilege go to the highest bidder. Such is life.

Back to Saturday night.

EVERYONE was cheap Saturday night. I wasn't making any money, the bartenders weren't making any money; hell-the dancers weren't even making any money. It was shit.

Early in the night I had one guy who was tipping me a dollar on his beer. I checked on him, and after a while a girl showed up and sat at his table with him. She ordered an amaretto sour, possibly the most pussyfied a drink can get; and I brought it to them.

"What is this?" she asked, pointing at the glass I set in front of her.

"An amaretto sour," I responding, while counting out change for the twenty the guy handed me.

"But, where are the cherries?" She seemed confused, looking from the glass to me and back to the glass.

"We don't have any cherries," I responded, turning to leave.

"But I want cherries," she whined.

I shook my head and walked off. This is a titty-bar, bitch, I thought to myself, there's not a fucking cherry in this whole place.

I told you I was cranky.

I saw my friend Alfonzo walk in the door. Finally, I thought to myself. Someone I know.

He came up to me, asked me where I had a table open, and after I pointed him in the direction of a high table against the wall, I ordered him a crown and coke.

"Want to have a shot with me," I offered, setting the drink on his table.

"Man," he said, "I was drinking before I got here."

"That's okay," I responded, "I was drinking before you got here too."

He paused for a minute as he chewed this over, then started laughing. "Sure," he said, "bring us two jager-bombs."

I brought the shots and waited on him a few more times before he told me he had to leave.

"I've got to go pick up some friends of mine, but I'll be back," he said, while putting his lighter in his pocket.

I headed up to the front door to call Boyfriend and lament on how shitty my night was, when the cherry girl and the guy she was sitting with walked out of the front door.

"Hey honey," I said into the phone, nodding goodbye at cherry girl as she walked out of the club. Suddenly, she turned and headed back into my direction.

"Hey," she said, interrupting my conversation. I turned the mouthpiece of the phone into my neck and looked up at her. "My brother really likes you. What time do you get off?"

I held up my left hand and splayed my fingers apart while I pointed at the ring on my finger. (I tell people I'm married- they don't hit on me as much that way.)

"Five?" she said. "Okay, I'll tell him to call you."

"What was that?" Boyfriend asked me into the phone.

"Fucking idiots," I responded.

A little while later, Alfonzo came back, this time with a guy and a girl. They took a seat in my section and I went to get their drinks. When I came back, I stood next to Alfonzo and made small talk.

The guy he was with, a younger guy, moved his chair so he was sitting directly behind me, and started making noises.

"Mmm," he grunted, "look at that ass."

I turned to face him.

"Stop that," I said.

He didn't stop.

So, I slapped him in the face. I didn't slap him hard, just kinda pushed his face with my hand.

I told you I was cranky.

"Go get me fucking beer," he responded after I hit him.

"Get your own fucking beer," I retorted.

"You're going to make me walk to the bar when you're right here?" He seemed amazed at this breach of protocol.

I just looked at him, and he decided to flip me off.

So, I cut him off. I told Alfonzo that although he was my friend, I wasn't above having his friend kicked out. Alfonzo promised to make him behave, and I went to the DJ booth to bitch to CEO.

"Stop dancing," CEO shouted over the microphone to the girl at stage two. She was sitting on her boyfriends lap and grinding. She looked up at the DJ booth, and then started grinding again.

"Don't fucking look at me and then start dancing again. Stop fucking dancing!"

She wouldn't stop, so CEO took the cordless mike and headed out of the DJ booth. He walked right up to where the couple was sitting and leaned down, microphone in hand.

"Hey, YOU!" He said, and the girl snapped her face around. "Stop fucking dancing!"

As he turned to walk back to the DJ booth, she flipped him off. Then she started dancing again.

"Ok, Duke," CEO said over the mike. "Kick them out."

Duke led both of them out the front door. A few minutes later, I saw Champ, Glen, Pierce, and CEO all head out the front door.

I bet they're fighting, I thought to myself.

I was wrong, sort of.

The guy that the girl was dancing on decided he didn't like being kicked out of the titty bar. He decided it was a good idea to take the trash cans we keep outside and dump them onto everyone's cars. Then he threw the trash cans at CEO's truck. We called the police.

I decided that was my cue, and asked to leave.

"That's fine," CEO said, and I headed out the front door to my car. Back to my home, back to Boyfriend, where I don't have to pretend anymore.

Overheard In The Titty Bar

2007-04-23T23:03:00.000-05:00

Girl 1: What are you doing? You don't smoke!
Girl 2: I only smoke when I drink.
Girl 1: That makes no sense.
Girl 2: Yes it does, it's like the pooping and peeing thing.
Girl 1: The what?
Girl 2: Yeah, it's like, I can pee without taking a shit, but if I'm pooping, I'm going to pee as well.
Girl 1: Ewww.

Guy 1: So, I heard from Jamie the other day.
Guy 2: Dude, I heard she's got, like, five STD's.
Guy 1: Yeah, I think she's up to genital warts now.
Guy 2: I'm glad I fucked her a few years ago!

Dancer 1: So, has anyone ever come on you?
Dancer 2: No, how about you?
Dancer 1: I almost had someone come on me.
Dancer 2: How did you know it was almost?
Dancer 1: I could feel it throbbing. That's how you know.

Guy 1: So, how are things with Christy?
Guy 2: Oh, they're good. She's already let me put it in her ass, like, twice.
Guy 1: Wow, you guys haven't been seeing each other that long.
Guy 2: I know man, I wasted, like, three years on Michelle and only got to put it in her ass once.

The Three Pendejo's

2007-04-19T16:09:00.000-05:00

Let me begin my giving you all a rather upsetting piece of news. Savannah is gone, has been for about three weeks now. Her mother was in a terrible car wreck and she had to take off to go take care of her. We don't know if she's going to come back or not, so we've got Ellen filling in on her spot, and our new bartender, Kit, is taking over Ellen's spot.

That said, this last Saturday night was crazy busy. It was standing room only in the titty bar, and I haven't seen that many people packed in there since we opened. Usually on the weekend we'll be moderately busy, with mostly regulars and a few college kids peppering the tables and chairs. Not this weekend.

What bothered me the most was this group of rather large people standing in front of stage one. None of them were drinking, either; so they were basically there just taking up a lot of space. Not only that, but they were apparently suffering from a rare form of specific blindness, which made them able to see the dancers and each other, but not a waitress carrying a glowing tray full of drinks. Finally exhausted with screaming "EXCUSE ME!" at the top of my lungs, I started just bumping into them. Luckily, they were still in possession of their sensory feelings, and noticed cold beer dripping onto their arms/legs/whatever was closest. Eventually they left.

The evening began rather slowly, with Queenie and I playing a game of pool in the back. After I narrowly beat her (she scratched on the eight ball) we made our way back up to the bar to have a shift shot (for good luck) and smoke a cigarette before the crowd hit. As we were making out way across the bar two rather large Hispanic men were walking in.

"Hey," the big one said, grabbing my arm as I walked past him. "You gonna buy me a drink?"

I just gave him a look and carried on with my business. As I was walking away I heard him make the same offer to Queenie, who politely declined. Luckily for me they took up root in her section, and were no longer my problem. Ahh, the luck of the draw.

Later in the evening a group of couples walked in the door and took up residence at two of my tables. I noticed them, but was a bit wary of waiting on them. No offense to any of the women who read my blog, but women in a titty bar can be a detriment to the establishment. Earlier in the week this Gentlemen (ahem) with two ladies got a beer from Ellen's bar. As he went to put a dollar in her tip jar, one of the girls he was with grabbed it out of his hand.

I made my way up to the table, located next to the front door, and noticed the large Hispanic man from earlier sleeping in his chair. I nudged him, mostly to move him out of my way, and he didn't stir.

I'd like to say this isn't common in my bar, but I'd be lying. People fall asleep in a titty bar more than any other bar I've ever worked at. At least two or three times a night we have to wake someone up, and sometimes carry them outside. Last weekend, while I was sitting at the bar, a man fell OUT of his chair and onto the floor. Really classy, let me tell you.

I made it up to my table, and they all wanted beer. I shoved the sleeper out of the way again, and made a mental note to tell CEO to get him out. When I took the beers back to the table I was surprised in the fact that the women not only paid for them, but tipped me a dollar at least for each beer. It appeared that my night was looking up.

I made my way up to the bar again, this time for some shots for me and CEO. There was a really big man standing at the server station, and I saddled up next to him so I could order my drinks.

This man was BIG. He was about 6'3, but he was muscular as hell. He was wearing a button down the front shirt, and when he stood up straight, the buttons strained against the fabric, threatening to rip apart if he took in a deep breath.

"Hi," I said, looking up at him, "I'm waitress, what's your name?"

"Trent," he grunted, looking around the bar.

I took the shots to CEO and noticed that Trent had sat in my section, next to the sleeping Latino, and in front of the couples group.

I made my way back to the group of couples to check on them.

"How y'all doing?" I said, grimacing at myself for the poor grammar.

"Can we get another round?" the man sitting closest to the door requested.

I was turning to head back to the bar when the woman sitting next to me grabbed my arm. She leaned in, conspicuously, as she pulled me towards her.

"It's my husbands birthday today," she said, pressing her fingers to her lips as a motion for me to keep my voice down. "Can you do anything special for him?"

"Well," I said, "we can put him on stage for fifty dollars."

She reached into her purse and pulled out two twenties and a ten.

"Don't you want to know what we do to him when he's onstage?" I was a little shocked, most women don't want their husbands being danced on by thirty women while on public display.

"Oh, honey," she started, "I danced for fifteen years. There's nothing you can do to him that I haven't seen before."

"So that's why you all are such good tippers," I said, the light finally coming on in my head.

She gave me a wink and handed me the cash. "His name is Steve, just take care of him tonight for me."

"Only if you promise to take care of him when he gets home," I said, returning the wink. She grabbed my ass as I headed back to the bar.

I got about three steps when I felt someone grab me by the wrist. Hard. I looked down to see Trent, holding my wrist in one hand and his Coors Light the other.

"Can I get you anything," I said, as I attempted to swivel my wrist out of his grip. This merely caused him to clamp down tighter.

"You," he said, staring up at me.

I laughed and turned to walk off, but Trent wouldn't let go of my wrist. Instead, he boomeranged me back to his chair.

"What do you need," I said, the pleasantries in my voice replaced by annoyance.

"Bring me two more beers," he replied, finally letting go of my wrist.

Somewhat shaken, I headed up to the bar to get the beer. After dropping them off, I took the fifty dollars to the front door, and then let CEO know we had a birthday in the house. He was busy adjusting the spotlight so it fell on the sleeping guy.

"Hey Buddy," he yelled over the microphone, "wake up!"

"I don't think it's going to work," I said, "I've pushed his chair half a dozen times and he doesn't even stir."

I made another round and went back up to the bar. Queenie was standing there as well, and in front of us were two people: one of the girls from my birthday table, and some guy I'd never seen before.

"Oh my God," Queenie said, "can these people move?"

"Yeah, no shit," I offered, "I have drinks to run."

Practically before I could get the words out of my mouth, the girl from my table flung her draft beer all over the guy next to her.

Well, mostly on the guy next to her. The other half went all over Queenie.

"What the FUCK! What the fuck was that?" Queenie was pissed, the hair on the left side of her head was matted down with Miller Light.

I stared, slack jawed, as I tried desperately to suppress a giggle. Meanwhile, Ellen was handing out bar towels for the wet and embarrassed to mop off their shame. The culprit had made her way back to the table by then.

I looked at Ellen, and she made a "cut-off" motion at me. I headed back to my table to make sure the girl was ok. She was bawling.

"What the hell happened?" I asked, leaning my head down so I could be eye to eye with her.

She was sobbing, bawling uncontrollably.

"I just," she said, in between sniffles and guffaws, "I just love him so much."

I looked at the other woman, the ex-stripper, and she nodded at me. I took that to mean I could go on about my business. I turned to leave and almost fell over into the lap of the sleeping Hispanic man. Again, he had managed, somehow in his slumber, to roll his chair directly into my path.

"That's it," I muttered to myself, and went to get Duke and Raymond to take him outside.

As I made my way back to the bar (routine dominates my life at work) my wrist was again assaulted. I didn't have to look this time to know it was Trent.

"What can I get you," I said, peering down at him sitting in his chair.

"You," he again replied.

I rolled my eyes and attempted to walk off again when I was suddenly yanked backwards, this time harder than before, and I ended up in his lap.

"Buy me a beer," he demanded, a glassy look in his eyes.

"You're kidding me," I joked, attempting to squirm my way off of his lap.

"No," he said, grabbing my waist with his other hand, "buy me a fucking beer!"

"I'm not buying you a beer, Trent," I responded, feverishly looking around the bar for someone to notice what was going on.

Trent took his hand off my wrist and grabbed my face, squeezing his thick fingers into my cheeks. "All this damn money you've made off me tonight and you're not going to buy me a beer?"

"Let me go," I managed to get out, even though my mouth was being squeezed shut.

"Buy me a beer," he returned, and I think I noticed a slight look of amusement in his face.

"You're hurting me," I said, and he finally let go of my face. I scrambled out of his lap, but he still had control of my wrist. As I tried to walk off, he tugged a few more times before letting go.

I headed to the front door to tell Raymond what was happening.

After I filled him in on the details, he went out into the club and sat down at a table behind Trent. I grabbed another drink from the bar and headed back into my section.

As I walked past Trent's table, he flipped me off. I threw him a look, and, as if on cue, he grabbed me by the wrist.

In lightning speed Raymond had him around the neck.

"Let go of my fucking waitress," he growled at him, squeezing.

His friend jumped up and started at Raymond, but Duke grabbed him as well.

I hurried off behind the bar, where I could watch what was happening while still being out of the line of fire. Queenie came up to me.

"Have you seen Raymond," she asked, pulling her money out of her pocket.

I pointed to the other side of the bar, where Raymond was carrying Trent out by the neck.

"Why, what's up?"

"Oh, the pool table is stuck and I need to get the key from him."

We have pay pool tables, where you put a dollar in quarters in and the balls come out. Sometimes one ball will get stuck in the process. Rather than waste another dollar on the game, we just get the key and get it out. Pretty simple.

I headed back out to my abuser-free section, and over to the birthday table.

"Do you know how much longer it's going to be? We've got a limo outside," ex-stripper said, stroking my arm.

"Not off the top of my head, but I can go find out for you," I answered. I turned to head to the DJ booth when CEO beat me to it.

"I hear we got a birthday in the house," he yelled over the microphone. "Where's Steve?"

I shot ex-stripper a wink and headed back to the bar. I noticed Raymond and Champ hauling some other guy out and saw Queenie crying at the side of the bar. As they were carrying the guy out, I heard him scream "fuck you" a few times before the door closed behind him.

"What is going on," I asked, putting my arm around Queenie's shoulders.

She paused to wipe her eyes before she started in. "Remember when I told you about the pool table?"

"Yeah," I said, fumbling in my pocket for a lighter. "Was that the guy?"

"No," she snuffled. "That guy came up and put another dollar in the machine. When I went over there to check on them he got in my face and started yelling 'You owe me a dollar! Where is my dollar, bitch?'"

"No shit," I mused, taking a drag off my smoke.

"So I told him, 'I told you we'd get the pool table fixed, you didn't have to put another dollar in the machine,' and he said 'Give me my fucking dollar,' so I said 'I'm not giving you a fucking dollar,' and I headed back to the bar but he started following me!"

"You're kidding me," I exclaimed, shaking my head.

"Yeah, so I get up to the bar and he's right behind me, screaming 'Where's my dollar! I'm going to kick your ass if I don't get my dollar! Give me my fucking dollar!'"

"Jesus, Queenie," I said, "what did you do?"

"Well," she said, "luckily for me Champ was right there and he jumped in the middle of it." She paused, looking up at me with watery doe-eyes. "It's been a hell of a night for me."

"Me too," I said, musing. "You want another shot?"

Queenie nodded, and I nodded at Ellen, who started making the drinks.

All in all, it was a crazy fucked up night. When I figured it up, I made about 63$ an hour that night, and I worked eight hours.

Not too bad, I suppose, I just could have used a little less drama.

Hokies

2007-04-19T00:01:00.000-05:00

It's strange, I was reading a book called Nineteen Minutes that I picked up at Barnes and Noble the other morning when I heard about the shooting at Virginia Tech.

This may serve to give away my location, but my state, as well, has been affected by school shootings. It was many years ago, but I can remember the tragedy and strife that tore through our state and neighboring communities.

I can only pray for the families of the victims. I hope we all will.

No matter where you are from, what school you graduated from; today- we are all Hokies.

My love is with you, Virginia Tech.

Sincerely,
Waitress

It's A Man's World

2007-04-04T18:16:00.000-05:00

I live approximately forty-five minutes away from State School. I was about fifteen minutes into my drive on Monday when I heard this rather peculiar noise coming from the right side of my car.

PPPTTTTHHHBBBBB

Yes, that was it, and it was vibrating. I was sure that I had gotten a piece of trash stuck in my rim or something, so when the noise stopped I didn't think anything of it.

Then my steering wheel started to shake.

"No problem," I thought to myself. "I'm sure it's just my alignment or something."

I drove on to school and competed the day without any thought to the matter.

On the way home, my steering wheel was shaking so badly I could barely keep the car on the road. When I let go of the wheel it jerked the entire car to the right. Again, I was not concerned, having just put a new rim on my car I assumed that I just needed to get my alignment checked.

You guessed it readers-- that "PTHHB" noise I heard on the way to school was my tire being blown out. I drove almost an hour on the rim.

Now, it is a well-known fact around my friends and family that I despise dealing with "car-people," and I'll tell you why.

A few years ago I blew out the transmission in my car. Apparently if you don't change the oil ever it can cause some damage. This little tidbit of information aside, I took it back to the dealer to have it rebuilt. Two weeks later they called and told me I could come pick up the car.

I gratefully gathered my car from the dealer, took it home, put the ignition in park, and turned the engine off. When I went to pull out the key- it was stuck. I tried jiggling it, tried cursing at it; hell, I even tried turning the engine on and off-- no luck. One of our bouncers used to work for an auto parts place, so I asked him what the problem may have been. He told me that it was my linkage.

Apparently (and this is all second hand information), there's this thing called a linkage which attaches your gear shifter thingy to your transmission. When they took my transmission out to rebuild it and put it back in, they didn't adjust the linkage properly.

I called the dealership and told them I needed them to adjust my linkage. I took the car back to them, and three days later they called me.

"Miss Waitress," they guy from the dealership said, "we think it's your starter."

So, they changed my starter, charged me a few hundred for it, called me two days later, and I went and happily picked up my car.

I drove the car home, put it in park, turned off the engine, and attempted to pull out they key.

Yupper, the key wouldn't come out.

I called the dealership again, told them they needed to adjust my linkage. I took the car in and four days later they called me.

"Miss Waitress," he said, "we think it's your ignition switch."

So, they changed my ignition switch, then they had to change my locks because they key wouldn't match, charged me a few hundred for it, called me two days later, and I went and picked up my car.

I drove the car home, put it in park, turned off the engine, and attempted to pull out the key.

Guess what, kiddo's?

No freaking key.

So, I called my Dad, filled him in and he called the dealership for me.

He took the car in, and they called me later that day.

"Miss Waitress," they guy said, "we think it's your linkage."

I. Shit. You. Not.

When all was said and done, thanks to my Father, they refunded the price of the starter, ignition switch, and re-keying.

So, back to Monday. My Dad went and picked up my tire. And they charged him $20 less than they quoted me on the phone.

Bloggers Are People Too!

2007-04-04T12:19:00.000-05:00

I need to rant, Dear Readers, so I would ask you all to either look away now or enjoy the ride.

I am SICK!

I am so pissed I want to SPIT!

I'm used to being dehumanized at work; it's part of the environment. People (men mostly) have no qualms asking me "when do you go on stage," "how much do you cost," and the like.

However, I take it in stride because (in all honesty) these people pay my bills...

Assholes out there in cyberland; however, do not.

I am sick of all the negativity that is flowing through the blogs lately. Approximately one tenth of my comments are "u r a whore" or "sex workers = whores" or something similar. These comments I can chalk up to ignorant pre-pubescent teenagers, and not become too offended by them.

THEN you have the asshats. The "I know grammah more than you know grammah" who insist on publishing comments for the sole purpose of pointing out when you misspell or error in your linguistics.

For proof, go check out Secret. He's had a hard few posts. I'm warning you now, I wasn't very nice to these people in the comments, so if you would rather not have your image of me as a sweet southern (albeit Jewish) girl destroyed-- don't go.

I am aware of Freedom of Speech. I am also aware that everyone is entitled to their opinion. However, there is a line of tact and good taste. These bastards who get off and make themselves feel better by putting other people down are crossing that line.

Thanks for letting me rant,
Waitress

P.S. Do you notice how most of the asshole's are anonymous? If you're that proud of your opinion, wouldn't you sign your name to it?

Ode To The Drunk Girl Asleep In The Bathroom:

2007-04-02T15:01:00.000-05:00

I must say, I was not shocked at all
To find you lying face down in the stall.
Having too much to drink
May have caused you to think
That it seemed a good place as any to fall.

Rather than composing yourself with some style
You preferred to suck-face with the tile.
Although it seemed rather funny
I needed to make some more money,
So I decided to leave your ass in there a while!

Maybe, to yourself you said,
"I just need a place to lay down my head,"
But unless you're a mare,
(Or you really don't care!)
The stall is no place for a bed.

Vengeance, Thy Name Is Waitress; Idiot, Thy Name Is Anonymous

2007-03-31T05:20:00.000-06:00

Before I ever began writing this blog, I informed all of my co-workers (employee's only) about what I was doing. I even let them choose their own names; hence Duke, Elvis, CEO, etcetera. I also made a promise that I wouldn't write about their personal drama. These people are my extended family, and I could give a rats ass about the customer bullshit, but these people are my friends.

That said, the reason for the lack of posts as of late is because the majority of the drama happening at The Titty-Club has been inter-employee bullshit. Luckily, the drama seems to have passed over (hah to my Jewish friends) us; and I am now free again to write about stupid customers.

Before I do; however, I would like to start a segment, much similar to a "mail bag" on other sites, where I post a ridiculous comment from some random idiot, make a rebuttal, and then let all of my faithful readers tear them to shit with their responses. Cocky? Yes. Self-indulgent? Oh fuck yes. But this is my blog and I get to make the rules!

Here we go then; this comment came from "anonymous" (but of course); although I was able to determine that they are from Hoboken New Jersey (hah! site meter wins again!), and is in response to my last post "A day in the life."

AHEM:

"Well," I start, "I'm Jewish, and Boyfriend is Methodist, so it's not really a big deal for us. Because my status as a Jew is ascribed (inherited), regardless of whether our children attend Church, they will still be Jewish."

I feel badly for your future children. Not because they will be Jewish but because they have a mother who is dumb enough to think that the above is a smart answer. Your $0.02 was literally worth $0.02.

OKAY! Here we go:

Dear Anonymous from Hoboken:

I take it you missed the class period where the discussion on the differences between race, ethnicity, and religion were discussed. Your spelling was on track, and you didn't write in that God awful "leet" speak, which I so despise, so I have to assume that at the very least you made it out of high school.

That being said, I feel I should educate you on the matter, so as you can refrain from embarrassing yourself further.

A persons' race, religion, and ethnicity are three separate yet equally important facets of who a person is. Take for example, me. I am white. White is my race, although some PC people would rather me refer to myself as Caucasian. In all reality, I'm sort of pink-ish with freckles. That would be my color. Making sense to you yet? So, I am of the Caucasian/white people race.

Now, my ethnicity is Jewish. It is my culture and my background. It also happens to be my religion. Is the light bulb starting to come on for you yet, Hoboken? Now, let's examine my Grandmother.

My Grandmother is white/Caucasian (remember, Hoboken; that's her race). She is ethnically Jewish, having being raised in a Jewish family in Birmingham, England. (Not Alabama, in case you're confused, Hoboken. I don't want to throw too much on you at once). As per her religion, she is Agnostic. See how that works? She's one of each... How exciting for her.

So, back to my unborn children. If Boyfriend and I get married and have children, they will be White/Caucasian. They will also be ethnically Jewish, because I am a Jew, and it follows on the mothers' lineage. Regardless of whether they decide to become Methodist, Buddhist, Spaghetti-monster-ist (you get the picture); they will be, essentially, Jewish.

I hope that clears it up for you, Hoboken. Looks like your $0.02 wasn't worth shit.

Have a fabulous day,
Waitress

A Day In The Life

2007-02-27T10:55:00.000-06:00

PREFACE:
It seems that (other than a pic) the majority of you would like a nice, long post. In trying to figure out what specifically I could drag out, I decided to do this instead. This post will take you through last Friday with me, the whole damn day. I figured that might be long enough for you. :)

7:00 AM
The alarm rings. At least, I have to assume the alarm rings. Boyfriend has a rediculous snoring problem, and it has forced me to sleep with an air conditioner, a rain machine, and earplugs. I'm serous, his snoring reminds me of something out of a horror movie. Not only does he have the intake snore (you know, choooooocccccccchh), but he has an out take snore as well (pchhhhhaaaaa) which just makes me want to smack him upside the head when I'm trying desperately to fall asleep and the only thing I can hear are the freakish sounds that are emitting from his septum.

Regardless, the alarm rings. Now, the deal is, I sleep in the earplugs so that boyfriend no longer fears for his life; and he wakes me up when the alarm goes off. Simple, right?

Wrong.

What usually happens is boyfriend will get out of bed, hit the snooze button, and go back to sleep; leaving me none the wiser and late for class. Brilliant.

7:15 AM
The alarm rings for a second time. Did I hear it? Of course not. Did boyfriend wake me up? Yeah, try again.

7:30 AM
Now we're really pushing it for time constraints. There I am, sleeping peacefully with purple squishy memory foam sticking out of my ear canals, and boyfriend is using much more effort to get out of bed, hit the snooze, and then get back into bed than it would take to simply shake me and tell me the alarm is going off. Men.

7:45 AM
I am going to be so pissed when I finally wake up! I mean, fifteen minutes... I could make that up in the shower; but forty-five? By some grace of God I wake up on my own about this time, and have one of those "Ohmygodi'msolatei'mgoingtoleapoutofbedandrunaround" moments. Fun times; great way to wake up in the morning.

7:50 AM
After five good minutes of yelling at boyfriend (it's better than coffee, you should try it) I finally hop into the shower and get ready for school. If it's alright with the rest of you, I'm going to glaze over the shower and drive to school; it's really a pointless event and I really don't want this blog turning into Literotica ("cue the porn music") while I discuss soaping up in the shower.

8:55 AM
After battling traffic for the last forty five minutes (I took a VERY fast shower) I manage to make it, albeit quite breathlessly, to my first class of the day: Civil Liberties. For those of you who don't know, this is a class taught at State U as a law school class; so if you are considering going to law school, this is the class you should take.

This is, possibly, the most labor intensive class I have ever taken. We have this HUGE green legal case book and we have to brief at least four cases ahead of where we stopped the class before. It's set up as a complete discussion class, where the Prof will mention a case, and we have to chime in with the answers. Pressure pressure pressure.

I pull out my blue folder with my briefs and he dives right in.

"And what were the two requirements for Fourth Amendment protection regarding Katz?"

I wait the obligatory three second pause before chiming in. No one, least of all me, wants to be a show off.

"The respondent must show a personal manifestation of subjective expectation of privacy and society must recognize this intent as valid," I respond.

"Exactly," he responds, and I sit back in my chair, feeling rather smug with myself. We continue on with the Fourth Amendment's protection, specifically regarding the search and seizure of marijuana. Here's a tip: if you're going to grow marijuana, have a grow house, don't do it in your back yard. Here's why:

Police received an anonymous tip that this guy, Ciraolo (pronounced Sih-rah-low), was growing pot in his backyard. When they showed up at his house, they realized that he had enclosed his backyard in a ten foot privacy fence, then surrounded that fence with a six foot fence, and had a big nasty dog running in between. Not a very "neighbor friendly" guy. In order to get a search warrant, the police had to have probable cause that he was growing pot in his backyard, so what did they do? They rented a plane, flew it 1,000 feet in the air, and took pictures of his plants in his backyard. Ciraolo felt that the police's actions were a violation of his Fourth Amendment protection from unreasonable search and seizure. The Supreme Court said that while he definitely had a subjective expectation of privacy (the fences) since the air above his house was public property, the police were well in their rights to fly above his home and take pictures of his pot.

The next case involved yet another anonymous tip (hint: if you're going to deal in large amounts of marijuana, don't piss anyone off) regarding a grow house owned by a fellow named Kyllo. The police, in this case, parked on the street and used a thermal detection device that allowed them to gain heat readings off the house. They determined that the heat readings were consistent with grow lights (really strong UV lights used to grow pot indoors); obtained a search warrant and confiscated his pot. This time, however, the Supreme Court said that the police violated the Fourth Amendment because they were using technology that was not available to the general public, and they were probing, in a sense, into a man's house without actually going into his house.

Moral of the story: if you're going to grow large amounts of marijuana, grow it indoors.

9:55 AM
I head down the hall of State U towards my next class: Sociology of Religion. I really like this class; however, I don't so much care for some of the people who attend. Some people have yet to understand that this class is Sociology of Religion, not "My religious views are better than yours so I'm going to spend all class debating them." Fun times.

Today we are discussing individual forms of religiosity, and the Prof has separated four categories. We're focusing on what he calls "religious switching," which occurs when you change your personal religion without experiencing any specific change in self. This can occur for a variety of reasons: marriage, geographical change, status change, etcetera. He stops for a moment on the subject of marriage, and introduces the idea that some people switch for the benefit of any children that may be conceived in that marriage.

"Uh-oh," I'm thinking to myself, "this can get rather volatile."

Sure enough, someone starts to chime in about how children need to be brought up under one religion, and someone else chimes in about how children should be allowed to make their own decisions, then the girl behind me really gets me fired up when she pops off with:

"I really don't think it matters as long as your religion isn't too different, like if one person is Christian and the other is Jewish or Muslim."

I am unable to keep my mouth shut. I shouldn't let it bother me, but I do.

"Well," I start, "I'm Jewish, and Boyfriend is Methodist, so it's not really a big deal for us. Because my status as a Jew is ascribed (inherited), regardless of whether our children attend Church, they will still be Jewish."

"There," I though, triumphantly, "that should put an end to that." I had forgotten, unfortunately, how strong small minds are in the South. No sooner had I spoken than a girl in the back chimed in as well.

"Um," she said, starting in, "my momma tough me that you shouldn't mix your yolk with someone else's egg."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I thought. But no, not kidding. In fact, she continued.

"See," she continued, "it says in the bible that you shouldn't do that. That you should only mix your yolk with someone else's yolk that's the same as yours, otherwise there could be conflict. And if you had kids, they would be conflicted. So you shouldn't get with someone who's different than you or else you'll have conflicted babies. And so you shouldn't have babies."

I turned to my friend, Joyce, in horror and a mixed form of intrigue.

"Did she just refer to my unborn children as conflict?!?!"

Joyce laughed, and the Prof. put an end to the discussion. Luckily, we were out of time.

10:55 AM
I walk with Joyce out of the classroom when the girl behind me (the one who made the Jewish comment) stops me.

"Um, I really didn't mean to offend you," she said, "so I was wondering if you would tell me what exactly Jewish means."

This is a recurring exchange for me regarding a lot of people from the South. They'll say something bigoted (whether they mean to or not) and then after I mention to them that I am Jewish, they'll barrage me with questions so they no longer feel badly. The whole way up to my next class I was explaining the subtle (hah!) differences between Judaism and Christianity. Fun times. One day I'm going to freak someone out and tell them we pray to a four-headed dog with eyes the size of saucers.

I head into Introduction to Social Work (my next class) and take my seat in front of Jason, my flamingly gay and fabulous friend. I'm recounting what happened last class and we got into the discussion of homosexuality in the bible.

"You think what happened to you was bad? Try hearing 'Thou shalt not lie with a man as one lies with a woman' you're whole life!"

"Here's what I don't understand about that," I start. "That verse comes from Leviticus, in the Old Testament."

"Right," Jason responded.

"Well," I began, "right next to that verse are the Jewish dietary laws."

Jason looked at me blankly so I continued.

"You know, the cloven hoof and the fish without scales? Don't eat pork or shellfish?"

Jason nods in understanding so I press forward.

"From what I understand, the reason Christians don't have to follow the dietary laws is because Peter (I think) said that Jesus created a whole new set of laws in the New Testament, so that you guys didn't have to follow the rules in Leviticus and Deuteronomy."

"Right," Jason said.

"So, if you guys don't regard or pay attention to the dietary laws in the Old Testament, why do you pay attention to the one verse in Leviticus about homosexuality?"

Jason didn't know, and neither do I.

Social work went by relatively quickly, and I headed out to meet Joyce to get something to eat. We had Chinese. Yum.

1:00 PM
I'm in the lab, getting ready for Senior Seminar to start. This class is your final class in sociology where you actually write your first independent thesis. I decided to do mine over gender-traditional roles as perpetuated by the mass media.

Here's the way I see things: television consistently portrays stereotypical sex roles in their programming. Even in shows aimed at preschoolers (Barney and Friends) it consistently shows boys as the active sex (running, jumping, playing) and girls take on the more matriarchal role (cooking, cleaning, playing with dolls). Even when these shows depict adults, they're always doing gender-traditional things. In regards to prime-time programming and commercials, women are continually overrepresented in the 20-30 year age category, whereas men are free to age with grace. Additionally, men are three times as likely to be shown in high power career roles than women; and when women are shown in a position of power, there's almost always a man who is in a position above them.

Think about it. Take "Law and Order" for a moment. The district attorney is female (on SVU), but her boss is a guy. How many shows do you know revolving around a single dad (Full House doesn't count!).

Interestingly enough, I found that in predominantly African American forms of media, the women are depicted in opposite gender roles. Additionally, African American women are more likely to be shown as a "Lolita" character, and be more combative with their partners.

So, my hypothesis is that: people who have high levels of television viewing are more likely to exhibit traditional gender-role attitudes. This is especially true for Caucasion/White viewers.

After pulling some more articles and discussing Britney Spears (seriously, she's lost it) class was over. Time for me to head home.

NOTE: I'm going to post this now to give you all something to read, and I'm working on the rest of the story: what happened at work that night. :)

The Breakfast Club

2007-02-23T15:29:00.000-06:00

Cue music "don't you.... forget about me. don't don't don't don't doon't you, forget about me."

Okay, enough of that.

I'm still here! I promise. Seriously, I haven't worked in two weeks, a few weeks back I came down with the flu and last week I was SO busy with papers and the like.

I promise, I work tonight, you will have an update on monday! Miss you all!

Waitress.

P.S. For those of you who still stuck around, I'm thinking of giving you a little incentive for being loyal. Maybe I'll tell you my name? Maybe I'll show you a picture? Maybe I'll do something else? let me know what you want! :)

Quickie Congratulations

2007-01-17T15:35:00.000-06:00

I don't have a lot of time right now to post much, this semester is going to kill me.

I don't know why I insist on putting myself through this, but another eighteen hours is on the horizon, and I'm trying to get a head start.

Really quickly, though, I wanted to fill everyone in on what's been going on at work.

Those of you who don't know, Pierce proposed to Ellen in December. They're working on buying a house before they get married.

Champ proposed to Queenie at midnight in New York, right as the ball dropped. (Awww.)

Elvis also proposed to his girlfriend, Alliah; although technically she proposed first a few months ago. In the DJ booth. It was very cute.

And I have an update on Esmerelda. She was going to come back to work, but turns out she's pregnant! She and Duke are having a baby, she's about three months along right now, so a very big congratulations to them.

So, I hope all of you are doing well, I'm going to get back to outlining cases for my civil liberties class!

Always,
Waitress

Grandma Got Run Over By An Eighteen Wheeler

2007-01-11T06:18:00.000-06:00

My bar is a home away from home for a lot of truckers. I can understand why, after being on the road five days a week I can sympathize with the need for companionship. Truckers are usually some of the most well behaved guys we have in the bar; however, it always makes me a little uneasy to see the eighteen-wheelers in the parking lot. I just hope that most of them don't get trashed in our bar and then head out on the road.

All of our bar staff appeal to a different crowd of customers. The frat boys tend to like Ellen, both Queenie and I have our share of regulars, but Savannah has the market cornered on truckers. They love her. At some point during the night, her side of the bar tends to resemble a truck-stop diner, with six or seven truckers sitting in a row, drinking, hanging out, and talking amongst themselves about life on the road.

Carl was no exception. His M.O. usually went something like this: he would park his rig, come inside and drink for a while, then go sleep in his rig for a few hours, then come back inside and drink some more until we closed, then sleep it off in his rig before hitting the road again. This usually happens three or four times a week. Sometimes he would show up at the local pancake house for breakfast after we closed.

Carl is quite the character. He always has some story about a truck-stop hooker that tried to take him for a whirl, he's always willing to have a shot with anyone, and is usually (as long as he's not drinking tequila) easy enough to get along with. Unfortunately for Savannah, he's just the slightest bit obsessed with her, which she usually just takes in stride.

"Savannah," he will usually grumble, years of smoking and hard living taking a toll on his vocal chords, "when you gonna run away with me?"

Savannah, true to form, will just laugh it off and continue on with her job, slinging drinks and trying to keep up pace with the madness.

A few months ago, Savannah brought her Dad into the club for his birthday. Carl just happened to be visiting as well, and from what she told me (I wasn't there) Carl kept her Dad cornered most of the night, recounting his wish to drive off into the sunset with his daughter. Savannah later told me although she was mortified, her Dad did his best to just laugh it off.

Things started getting a little strange when Carl began referring to Savannah as "Grandma" (no I'm not joking, either). Apparently, his kids had started to question where he spent all his time, and Carl would respond "I'm going to visit your grandma."

The lyrics to Steven Lynch's song "Lullaby" are flashing through my head right now:
Right after Daddy gets home from the bar
Visits his bookie, and steals a new car,
He'll drive to the street light and if Daddy plays his cards right
He'll bring home your new mommy tonight.

See what I mean?

Anyway, one night, about two weeks ago, Carl was visiting the club before he had to leave on another job. As usual, he came in shortly after we opened, drank for a while, then headed out to his rig to sleep it off before coming back inside. While he was out taking a nap, the phone rang at the front door.

"Hey, Savannah," Champ said, standing at the bar, "you have a phone call."

Savannah's head jerked up from fixing a drink. When you have a husband and two small children, phone calls at work usually aren't a good thing.

"Who is it?" She asked, face creased with worry.

"It's Carl's daughter," Champ responding, doing his best not to laugh.

"Oh you're fucking kidding me!" The mixture of emotions on Savannah's face was priceless, part irritation, part anxiety, mostly just irritation, though.

"Go answer the phone, Savannah," I said, always in the mood to observe some drama.

"Hell no," she responded, shaking her head. "I don't know what she wants, but I'm not going to deal with it right now. You know his kids refer to me as Grandma?"

"Yeah," I said, "you've told me that before. Just answer the phone!"

Savannah shook her head, defiantly.

"Well," I offered, "do you want someone to answer it, pretending to be you? That way at least you'll know what she wants?"

Savannah's face lit up. "Yeah," she said, almost instantly, "that would work."

I pulled Ellen away from the bar and we headed to the front door to practice our acting skills. Unfortunate, by the time we got there, Carl's daughter had already hung up the phone.

"Hey," Savannah said when I got back into the bar, "do me a favor and go outside and wake Carl up," she requested. "I want to know what's going on."

I walked out to the front and headed to the rig parked around the side of our building.

"Don't go over there," a voice said, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Jesus Duke, you scared the hell out of me." I had forgotten that Duke was working the parking lot that night, and was sitting in his truck parked in front of the entrance. I headed up to his driver's side window.

"Savannah wanted me to come get Carl for her," I explained.

"Well," Duke responded, "he said not to be bothered until after one. Besides, his daughter is in the cab with him."

"Oh, this is priceless," I thought to myself, heading back into the bar. I went back inside and filled Savannah in.

"She's outside," Savannah exclaimed, her voice rising enough octaves to shatter glass. "What the hell is she doing here?"

"I don't really know, but Duke won't let me wake him up yet."

Carl came back inside a short time later, sans daughter, but I was so busy by that point that I never found out why she was up there in the first place.

The next weekend, after the Christmas holiday, as I was sitting at the bar, enjoying a pre-shift Red Bull, Savannah came over to where I was sitting.

"Oh my God, Waitress," she started, "did I tell you what happened last weekend?"

"No, I responded, taking a drag of my cigarette and flicking it into the ashtray.

"Well," Savannah began, recounting her evening, "Carl came back inside and wanted me to go get a cup of coffee with him after work..."

Apparently, when Savannah told him she couldn't go (she had to leave for Texas in the morning to visit family) he became quite upset, and started throwing the fact that he tips her well in her face. Savannah finally agreed to have breakfast with him, never actually intending to, mind you, but she figured by the time she got done with cleaning the bar and counting her tips he would be long gone.

She was wrong.

When she left the bar that night, she informed me, Carl was waiting for her in his rig. She said that when she told him she had to go home, he became even more upset, and decided to follow her. She told me that she had to floor it on the interstate, taking an exit that didn't lead her home and backtracking just to lose him.

"Holy crap, Savannah," I exclaimed, "what are you going to do the next time you see him?"

"I don't know," she responded. "Maybe he'll calm down a bit after he gets back from this run."

"Either that," I said, "or he'll find another Grandma for his kids."

"Don't I wish," Savannah said, laughing.

The Customer Is Always Right?

2007-01-08T23:53:00.000-06:00

Dear Readers,

Today is a special day here at Naked Women and Beer. Apparently, today is "open the floor to extreme interpretations of events as told by the customers who were there, quite drunk, and apparently offended."

Maybe you all remember my "Missed It By One Day" foursome of a post? If you don't, you can find it here. That link takes you to part one, and from there you can continue on to the rest.

Now, some of you may recall that my co-workers are aware of my blog. Some read it, some don't, but all are aware. Apparently, it was leaked to a customer somehow (although, when you spend almost every night of the week in a strip club, you're bound to become privy to some information. I guess it's one of the perks of having a hollow shell of an existence.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a very special treat today. Naked Women and Beer's own "Chad" has stopped by and left quite the rambling comment about his views on the events that transpired those few short months ago. Let's see what he has to say, shall we?

I am indeed "Chad", so flatteringly referred to as "robust". In truth it would be more accurately described as "fat", but I appreciate our Goddess's kindness. Still, kindness doesn't excuse inaccuracy or mean-spiritedness.

As to the first incident, I had no idea that alerting the staff was an inappropriate way to handle somebody getting ripped off in the lap dancearea.Kismet told me that she was new at this game, and I could tell she didn't wantto make waves. Still, it seemed only decent to press the issue lest this guy get away with stealing more money. I am guilty of saying I was going to kick the guy's ass if he didn't pay up or quit stealing ollars off the stage.
Michelob--what can I say?

I find it strange, though, to be described as stalkeresque, since Kismet is now my closest friend on earth. As well, nobody seems to have a problem with me besides the Goddess herself. I suppose they're secretly despising me as they're offering to lend me DVDs and hanging out with me outside the club?

And the "look darlin'" speech? I will allow a little dramatic license and let that slide, along with the copious occurances of the phrase "fuck you". But that isn't the way I remember it.

In truth I am perhaps the least of the "rule breakers", never having hauled my junk out in the lap dance area, and seldom if ever allowing my hands to wander. I can get five dancers to back me up for every one that would even hint at such a thing. I think five is probably a conservative estimate.

The "sitting at the bar"incident is also a little mangled. The reason for my annoyance was that I wasbeing asked to move, but others were clearly not subject to the same restriction. In fact, there's someone sitting there nearly every time I go in.

As well, "babysitting" is a fairly commonly used joking phrase that refers to the situation when one of your "real life" friends calls you in to keep her company. I can't afford to throw hundreds of dollars every night,because I'm not Bill Gates. So sometimes I like to hang out at the bar and stay out of the way. My friend was asking me to come in for three nights a week, and maybe more, during that time. So it's not so sinister a thing as it was made out to be.

As well, when she said "Chad, sit down!" I was not actually trying to follow Antonia. As she stood there with her hand on my chest as if to restrain me, I was holding a fist full of dollar bills that I was trying to use to tip someone. If somebody was hyperventilating, I failed to notice it. I told her to take her hands off me, because it's pretty irritating to be restrained.
That goes double when you don't understand why.

As well, the part of the Eve story that you have not been told is that she has alsobeen a friend of mine _outside_ the club. If I were going to "molest her", as theGoddess accused me of to another dancer, there have been times in which thatwould have been both easier and more tempting than sitting in a bar full ofpeople. Yes, I was inappropriate because in my tipsiness I kissed her. But there
was no grasping of her head. It was not violent, just inappropriate. Most of herirritation was that I had done it in front of her customer, because if some guys getthe ideathat a girl is involved with somebody, they stop tipping her. Odd, but true. Letme be clear, though. I am not saying I am or ever have been romantically involved with Eve. I most certainly have not.

There was no "go the fuck away", either. In actuality, she was trying to tell me she could get fired for doing that. I was embarrassed that it had been taken so seriously, and fairlyashamed, and I couldn't really stand to talk about it right then, so I held up a hand and didn't listen. Later, though, I apologized profusely, and it was good enough for everybody but the Goddess. Eve and I are still friendly today. In repentance, I even told the manager what I had done. I accept responsibility for my screwups.

Now I'm on the "shit list", despite being nice to theGoddess at every turn. Dutifully forking over dollar after dollar every time she wiggled her ass at me, taking interest in her well-being, and trying to be as friendly and supportive as I could. Despite being pegged so early on as a piece of crap, she feigned an awful lot of interest in my own well-being. I salute her acting skills, but for my part, I was sincere.

Beyond that, occasionally I still make an attempt to be friendly to her, but she'll have none of it. If hating me makes her happy, then I suppose it's no skin off my back. But I do think it's kind of sad that anyone would want to reduce a fairly decent human being to an exaggerated cartoon character for someone's amusement.

Ishall be interested to see if the Goddess has a sense of honor and fair play to match her zest for exaggeration, and allows this comment to be posted.

Whoops. Sorry. I thought the Goddess was the mistress of the blog.That's who I was referring to, lest there be any confusion.

It's not a bad nickname, now that I think of it. It seems somehow appropriate. Certainlymore so than "I'll Never Tell". There's a lot of "telling" going on around here to be sure.

Well now, that was quite a mouthful, wasn't it?

Ok, here we go.

Dear "Chad",

As per to your issue with me calling you "robust," what can I say, I was trying to be polite while still providing enough detail so that my faithful readers could have some mental picture of the story I was relaying to them. Secondly, as far as Kismet being your "closest friend," maybe you would remember the not too nice things you had to say about her later on in the evening. Oh wait, you were drunk that night.

Memories have a way of becoming distorted when consuming copious amounts of alcohol, no?

I'm glad that you feel so welcome at my club, as far as you referring to me being the only one with a problem. Titty bars are funny like that; as long as you're continuing to spend money people will usually put up with anyone. I have stated before that I'm getting burnt out, so I see no point in keeping up facades. It just annoys me.

Oh, and please allow me to provide you with a medal for never having exposed yourself in the lap dance room. That's quite an accomplishment, I am sure. I wonder how many other men can say that? And five dancers will be character witnesses on your behalf!?!? Wow, quite an accomplishment. Really.

As far as the kissing of Eve is concerned. Please don't insult my intelligence. As memory would have it, you were quite tanked on vanilla vodka before you entered my establishment, as you stated yourself. Also remember that I was standing right there and witnessed the entire thing. But, hey, believe what you want if it helps you sleep better at night. Personally, I sleep like a baby.

As per your jumping out of your seat to "tip" with a "fist full of dollars," please allow me to remind you that this incident occured late on a Sunday night, when there was only one dancer on stage. Since Antonia had run off the stage because she was feeling ill, just who exactly were you attempting to tip, dear Chad?

And I'm sure it must be quite intimidating to have a 120 lb female "restrain" you with one hand. I never realized quite how strong my arms must be, considering you are quite a large man. Maybe I missed my calling? Screw sociology, with the guns I'm packing in my upper body, I should go out for the WWE.

I could go on and on, poking holes in every one of your sentences, but I'd rather not bore my readers.

I'm glad that my opinion of you is "no skin off your back," Chad. I'm sure that anyone so unconcerned with my feelings as you would spend such time trying to convince the good people of cyber-land who have never met you, will never meet you, and don't really give a rats ass as to the true nature of your character.

I'm opening the floor to my readers now. You seemed very hopeful that I would publish this comment, so I hope you got exactly what you wished for.

Best wishes to you, Chad.

Waitress

As The Dawn Breaks

2007-01-05T03:12:00.000-06:00

Many of you, through no fault of your own, do not have the slightest idea how socially exhausting working in a strip club is. It is, literally, like no other place. I get paid very well to do what I do, mind you, but it's not without its consequences.

My job (and it goes without saying the dancers' jobs as well) is to sell sex. It's that simple.

Grotesque, I know; and it makes even me uncomfortable to see those words flashing back at me from the computer screen.

On a nightly basis I will be hit on, touched, assaulted, sexually harassed, propositioned, insulted, and treated like a piece of veal that someone is examining in a butcher shop-- and I'm just the waitress. Dancers have it even worse.

Their job is to take your money. Plain and simple. How they take your money is a different story. Their job is not to swing around the pole for a few sets and make millions of dollars on stage. They have to develop different personas for different people. They have to smile, look sexy, act sexy, pretend to be attracted to even the most unattractive people, and act as if they enjoy grinding on strange men's cocks nightly. It goes without saying that a strip club is a breeding ground for sexually deviant men; many times emotionally unbalanced and slightly psychotic.

Dawn was my closest friend at my club. We hated each other in the beginning, almost instantly; but I believe that's more because we are so much alike than anything else.

Dawn knew how to make money better than any dancer I have ever had the pleasure of watching work. Watching her dance was like watching water flow. Her moves were graceful, sexy, but still tasteful for strip club standards. She was young, beautiful, sexy, the biggest bitch I have ever met, but the nicest person on the planet.

Dawn also attracted more "regulars" than anyone else. Every weekend, it seemed, someone was sending her flowers or buying her gifts. For the most part, she took it all in stride. Slowly, though, the sheer selling of herself started to get to her, and she started to crack.

Jared was the final straw for Dawn. If I had to pin it down to a specific person, I would say that Jared was the one that finally sent Dawn over the edge, and righfully so.

Jared is an idiot.

It's that simple, folks.

Jared has money. More correctly, Jared's parents have money, and give their money to Jared. Jared was completely and totally obsessed with Dawn. Jared also has a problem with strippers. His last few girlfriends were dancers, and all of those relationships ended badly.

If I had to pin him down, psychologically, I would say that Jared is the most insecure person I know. He is also a liar. The two tend to go hand in hand, but more so in him.

Jared got to the point where nothing coming out of his mouth was even slightly true. I'll admit it, I've exaggerated things in the past, but there's a difference between exaggeration for effect and straight out lies. Jared straight out lied. He would make things up just to have something to say.

Things that you really shouldn't make up.

He started telling Dawn that he worked undercover for the DEA doing drug busts. Then he would talk about how much cocaine he had. The two don't tend to mix.

The final, and completely unbelievable straw came when he started to probe into Dawn's personal life.

Unfortunately, some people forget that dancers have personal lives. I'm not sure if they think that at the end of the night the dancers pile into the dressing room like crayons in a box to wait for the next shift, but let me be the first to re-iterate that dancers are dancing for the money. They have lives.

Jared, through his obsession with Dawn, became way too invested, and curious, into her personal life. He started asking her questions about her boyfriend. Making up lies, telling her that he had friends with the FBI that gave him a bunch of dirt on him. He went as far as to try and involve other employee's in his little theatrical debut.

Jared doesn't even know Dawn's boyfriend's name. No one does. Not even me. It's her one true, bright thing that isn't tarnished with the sliminess of the strip club industry.

Jared started calling Dawn all the time. Texting her when he wouldn't get a response. The lies and the disrespect finally became too much for her, and she had to get away.

Her last few nights there, she was so fed up with it all that she barely left the dressing room.

My point in all this, readers, is this: never forget that these people are people. People, who, for whatever reason have decided that this is their only way to make a living. They've seen and been through things that some of you can't even fathom, and it's no wonder that so many of them turn to drugs and alcohol to make it through the night.

Love and respect each other. Never forget that every person has a backstory, and don't be so quick to judge one another.

This business is starting to wear on me, readers, and I'm not sure how I can fix it. I think when school starts back up next week I'll have some distraction to get me through another semester. I'm just slowly becoming angrier and more fed up with ever person that walks through those doors.

It's a dirty business. There's a lot of money to be made, but at what cost? I only wish that some people had a little more respect for their fellow man. I know that a strip club is a fantasy environment. I know that we are supposed to provocate sexual interest, I know that we are supposed to play the role, smile, and leave it all at the door. I'm just tired of being groped every night. I'm tired of being disrespected, and I'm counting down the days until graduation.

I promise you this. If we didn't have the amazingly supportive and loving staff that we have I would have left a long time ago.

I'm sorry to be such a downer, I've just needed to get this out for a while.

Until next time, be good to each other.

Waitress

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

2007-01-03T04:58:00.000-06:00

It was relatively early in the night, and I stopped by the front door to call Boyfriend, just for shits and giggles. We finally broke down and purchased a cell phone, after three years of "living in the dark age," and my ringtone is "Sun up girl," which Boyfriend likes to sing as "shut up girl."

Cute, I know.

Standing at the front door was a gentleman, mid-fifties, and he didn't look very happy. For that matter, neither did the door guy, Champ.

"I want to know exactly what you want to see," the older man was saying, placing both of his hands on the counter and looming in at Champ.

"Dude," Champ started, "it's State law. You have to show me your drivers license if you want to come in."

This, regardless of how ridiculous it may seem, is true. State law requires that anyone in a private establishment have a valid photo-ID and a membership card. Apparently this guy thought he was special.

"Just tell me what the fuck you want to see on my drivers license," the man re-iterated.

"It doesn't make a difference anymore," Champ said, "because you're not coming in anyway."

"The hell I'm not," the man countered.

"The hell you are," Champ responded.

While this little "my penis is bigger than your penis" debacle was taking place it reminded me of an incident that occurred about a year ago, when I was filling in at the front door one night.

This guy came to the front door. Younger, early twenties, and showed me his ID. The ID pinned him at over 21, but the photo looked a bit off. I debated it, but let him in anyway.

Mabye three minutes later another guy came to the front door. He showed me his ID and, you guessed it, it was the same ID as the previous guy.

I snatched the ID up from the counter and opened the door to the club, yelling for Raymond.

"Hey, see that guy over there?" I pointed to the corner of the club, by the fishtanks.

"Yeah," Raymond said, peering in that direction.

"I need you to go get him for me."

"Hey, can I get my ID back?" The voice came from the front door where the second guy was waiting, fidgeting.

"No, hold on a minute," I responded, putting one finger in the air.

About that time Raymond had returned with the first guy.

"Show me your ID," I demanded, holding my hand out.

The guy looked at me, then looked up at Raymond, reached into his pocket and pulled out another ID, this one showing his age at a young ninteteen. Raymond took it from him and examined it in the light.

"No," I said, "your other ID."

"Um," he stammered, fishing in his pockets, "I don't have another ID?"

"The one you showed me to get in here. The one that looks exactly like this," I proposed, showing him the ID of the second guy, still waiting at the front door.

It was about that time that a girl walked in, apparently with the two guys.

"Hey, what's going on," she said, looking around the front door.

"ID problems," her date mumbled.

I left Raymond with the first guy and walked back into the front room.

"Can I see your ID?" I pointed at the girl.

She fished in her wallet, pulled out a drivers license, and handed it over to me. I looked at it and let out a sigh.

"You've got to be kidding me," I said, shaking my head.

"What? What's the problem?" The girls voice had risen about an octave, and she was starting to reach over the counter, apparently trying to recover the ID.

"This isn't you," I stated, flatly.

"Um, yeah. It is," she responded, shaking her head.

"All right," I said, "then show me your nipples."

"What?"

"The girl in this picture," I said, pointing, "is my friend Jennifer. We got our nipples pierced at the same time. You are not my friend Jennifer."

The girl was getting anxious now, fingering her purse while stammering for something to say.

"Look, that's my ID," she finally responded.

"Then show me your nipples," I said, smirking.

Raymond walked through the door, followed by the first guy.

"All of you, get the hell out," he boomed, "and don't ever think of coming back here and pulling this shit again."

The trio turned to leave. Before they got out of the door the second guy turned back around.

"Wait," he said, "I need my ID back."

Raymond gave him his best "you're out of your mind look."

"You can pick up your ID's at the police department tomorrow," Raymond said.

The color drained out of the second guy's face, after all, his was the only valid ID of the bunch.

I snapped back from my daydream just in time to hear the older gentleman say "I'll see you in court," before stalking out of the club.

I gave Champ a look as I hung up the phone.

"Why does everything have to end with someone wanting to sue someone else?"

"That's just what you say when you've run out of options, I suppose."

Champ chuckled and I headed back into the bull-pen, ready to get the night over with.

My Cousin Vinnie

2006-12-27T15:00:00.000-06:00

Pierce and Ellen wanted off on Thursday to go see a concert, so I begrudgingly agreed to bartend that night. Had I known that Pierce was going to propose to Ellen that night (yes, can we have a collective "aww" now? Ok, great.) I wouldn't have minded so much.

See, I don't bartend anymore. I love bartending, I really do, but the good money in a strip club is out on the floor. In a regular bar/nightclub, people like to walk around, and usually get their drinks directly from the bar. Most men in a titty bar like to sit at the tables, either in a quasi-hypnotic state staring at the stages, or surrounded by dancers who are willing to get drunk on their dime. If I want to make the big bucks, I need to be where the people are.

Damn, I digress a lot.

The good thing about being stuck behind the bar on Thursday was my ability to observe the entire club. That, and flip bottles. I dabble a little in the bar flair; I like to call it "bored bartending," but I did work at TGI Fridays if that's any excuse.

Elvis was playing "Funky Cold Medina" and I was really getting into it, throwing the bottle behind my shoulders, over my head, etcetera etcetera. I noticed a gentleman walking towards the bar so I put the bottle down. He was short, thin build, wearing a black leather trench coat and had long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail.

"Hey bartender," he said, with a heavy Queens accent that made "bartender" sound like "bahhtendah." "How often are you in New York?"

"Um," I replied, "slim to none, but I'm thinking of going to graduate school up there."

"Well, if you ever do, you gotta job," he said, sitting down in a barstool. "I don't wanna get kicked out of here or nothin', but I own a strip club in New York, you may have heard of it."

He rattled off the name of the club that he owns, and yes, I have heard of it, but for the sake of anonymity, I'll keep it to myself.

I held my hand out across the bar to introduce myself.

"I'm Nicky (insert heavy Italian last name here). You may have heard of my 'family.'"

"Um, no?" I replied.

"Well," he countered, "have you ever heard of the Gambino's? You know, the Mafia?"

"Sure," I said, a little skeptically.

"Well, I work for them, if you know what I mean," he said, winking.

This is where I decided that he was full of shit. I'm no expert on the subject, everything I know about the Mafia is derived from avid viewing of Soprano's, but one thing I'm pretty sure of, if you're actually in the Mafia, you don't go announcing it to random strangers in the bar. I'm almost positive that people in the Mafia try to pretend like the Mafia doesn't exist.

"What the hell," I thought, "I'll play along with this guy."

He went on to tell me about his bar.

"It's a classy joint," he continued, "so you'll be wearing an evening gown."

I gave him a look. "You expect me to bartend in an evening gown?" I don't see how that's possible, honestly, with all the bending and lifting and, well, movement that goes along with bartending.

"It's either that or lingerie. Like I said, it's a classy joint. When you get there, ask for Big Fat Paulie or Louie. They'll call me, because I'm not usually there. I have to handle a lot of things for the Gambino's, if you know what I mean." Again with the wink.

"Yeah right," I thought to myself. I can just see my innocent southern ass walking into a titty bar that's a supposed front for the Mafia and asking for "Big Fat Paulie" at the front door. I'll probably get shot.

It was about that time that Raymond walked in the bar. In case you have forgotten, Raymond stands about six four, and is a very large Italian man. Little Nicky picked him out immediately.

"Hey," he asked, pointing to Raymond, "how do I know that guy?"

This is where I decided to be a bitch and screw with this guy.

"Oh him?" I responded, nonchalantly, "he runs most of the bars in this town."

"Yeah," Nicky replied, "but how do I know him?"

"Well," I said, whispering, "his family is from New York."

This is, in fact, true; however, not in the sense that I was allowing this asshole to think. Raymond spent a few years of his childhood in New York, so I wasn't really lying.

"Oooh," Nicky replied. "What's his name?"

"Raymond," I responded.

"No, his last name."

I leaned in, as if I was giving away trade secrets. I glanced to my left, then to my right, and put my hands on either side of my mouth.

"Ministroni," I responded.

"That's it!" Nicky exclaimed excitedly, slapping his hands on the bar. "That's how I know that guy, I know his family."

I gave him a wink and a nod to let him know he was in on a big trade secret. In all honesty, I could have said any Italian name I pleased and he would have reacted in the same manner.

I went back to the business of bartending, but not before Nicky had called Raymond over and was rattling off a list of Italian names that he was "sure" Raymond knew.

"What about Joey G?" He said, earnestly. "You know, Joey Gambino?"

"Um, no," Raymond replied.

"Big Fat Paulie? Come on, you have to know Big Fat Paulie?"

"Sorry?" Raymond was getting irritated by this point.

"Oh," Nicky replied, "well, I'm sure you know someone. I just have to think about it some more."

Nicky left shortly after, but not before giving me his number and making me promise to call him in the next few weeks so we could "get together and talk about working, you know, maybe have a nice dinner or something."

I told Boyfriend about it when I got home that evening.

"You know he just wanted to fuck you," Boyfriend replied, once he could stop laughing.

"Yeah," I responded, "I know. Sometimes I wish they would just be honest and say 'hey, let's have sex.' I could at least respect that."

An Open Letter To Darden Inc.

2006-12-22T06:56:00.000-06:00

To whom it may concern:

Ha motherfucking ha.

I was, like many people, concerned when I first heard about the 300-plus that fell ill after eating at your establishment. After the recent outbreak/scare of E-coli, what with spinach and Taco Bell killing people, I was left to think "what else?"

Then I read this.

Again, ha motherfucking ha.

You see, I was once a waitress at Olive Garden. You may not remember me Darden, but I remember you. I wore the button up the front, long sleeve dress shirt in summer. I donned the ridiculously tacky necktie. I carried the bottle opener in my apron, even though it was bulky and got in my way.

I worked a three table section, even though I knew I could handle more. I dealt with customers, angry with the hour long wait even though half the restaurant was empty. I carried bowl after bowl of all you can eat salad and breadsticks for $5.95. I "dined with wine." I carried that wine bottle around to every table, even the lunch crowd. I hated doing it, but I did it with a smile because it was part of my job, and I have a very high work ethic.

And when I called you, sick with the flu, running a fever and throwing up from every orifice of my body, what did you tell me Darden? Do you remember, because I sure as hell do. You said, and I quote:

"Either come to work or find another job."

So that's what I did. I found another job because I would be damned if I was going to come to work and not only infect the entire staff, but the majority of the customers.

That's why I was so delighted to find out the recent "outbreak" of sickness at this particular Olive Garden was not, as I had previously assumed, a case of bad spinach; but a bad case of stomach virus passed from the employees to the customers.

Again, if I may:

Ha motherfucking ha.

Maybe if you took some compassion on your employees and didn't threaten them with their jobs if they were too sick to come to work you wouldn't be losing so much money, being forced to close down your restaurant and everything.

Just a suggestion.

Sincerely glad I no longer work for you,

Waitress

Previously on Naked Women and Beer

2006-12-18T02:04:00.000-06:00

When we last left our poor, harrowed Waitress (read: me), her skin had began to develop a slight bluish hue, no doubt due to the fact that she lived and breathed in front of her computer screen, pouring over article after article, meticulously learning the slight differences in ASA format and APA format (p.s. it's all in the colon placement) and had started to develop a slight tic in her right eye which, unbeknownst to her, would continue on for the remainder of the semester and cause her to have vicious thoughts of jamming the blunt end of a screwdriver into it.

Meanwhile, back at the titty bar, Esmerelda, post-argument with Duke, stormed out on a Saturday night, leaving even more stress for our poor heroine to deal with. Queenie took over her section, and Raymond hired the girl that worked at the 24 hour gas station "Fog," to take over as hostess.

Owner is opening a new bar in the Southern region of our state, so Raymond and Pierce spend their weeks driving back and fourth (eight hours, round trip) and their weekends trying not to fall asleep standing up. Meanwhile, Pierce and Ellen are saving up to purchase a home, and the word is that Champ and Queenie will be engaged before the year is up.

Mercury, the planet, not the dancer, has taken up home in Sagittarius, which promises anger, strife, and miscommunication. As if to prove my point, Miranda beat the crap out of a new girl in the dressing room (so new, in fact, that I don't even need to come up with a fake name for her), Dawn is taking a leave of absence, and every time I turn around we're kicking someone else out or breaking up another bar fight.

Waitress and Boyfriend almost split up; not for any good reason, mind you, but Waitress is crazy, and even more so when she's tired and/or stressed out. Luckily, Boyfriend is quite the understanding man, and has learned that it is much easier to just nod and smile.

As if this weren't bad enough, our tired and stressed out Waitress read in her Cognitive Psych book that the more instances of REM sleep you get in between study sessions, the more your brain encodes the information and the easier it is to recall later. She then gets the bright idea, since she doesn't have a lot of time to study, to sleep for four hours, study for four hours. Sleep for four hours, then study for four hours. The result? She misspelled her last name on the scantron of her last final. You see, Waitresses last name is composed of two small words put together, much like "Coachmain" or "Armstrong." When filling out the scantron (i.e. bubble sheets) it requested that Waitress bubble her last name first, followed by her first name. Waitress, instead of bubbling "Glassman," brilliantly bubbled in "Manglass."

And when it was all said and done, she was left with five A's and one B (in Cognitive Psychology). She now vows to never again attempt 21 hours in one semester.

Thank you all for being so patient these last few weeks. I have so much to catch you up on!

Waitress

Tag You're It!

2006-12-05T17:08:00.000-06:00

I was tagged today. I didn't even know what tag was until a few minutes ago, but my awesome girl at After Hours tagged me.

How to Play:

Whomever is tagged reveals five things about themselves that few people know. Then they tag five other bloggers to play. There is no deep purpose to it.

My Five Things:

1. I once sang backup for Shania Twain. As cool as that may sound, it was really a big let down. We had to stay in this tiny room in the back for the whole show and she didn't even say "hi" or anything. Also, she's a lot shorter in real life and her hair is fake.

2. I have been arrested. :) Not for what you might think, either. Maybe I'll tell you all about it one day.

3. I have a tattoo of a treble clef in a hidden spot.

4. When I'm really tired or stressed out, I have panic attacks about the stupidest things. Once I was driving home and started freaking out beacuse my car keys weren't in my purse. Think about it.

5. I danced. Once. And by once, I don't mean one night or one specific point in time, I mean once. One song, shower show, $500. That was a loooong time ago, though.

Now, I'm supposed to tag other bloggers; five of them, but I really want to know about my readers. I guess I'm cheating a little, so I'll tag a few bloggers.

The Insane Waiter
Boun Appitito
Wide Lawns
Skippy Mom
Barista Brat

Ok, your turn. Tag, you're it!

waitress

Throw Me A Lifeboat

2006-12-04T14:45:00.000-06:00

I'm still here.

I miss you guys :)

I turned in my last paper today, thank God. All in all, I've written over 60 pages of papers this semester. Finals are next week, so I'm getting through it as best as I can.

See you all next week!

Waitress

It's A Family Thing

2006-11-22T12:51:00.000-06:00

So, earlier today I was on the phone with my mother, and she mentioned that she is quite upset at my lack of recent posts.

I know, you've all missed me! Sorry, I've been swimming in a sea of theory papers...

That is why I have decided, in order to placate my mother and defer her from bugging me about the blog, to write about what happened two weekends ago.

It was another busy Saturday night. Ever since State U's football team has been on a winning streak our bar has been packed on Saturdays. Remember what I said about testosterone?

I had just taken a round of beers to a table in the corner when I heard CEO's voice over the speakers.

"Waitress to the front door, waitress, the front door."

I looked at him quizzically as I hurried to the door, figuring it either Boyfriend on the phone or a group of Latino's that needed translating.

"It's your mother," CEO said to me on my way to the front.

"My mother?"

I swung open the front door and there was my mother. And my grandmother. With three people I have never seen before.

"Hi!!" My mother was ever cheerful, decked out in a full length fur coat, as was my grandmother.

"Um, hi?" One of the women with my mother snapped a picture of me. I am not looking forward to seeing how that one turned out.

"We met these people at the symphony," my mother gestured to the two women and a guy with her, "and so we all decided to come up here and see you!"

"Lucky me," I thought to myself.

If you're thinking it might be strange for someone to pick up three random strangers at a symphony concert and drag them to the titty-bar, you don't know my family.

I let them in and they headed for a table in my section. My mother stopped me on the way.

"They are on their own tab, okay?"

"Yeah, no problem mom."

I let them get situated at the table while I made another round, anxiety beginning to creep up the back of my neck. When I made it back to the table, they already had drinks and my mother was in the process of telling them God-knows what about me when I was a baby. (Her favorite thing to do.)

My mother, always the flair for dramatics, leaned forward to emphasize some point she was making, and slid off the satin lining of her fur coat and fell on the floor.

My grandmother, in an attempt to catch my mother, fell off her chair and landed in my mothers crotch.

I just turned and walked away.

Now, some of you may be thinking "wow, waitress, that's kind of harsh, walking away while your mother and grandmother are dog piled on the floor."

Again, you don't know my family and their penchant for accidents. For example:

One Thanksgiving, my Grandmother was standing on her dining room table, cleaning the chandelier, when she took a step back to admire her work. Only she was on the edge of the dining room table and when she took a step back she fell off the dining room table.

Then there was the time my Grandmother broke her wrist trying to skate backwards at the skating rink.

Or the time my mother was hit with the bow of the sailboat and fell out of the boat.

Or the time my mother was chopping wood at the river with a machete and cut her finger off.

I could go on and on. But I won't.

So I left my family on the floor and went back to waiting tables. I could hear my mother in the background.

"She pulled my chair out from under me!" She was laughing, "my daughter pulled my chair out from under me!"

Sure. If that's what you want to go with.

I noticed that in all of the commotion my grandmothers fur coat had fallen on the floor. I picked it up and hung it at the front door.

"I hung your coat at the front door, Grandma," I said to her in passing.

"Waitress," she said, motioning for me to lean down, "be careful, it's real."

"Yes, I know."

Shortly after that I was standing at another table when my mother walked up to me.

"Your Grandmother thinks you stole her fur coat," she said.

"Oh, you're kidding me," I replied, "I told her I hung it up at the front door."

"I know, but she's worried."

I left my table and returned the fur coat to my grandmother.

"We're leaving soon," my mother said to me, "can I pay my tab?"

"You don't have a tab, mother," I replied, and headed to the table behind her to see if they needed drinks.

My mother decided to follow me to the table and introduce herself.

"Hi, I'm waitresses mother. She's my daughter, isn't she pretty? You should give her some money."

"Great," I thought to myself, "my mother is pimping me out now."

The table just looked at her blankly. Lucky for me they didn't speak English.

"Todo esta bien," I said to them, "Esta mi madre, y ella esta muy buracha."

They smiled and laughed a little. My mother looked at me blankly.

"What did you say to them?" she asked.

"That you were pretty," I responded, and headed over to the bar before she was any the wiser.

I sat down at a friend of mine's table for a cigarette and a moment's peace when my grandmother headed over.

"We can't find your mother," she said.

"Great," I responded. "I'll go look for her."

I headed to the front door and asked Champ if he'd seen my mom.

"Oh, I've seen her," he replied.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well," he started, "she walked outside with a drink in her hands and I said to her 'you can't take that out there,' and she went back inside. Then she came back out, except she was attempting to smuggle the drink under her fur coat. Here's the glass, by the way."

"Oh, you're kidding me," I said, even though I was sure he wasn't.

I headed outside and found my mother fanning herself.

"Grandma's looking for you," I said.

"Ok, tell her I'm outside. I need to pay my tab, don't let me forget."

"Mother, you don't have a tab. Why are you out here anyway?"

"I'm hot."

"Well, take off the fur coat!"

My mother gave me a look that said "if you knew how much I paid for this thing, you would understand why I can never ever take it off."

I convinced my mother to come back inside. When we opened the door and looked at the table, my Grandmother was nowhere to be found.

"Where's your grandmother?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," I replied, looking around the club.

My mother went off to track my grandmother down, and I went to the bar to have a drink.

A few minutes later they emerged from somewhere in the back.

"Ok, we're leaving," my mother said. "Did I pay my tab?"

"For the last time, you don't have- oh never mind," I said, exasperated. "Yes, mother, you paid your tab."

"Good," she said, kissing me on the cheek. "We're leaving, I'll see you later."

I watched my mother and my grandmother head out of the titty bar and back to their normal lives.

I hope I can still bar hop when I'm that age. (Hah! Mom, that's for you!)

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Always,
Waitress

Show Me the Pussy

2006-11-13T13:50:00.000-06:00

There's a psychological effect that happens to a man's body when his home team wins. A long, long, time ago, when men used to go out and do battle, when they would win it would cause a raise in testosterone levels. Now a days, since we no longer "get out and do battle" as we used to in warrior times, men have placed those same emotions and triggers into their respective football teams. So, naturally, when a man's team wins a game, his testosterone levels increase-- and then he thinks it's a good idea to come to my bar and bug the shit out of me.

Last Saturday, State U had a home game and we crushed the opposition. Shortly there after, my bar was full of hopped up men, adorning themselves from head to toe in State U colors and screaming "WOOOOOO" at the top of their lungs every few seconds.

One group, two men and two girls, took a seat at one of my tables directly across from stage one. I headed over to make my greetings and take their drink orders.

"Hi," I said, cheerfully, "what can I get you guys to drink?"

"Are you our waitress," one guy asked, eyeing me up and down.

Like I have, so many times in the past, I bit back the urge to say "No, I'm just some random person trying to make a few extra bucks."

"Yes, yes I am. Can I get you something?"

"You're not a waitress," he insisted, "you're wearing too many clothes."

I knew then that this table was going to be a problem. I finally convinced him that I was, indeed, a waitress, and finally got their drink orders.

I brought their drinks back and set them on the table.

"Hey," one of the guys at the table said, "will they get mad if I start screaming 'show me your pussy?'"

You've got to be kidding me, I thought.

"Yes, that will probably anger the dancers," I replied.

"So, it's not a good idea?" He looked hopeful, as if maybe he could live out this long held desire.

"No, not a good idea if you want to stay in here."

I walked up to the bar and told Raymond what was going on. When I got to the part about showing the pussy, Raymond smiled.

"Hey, why don't you ask him if he would mind if all the dancers started yelling "Little Dick Motherfucker" and pointed at him?"

I smiled, and was about to respond, when I heard CEO's voice come out of the speakers.

"No touching the dancers," he said. "There is no touching allowed."

I cringed, turning, and there was my table, looking perturbed while standing at stage one.

Everyone else made it back to the table, but LDM (little dick motherfucker, for short) still stood at stage one, with a dollar bill in his hand. The dancer on stage was in front of him, dancing, and he was still attempting to put the dollar in her G-string. The charade went as follows: LDM would hold up the dollar, the dancer would dance in front of him. LDM would reach for her, she would stop him and pull away. LDM would still hold on to the dollar.

This is called "teasing the dancers" and it's not a nice thing to do.

I headed over to make him stop when he started back towards the table.

"So," he said, sitting down, "we can't touch the dancers?"

"No, no touching," I squatted down at his chair to put us at eye level.

"Even the girls?" He pointed to the two girls in their party. I don't know why some people think that the rules of the club don't apply to members of the female sex, but they do.

"No, even the girls. There is no touching in here; and it's not just this bar. Touching the dancers is against State law." Usually, this works to defer them from attempting anything else. Usually.

"What about lap dances?"

"They can touch you," I patiently explained, "but you can't touch them."

"What about VIP?" This guy was persistent.

"Same rules apply," I said, looking around the club. I was wasting so much time at this table I was afraid my other tables needed drinks. These guys were already getting on my nerves and I wasn't about to lose any money.

"What if I gave them some extra money?"

"Look," I said, standing up, "there is absolutely no touching in this bar. I don't care how much money you have, or how much you're willing to give away, you will never, EVER, be allowed to touch any of the dancers in this club, OK?"

He looked up at me, pointedly.

"What about you?" He grabbed my thigh when he said the word you.

I slapped his hand away and leaned in, grabbing his chin with my hand until we were practically nose to nose.

"If you want to be able to walk out of here, I suggest you never fucking put your hands on me again," I said, flicking his face out of my had, turning on my heels and walking away.

"I'm done with that fucking table," I told Raymond when I made it back up to the bar. "They can die of thirst before I wait on them again."

Raymond smiled and went back to what he was doing.

Shortly there after I heard CEO's voice again, over the speakers.

"No dancing. Unless you are on that stage there is no dancing allowed in this bar."

I looked over and there were the women from my table of assholes, dancing around with their version of a strip tease. I started to head over when they finally sat down, this time in their boyfriends laps and attempted to give them uncoordinated lap dances.

"It's going to be another one of those nights," I mused to Raymond while debating whether to go over there and make them get up.

"Yeah, but at least you'll have something to write about." He smiled and rubbed my shoulder. "Now go make some money."

Hey Ya'll!

2006-11-06T14:28:00.000-06:00

Just letting everyone know I'm still around, I still have stories to tell, I just have another week where I have a billion tests and papers due. I promise I will post soon! :)

Waitress

We Got A Response

2006-11-01T15:44:00.000-06:00

This response from the "humane" society was forewarded to me earlier today. I figured I would post it for all to read.

I promise, though, I do have some stories to tell that I will post tomorrow.

Thank you all for your support, and I will continue to update you on Tucker when I receive more information.

Always,
Waitress

Thank you for your email and your concerns. Although the HSBC cannot comment on the details of the case due to potential litigation, I don't believe taht the details in your email are entirely accurate.

Generally speaking, as an open admission shelter receiving 7,000 animals a year, the HSBC makes every effort to balance three competing masters: our desire to find a good home for an animal, the law, and limited space. Animals that are permitted to stray without identification, license, microchip, have no lost report filed, or get no personal visit to the shelter to look for the lost pet during the 48 hour legal holding period face the very real possibility of adoption, or worse, euthanasia as soon as the legal holding period has ended for most of the year at our shelter. Pennsylvania law is quite clear about the obligations of both shelters and pet owners. Owners who allow their pets to stray without fulfilling their obligations, both under the law and ethically to their pets, place their own animals and every other animal at our shelter in peril through their own irresponsibility.

The HSBC is works with all parties to ensure that everyone's rights and obligations are fulfilled under the law: the animal, the adopter, and the person who may or may not have originally owned an adopted pet. Ultimately, if a fraction of the effort that goes into arguing about the disposition of a lost pet went into the simple act of providing a license or microchip for a pet, these cases would rarely, if ever, occur. I am certain from your heartfelt email that if your old dog ran away you would not let it do so with no license, ID, microchip, or without notifying the local shelter(s) for several days, as some people choose to do. Nor would I. Thank you again for you email and best wishes.

Karel I. Minor
Executive Director
Humane Society of Berks County
Berks County's Leader In Animal Welfare
1801 N. 11th Street
Reading, PA 19604
Phone: 610-921-2348 ext. 10
Fax: 610-921-5833Email:
kminor@talon.net
www.berkshumane.org

A Small Request For A Big Dog

2006-11-01T12:28:00.000-06:00

Again, I am overwhelmed and amazed at the amount of support and e-mails I have recieved on behalf of Tucker. They have all been sent to Jo, and she greatly appreciates it.

I am now asking that anyone who has a blog, please link to this story or just link to the BCHS with a version of the events to spread the word further. Jo is going to contact craigslist and other media outlets to try and get the word out.

I couldn't imagine if this happened to me. It's the equivelant of someone kidnapping your child, and yet most people don't see it that way.

There is a special place in heaven for all those who are helping Jo, thank you all again.

Waitress

Update On Tucker

2006-10-31T16:14:00.000-06:00

Please, if you are sending an e-mail to the humane society, cc it to me at sexyserverbabe@sbcglobal.net. All e-mails sent will be forewarded to Jo who is giving them to her attorney to use.

My friend M did this already, and he recieved a response:

Thank you for your email. Since the HSBC is working to bring this to a happy conclusion for all parties and is working with attorneys from all parties,I cannot comment in the details of the case.
Best wishes.
Karel I. Minor
Executive Director
Humane Society of Berks County
Berks County's Leader In Animal Welfare
1801 N. 11th StreetReading, PA 19604
Phone: 610-921-2348 ext. 10
Fax: 610-921-5833

I say we all start sending correspondance directly to Ms. Minor in the hopes that she gets this message.

Best wishes to you all,

Waitress

Still In Need

2006-10-31T13:59:00.000-06:00

I was writing a post (I'll post it tomorrow) when I got this follow up e-mail from Jo. I think her lost dog takes precidence over the regular drama of the titty-bar. First and foremost, I would like to thank everyone who has commented, and please keep the emails coming. You can find the email address on my first "A friend in need" post. Many of you have mentioned going to the media, I think that's a great idea, if anyone out there has media ties or knows anyone, please foreward this e-mail to them. As an animal lover, we should all try to band together and help Jo and her family get their dog back (who has three puppies, by the way)...

This is her e-mail:

Our BC(border collie), "Tucker" jumped our fenced yard on 10/13/06. We searched *location deleted* in two cars for the following two days. We included a photo & phone #'s on the fliers which we put in mailboxes and posted in grocery stores, feed mills, and restaurants. Monday, Oct. 16Th, at 9 am I filed reports with every animal agency in my area, including *location deleted* SPCA, The Berks Humane society, and the Animal rescue league, and the *location deleted* animal control warden. We continued to look locally on our own.

I was called by the humane society of berks at approximately 4:50 pm on Monday the 16Th, at that time I was told NO male border collies had been turned in to them that weekend, but I was welcome to come personally and look through the on sight kennel. I did indeed go to the BCHS (berks county humane society), where I was "assisted" by DAMON MARCH, who is a director at the shelter. Mr March corroborated that there had been no dogs matching my dogs description or photos. I later found out this was untrue. I returned to the BCHS every day there after to look for my dog, and to inquire at the desk for any possible info.

Thursday (10/19) evening a neighbor gave us a lead on the dogs where abouts, and we then pursued this to yet another neighbor who had taken Tucker to the BCHS facility, not knowing that he was a neighbors dog. I called these people and they were ever so helpful in giving me case info that they were supplied by the BCHS when they dropped Tucker off (10/13). by the time we got this information, the BCHS had closed for the day. DAMON MARCH was the staff member that they had worked with.

Friday morning (10/20) I was at the BCHS when they opened for business at 10 am. I was told DAMON MARCH would not be in until 11 am. and resolution couldn't be had without him, as he is the Director. As I was walking out, I looked inside a window and there was Mr March, in his office, where I was told he was not, only seconds before. I collected myself, and returned back into the HS building, were I waited my turn (again) and asked for Mr March, who had been PEEKING out from the staff offices. He finally came out and after much haggling over who said what , Mr March said he would call the ADOPTIVE family that has my dog, to ask them if they would return the dog, they in turn asked for 24 hours to decide, claiming they had "bonded" with Tucker in the 4 days he was in their care.

Saturday (10/21) I called Mr March to inquire as the decision of the adoptive family. He said they declined to return the dog to us.

my problem is that first, my report had absolutely no bearing on the potential adoption, which was no less than a 2 hour time period for the BCHS to check their LOST DOG book.
My second problem is I was consistently lied to about my dog ever even having been there. never mind that I was lied to about Mr March's presence on Friday....

Had Mr March admitted his error on Monday night (10/16), and done the right and humane thing, i would not require your help.

I desperately want my dog back. He, like most BC's is high maintenance, requiring much activity and exercises. I have devoted the last 4 years to my animals, including the buying of a small farm so as to have the space required to have my cattle dog & border collies live happily and healthy. My children play a special role in Tucker's life, and they are in complete despair over his MIA status, and the situation that has followed.I have offered to pay whatever costs the foster family have incurred in regards to Tucker (except legal fees), IE the adoption fees & spay/vet check, and have gone as far as offering up Tucker's son, Thomas, which I would really rather not do. I have tried to appeal to the fosterfamily, through Damon March. But I have no idea how this was posed to them or if it was posed to them at all. I have to take his word, which I know to be unworthy of my trust.

I'm pleading. Please, if you have any compassion, please help in the return Tucker, who is far more than a pet to us. I do sincerely wish the other family the best in finding another dog that is as loving and gentle as Tucker is, and I would have gladly help them find just such a dog, had they not disreguarded my families bonds with this dog.

I am/was forced to hire an attorney to litigate this matter, I do NOT want money, I want the humane society to have some protocol or policy enacted to save others from having to go through what we are going through. I simply want our dog back home, with his family of three years, all he has ever known.

Mr March and Mr Minor have defamed me as a "bad owner" for not having my dogs microchipped, and claimed in several e-mails that I did NOT look for my dog, which I take great offense to. We searched locally, not 20 miles away in a city that we have very little to do with. Either way, they were notified and disreguarded the lost report & went through with an adoption for a pure bred healthy dog that belonged to my family without concern, then lied about it.
I will include my attorneys information with this letter.

Thank you,
Jo

A Friend In Need

2006-10-30T18:28:00.000-06:00

One of my most loyal readers/commenters has been MIA for a few weeks. I recieved this e-mail today, and thought I would share it with everyone in case anyone out there had any ideas for her. I myself have one dog, my parents have two and nine cats, my granparents have pets...we're a big bunch of pet lovers, so any ideas will be appreciated. Either leave them as a comment or send them to sexyserverbabe@sbcglobal.net

This is her e-mail in it's original form:

Sorry I havent been checking your blog, my life has taken a dreadfull turn. As a dog lover, you may be able to help, if you want to. let me explain.... My border collie (AKA Doggy Daddy) Tucker jumped out of our fenced yard on 10/13, on 10/16 the Humane society adopted him outno less than 2 hours AFTER being notified by me of his MIA status. I am filing suit tomorow against them. They refuse to return my dog, who came in healthy, shiny/groomed and well cared for....they said he was "highly adoptable"...they are breed selecting, which isnt humane at all. I have begged, I've written letters, so have my children, trying desperately to appeal to the decency of the foster family, to no avail. My lawyer has had the misfortune of dealing with these folks, and by his own admission (the director of humane society) this was all one big mistake. one which no one there is willing to fix.

I'm asking for anyone who has loved a dog to write in to www.berkshumane.org
and if you feel compelled to use your legal beagle stuff, my attorney is willing to look at whatever you may send him in reguards to this case. There is no legal precedent for this situation. so there are few guide lines for the judge.
if your interested, e-mail me, or IM me if u see me on. We also set up a an escrow account for Tucker's suit. I will put that info at the end of this note.

Thanks,
Jo

Tucker Fundc/o Eric Winter, Esq.Law offices
Roland & Schlegel
p.o.box 902
Reading, Pa. 19603-0902

FYI

2006-10-30T14:59:00.000-06:00

I have enabled comment moderation. You haven't been banned, and you can still comment, but it takes a while for the comments to post now.

The comment moderation is for my benefit, so I don't have to go back and delete comments.

The "whore" comments have started getting out of hand, as are the ethnically offensive ones.

For the rest of you, please know that I read all of your comments and thoroughly enjoy them. Please don't stop commenting.

I will turn off comment moderation when the person with the offensive comments stops.

Best of luck to you all,
Waitress

If the Shoe Hits

2006-10-30T13:02:00.000-06:00

Last Friday night was a good night for me. Everywhere I turned there was another regular of mine, ready and willing to do some shots and have a nice, calm evening. Even the management was having a good time, the dancers were all in good moods, and life was good in the Strip Club.

Or so I thought.

I was taking a Makers and Water to a friend of mine when I heard a "Smack" come from my left. I looked over at stage two where Miranda was dancing and saw her squatting in front of a young guy at her stage.

I set the Makers and Water on the table and hurried over to the other side of the room. I wasn't sure exactly what was going on, but I had a gut feeling that something wasn't right.

I was walking up to where she was when she took her shoe off, put it in her right hand, reached back, and slapped this guy across the face with nine inches of platform plastic.

Then she got up, went back to the pole, and continued dancing. The guy didn't move.

Now, I have no fucking idea what is going on at this point. Maybe he pissed her off? Maybe she knows him? Maybe this guy has a fetish and likes to be slapped around with stripper shoes? The guy is still sitting in his chair, doesn't look angry, so I don't know what to think.

I mean, if you got slapped with a stripper shoe, would you just sit there?

Miranda finally stops spinning and notices I'm there.

"This motherfucker needs to leave. Now." She pointed at the guy at her stage, who raises his hands in a "what" gesture.

Ok, looks like we can rule out the fetish answer.

I look around and see CEO sitting at a table by the bar. I send one of the dancers to go get him and stand guard by Miranda's stage, just in case.

CEO comes and escorts the guy out of the building as Miranda's set ends. I walk over to the catwalk to find out what the fuck just happened.

"Oh my God, Waitress," she said, putting her booty shorts on, "that motherfucker pissed me off."

"I know, honey," I reply, trying to untwist her top and put it on over her head.

"And the really fucked up thing," she started, tying the bikini top behind her back, "was that I hit him three times before anyone came up to get him out. Three. Times. What the hell were they doing?"

Her question was legitimate, to a point. However, in a club with fifty girls, hundreds of customers, and four floor guys/managers/DJ's, sometimes things slip your grasp. I had the utmost faith in Miranda's ability to handle her own, though.

I sent her to the dressing room to calm down and headed to the bar to get her a shot. Out of the corner of my eye I see Raymond and Pierce rapidly head to the dressing room after Miranda.

I walk into the dressing room with a shot of tequila in one hand and a Jager Bomb in the other and see Miranda getting dressed. ("Getting Dressed" as in putting on her regular clothes to go home.)

"Here, Waitress," she said, tossing her purse in my direction. "I need you to go put that somewhere, fast." She was hurridly trying to put her jeans on and pull her hair up at the same time. "That idiot called the cops on me, and now I have to go."

"You're leaving?"

"No, I'm going to go sit out there with a customer until they leave," she said, throwing her clothes in her locker and slamming it shut.

I took Miranda's purse and put it in the office for safe-keeping. She headed back on to the floor, looking like a customer and not a dancer, and took a seat with one of our regulars in the back.

About ten minutes later, Raymond came back inside.

"Hey, waitress," he said, "is Miranda still here?"

"Yeah," I pointed, "she's sitting over there."

"Tell her to go get dressed again and go back on the floor," he winked at me, letting me know all was ok.

I gave the good news to Miranda and headed back to Raymond to find out what happened.

"That guy was an idiot," he said.

"Well, I gathered that, but what happened?"

"He tried to put his hands on her while she was onstage. Then after we kicked him out he called the cops, trying to claim assault."

"Oh, I see."

"That's not all," Raymond said. "The cops laughed it off and told him to go home. After he left, he ran his car into the ditch. Now he's on his way to jail."

I laughed, imagining this guy. Almost pitiful enough to feel badly for him.

Almost.

Moral of the story: don't touch the dancers. More on that moral tomorrow kiddies!

Update

2006-10-28T05:22:00.000-05:00

Thank you to everyone for their wonderful advice. The response was overwhelming, and I really appreciate all of it...

Except for whatever asshole keeps popping in with the comment "everyone who works in a strip club is a whore." Seriously, get a new line, I've had to delete it like seven times.

Someone in a previous comment was curious as to what went down between Monique and Duke. I asked around tonight and this is what I know:

While Monique was back in VIP with Purity, Monica, and Chris; she was called to the stage for her set. She decided she was making more money in VIP than she would onstage, so she ignored her call to duty.

That pissed Duke off. Here's why, for those of you "not in the know."

There is a list in the DJ booth of all dancers in the order they arrived and signed in. The girls are called to stage to perform their sets in that order, so after a while the girls know approximately when they're going up. Therefore, it makes it easier for them to know when they have time to sit down, do a lap dance, etcetera before going on stage to perform.

When a dancer does not go up for her set, the DJ has to call the next girl on the list. There's no telling where this girl is, or what she's doing; considering she figured she had approximately 9 minutes before she was supposed to go up. Meanwhile, customers are stuck staring at an empty stage, wondering what is going on.

That is why Duke went to find Monique, to figure out where she was and why she was no longer on stage. As it is with any good dramatic incident, one argument turned into another and ended up with both of them in the dressing room going round for round.

Now there's a sign on the mirror warning the girls if they're late for their set it's a five dollar fine.

No one was late tonight!

October Rain

2006-10-26T10:14:00.000-05:00

For some time now I have been feeling an impending shift in my life. Something is pulling at me, it may be the onsight of graduation or the soon to be engagement/marriage to Boyfriend; but something is churning and I'm not sure if it's a good thing or not.

Let me explain.

The plan was always the same. Graduate from State U, join the Peace Corps for two years, return to America with some perspective that can only come from extended time in a third world country being thankful for clean water. Go to grad school (Northeastern is my number one choice, after that it's Columbia and NYU, respectively) for a JD/MSW-- law degree and masters in social work. After that, go work for a Non-profit organization somewhere in NY, think ACLU, JDL, you get the picture. After my career and before retirement I wanted to start a motivational community outreach program for the benefit of underprivileged children in urban areas. Think "Boys and Girls club" but more in your face.

Then I met Boyfriend. Slowly, things started to change.

Gone first was the idea of the Peace Corps. Boyfriend has Type 1 juvenile onset diabetes, and is unable to join the Peace Corps, the Military; hell, he can't even go on a reality show. Second thing to go was the idea of grad school in New England. You don't work while you're in law school, and while I could live in the dorm's or some other form of University provided housing, Boyfriend would have to uproot his life and career to (try) and make it on the other side of the country. Finally, the notion of moving to NY to practice was gone as well. We have a huge pit-bull and they need room, a yard, space to run around in. I don't think having a 110lb machine of a dog in Manhattan is really a good idea.

This poses the next question: babies. Should I have babies? Do I even want babies? I like to think I do, but when would I have time? If I graduate from State U and go directly to Law School, I'll graduate (finally) when I'm 30. Putting in 2 years wherever I work (assuming I get hired right out of Law School) makes me 32 before I try and take maternity leave.

I don't want to be 50 when my children graduate High School.

Everything is just so confusing right now. Is the notion of love more important than personal career choices. If I take the career path am I going to regret it later on? If I take the family path, am I going to resent Boyfriend, and possibly my children, later on?

What am I supposed to do!!!

Is everything this confusing???

Is it just me, or does anyone else feel like they are barely hanging on to the kite strings of life, desperately attempting to anticipate the changing wind; and yet falling short every time?

Is it possible to "have it all"?

Do I even want it all?

Sorry to bother everyone with this, I just thought maybe I could gain some more perspective if I put this out there.

Best of luck to you all,

Waitress

Waitress Is Sick

2006-10-25T11:43:00.000-05:00

Sorry about the lack of posts, guys, but I've been sick as hell the past two days. I think there's something wrong with my throat bc it hurts to swallow. (Let's not make that dirty, shall we?)

I'm going to go crawl back in bed now and eat some more throat spray.

Best of luck to you all!

Waitress

Missed It By One Day

2006-10-23T13:15:00.000-05:00

Part Four:

I put the twenty in Monique's shirt and searched for something to say.

"Umm," I stammered, "it's from Monica and Chris."

"That bitch just got in my face and screamed at me!" Monique was still shaking.

"Yeah, I saw that. What the fuck happened?"

"I don't fucking know," Monique sighed. "Purity and I were back there doing a double lap dance on Chris, when Monica started freaking the fuck out. Then Duke came back there and started yelling at me in front of customers, and that's when all that shit happened." She looked around the club. "I just don't know what's going on."

Just then, Duke approached.

"Monique," he yelled, "go to the dressing room. Now!"

Monique turned and headed to the dressing room and Duke followed shortly behind. I headed up to the bar to get a drink, God knows I needed one-- or four.

There was a guy about my age (from what I could tell) standing at the bar when I approached and I smiled and made random conversation. It turns out we go to the same school, and the chat quickly turned to majors and interests.

"I'm a criminology major," he said.

"That's impossible," I replied. "State U doesn't offer a criminology major."

"Yes they do," he insisted.

"No. No they don't. They have a criminology concentration, not a major. You have to be a sociology major and concentrate on criminology."

"Well, that's what I meant," he retorted. "But it doesn't really matter because when I graduate I'm going to law school."

"So am I," I responded.

"Oh yeah? Are you going to Central U's law school?"

"No, if I go to law school here it'll probably be Northwest U's program," I answered, downing a Jager Bomb.

"Why Northwest U? Central U's is ranked higher."

I sighed. Strike two, I thought to myself. "Actually that's not true. Central U's law school is in the top of the second tier of law schools. Northwest U is ranked in the top tier. It's in the bottom two-thirds, but it's in the top tier."

"Are you sure?" He raised his chin, looking down at me, puzzled.

"Yes. I am absolutely positive," I replied.

"Well," he said, "I'm going to have to look into that. Because women don't know what the hell they're talking about."

You've got to be kidding me, I thought, staring this poor excuse for a man down with a glare that could shake Mt. Everest.

"Hey," he said, emitting uncomfortable laughter, "I was just seeing if you had a sense of humor."

I turned from the bar and headed into the dressing room. I wanted to go hide in the bathroom and have a smoke without anyone talking to me. I was getting close to my wits end. I didn't get very far.

As soon as I entered the dressing room I could hear the screaming. Monique and Duke were still having it out, in a most loud way. Pierce and another dancer were standing on the sidelines, watching the festivities with pointed amusement. I turned on my heels and headed out of the dressing room, praying for a moments peace.

I had barely made it around the corner when Monique stormed out of the dressing room, followed quickly by Duke. Around the bar they stalked, each throwing remarks back to the other. Then they headed back into the dressing room, apparently for round two. Right behind them was CEO, who had called Elvis in to DJ so he could go sort out the inter-employee drama. Apparently he got it all straightened out because soon after, Duke headed out to the parking lot and Monique back on the floor.

"What the fuck is going on," Savannah asked, leaning on the bar while she smoked a cigarette.

"I don't even fucking want to know," I replied, in between rearranging my drinks on my tray. Suddenly I felt pressure on my left side.

There was a very drunk, very little Hispanic man on my left. For some reason, he wanted to be shoulder to shoulder with me, and I was in no mood for physical contact. I took a step to my right and Little Latino man leaned with me. I took another step, and he leaned further, knees never bending. I took one final step which put me right up against the person on my right, and Little Latino man was still attached to me at the shoulder. That was when I felt a hand reach into my back pocket where I kept my money.

I turned to my right, breaking the connection between me and the man on my right. I looked up at him, and it was crazy crackead man, Mr. Wannabe Ghetto Gangsta.

"What the fuck are you doing!?!" I yelled at him, accusation dripping in my tone.

"Uh, I don't know?" He replied, a slight smirk on his mouth, which was full of fake gold.

"You don't know?! You don't know!! I'll tell you what you don't know, asshole." I was cut off when I felt a presence behind me. Figuring it was a bouncer come to rescue me I spun-- and came face to face with Chad. My own personal rescue man.

That was when I realized I was in some twisted version of "The Wizard of Oz." I was sandwiched between the three of them, Leaning Latino Tin-Man, Ghetto Gangsta Scarecrow, Creepy Cowardly Lion, and me, unsure if I was Dorothy or the Wicked Witch. Instantly I was claustrophobic.

I pushed myself thru the three of them, no easy task mind you, and headed behind the bar. There I hid, whimpering.

Great, I thought to myself, I'm fucking Toto.

Luckily, I didn't have to hide for too long. Boyfriend walked in a few minutes later, and I immediately ran to hide on him. I turned the corner of the bar to join him, but someone had beat me to it.

There, sitting next to my boyfriend, attempting to strike up a conversation, was none other than Crazy Crackhead man. And not far behind him? Chad.

"Jesus CHRIST when is this going to stop!" I screamed, turning for the bar as boyfriend shot me a look of confusion.

"Hey, Waitress, you ok?" Chad asked, blocking my path to the bar.

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!" I dodged him, heading up to the bar when someone punched me in the ass. Yes, punched me. In the ass.

It was our Little Latino Tin-Man friend. I'm not sure if he was attempting to grab my ass, or just over swinging his tiny drunk arms, but I didn't care by that point.

I turned around to head outside when I was stopped by Toby, a guy that used to work for us as a DJ, before he got fired for being a complete tool.

"Hey, waitress," he said, "hook me up with a Bud Light."

I just looked at him.

"Ok, then put it on CEO's tab," he said, trying to look pitiful.

"Look Toby, I am not in the mood for your shit right now, and I'm not going to get you a fucking beer, Ok? You want one, go fucking get one, but leave me the hell alone!"

Crazy Crackhead and Chad were no longer sitting by my boyfriend so I headed over to his table, crawling in his lap and burying my head in his neck.

"Get me out of here," I moaned, muffling my sounds in his stubble. "I am throwing up drama!"

"What happened, honey?"

I started to tell him but then stopped.

"Fuck it," I said, "read my blog."

Missed It By One Day

2006-10-20T14:47:00.000-05:00

Part three: NOTE: Sandra and Tracy have been changed to "Monica" and "Chris"

I plastered a fake smile on my face and headed over to Monica and Chris' table to get take their order and their credit card. A little back story before we proceed, shall we?

Monica and Chris have been together for years. They're not married, which I assume is more because of Chris and less because of Monica. Chris is very, very well off, and Monica is the closest I've ever seen to a trophy wife. Perfectly coiffed blonde hair, perky (and fake) breasts, always in style wardrobe, Chanel earrings, eight carat canary diamond ring on her right hand, a slight speed dependency, and completely fucking nuts.

They started coming in about two years ago, back when I was still slinging drinks behind the bar and not serving them up at the tables. I noticed her immediately at the bar, she has that commanding presence that comes with money. To prove my point further she requested three hundred dollars in five dollar bills, not a usual request at my bar. They're big drinkers, big spenders, and big tippers. I always get slipped a bill when they leave, regardless of whether I'm serving them or not. Usually that's enough for me to take their drama with a grain of salt. Usually.

I knew when I saw them there was going to be trouble. One of the other customers in the bar was a girl named Cris. (Don't get confused here, because it's going to get worse. We have Monica and Chris who are together and Cris the girl.) Cris the girl used to "hang out" with Monica and Chris.

Did I forget to mention that Monica and Chris like to bring other women into their relationship? Well, they do, and usually it follows this type of blueprint. For a little while, things will be just peachy, but then something dramatic will happen and Monica will decide that she hates this bitch and she's going to kill her if she ever comes near her or Chris again. I did mention that she's a little nuts, right?

I made it over to the table and gave Monica a kiss on the cheek.

"Hey honey, how are you?"

"I'm fucking freaking out right now. I need a drink," she said, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder.

"No problem, you want your regular?"

"Yeah, and bring Chris his as well."

I took their credit card and headed up to the bar. I came back with the drinks and Monica motioned me over.

"That bitch Cris is in here," she said, pointing to the other side of the bar.

"Yeah, I know," I replied, setting her drink in front of her.

"Well, make sure she knows that if she comes near my table I'll fucking kill her." At this point one of my dancers had made it over and was sitting down. "Bring her something to drink," Monica said, motioning to the dancers, "and bring me another one. I need to get drunk."

"No problem."

I went back to the bar and ordered the requested drinks. Presently at the table were Monica and Chris, Monique (a dancer) and Cris the girl was somewhere wandering in the club. I told you it was going to get confusing.

I brought Monica and Monique's drinks, set them down at the table and noticed that Chris was gone. In his place was some random crackhead I had never seen before.

"Hey, Monica," I whispered, leaning down to her, "do you know this guy?"

"No, I have no idea who he is."

"Would you like me to make him leave your table?"

"Yes," she answered, "please do that."

I walked up to Pierce who was standing by the front door and told him what was going on. He walked over to deal with random crackhead and I made another round of drinks. While I was standing at the bar, paying for my drinks, Pierce approached me.

"Hey, Monica said she didn't mind him sitting there."

"That's weird," I said, "but ok."

I dropped off the next round of drinks and went back over to Monica and Chris' table. Monique was gone and Monica was sitting with the random crackhead.

"Waitress," Monica started, "I thought I asked you to make this guy leave!"

"I tried, Monica, but you told Peirce that you didn't mind him sitting there," I explained, flabbergasted.

"Well, I've changed my mind. And tell Moniqe to stay the fuck away from my table. If she wants to go hug up on Cris that's fine, but I don't put up with that shit."

I turned and saw Monique talking to the table where Cris was sitting-- Cris the girl, not Chris her boyfriend. He was still nowhere to be found.

"Ok Monica," I sighed, "I'll get right on it."

I told CEO what was going on with random crackhead, but at this point, he was sick of dealing with Monica as well. His response: "Tell her to take care of it her damn self if she's so opinionated." I couldn't argue with that logic.

I made another round of orders and was standing at the service bar when Monique walked up to me.

"I don't think Monica likes me," she said, peering over at her table.

"It's not that she doesn't like you, she just doesn't like Cris anymore, so when you were talking to Cris she got offended," I replied, rubbing my temples with my fingers. It had already been a long night, and it was barely halfway over.

"Well, she called me over! What was I supposed to do?" Monique whined, pouting.

"I don't know darlin, but I have to take these drinks."

When I made it back to Monica's table (Chris was still gone), Monique was sitting with her arm around Monica, talking to her.

"Waitress," Monica started, "will you go get Chris and tell him that I would like him to come back to the table?"

"Sure, Monica," I answered. "Where is he?"

"He's getting a lap dance. I just really need his support right now," she shook her head and tried her best to appear pitiful.

I walked back to the lap dance room and saw no sign of Chris. I checked in the other room, still no Chris, but I did see Max getting a lap dance from Kismit. He smiled and waved from between her thighs. I smiled in return.

I finally found Chris in VIP with Purity, another dancer. They were sitting on the couches, talking.

"Hey, Chris," I started, "sorry to interrupt but Monica wanted you to come back to the table."

"I'm not doing anything wrong back here," he replied.

"I know, it's not about you, she just said she wanted you to be there with her." I was not about to get into the middle of all this drama, so I was keeping my reasoning very vague.

"Well, we're not done with our lap dance yet, so why don't you tell her to come back here."

"Ok," I sighed, feeling more like a baby-sitter than a waitress, "I'm on it."

I walked back out to the main room and to Monica's table.

"Well," she said, "where is he?"

"Um, he's in VIP and he wants you to join him there."

Monica was none too happy about this answer; but she got up and headed back in that direction. Monique followed.

A few minutes later I went back to check on them. VIP is not in my section, so I tabbed them out and turned them over to Esmerelda, explaining the situation to her. I, thankfully, went back to waiting my tables.

About ten minutes later while I was standing at a table by the front door, Monica came stalking up to me.

"Here," she said, putting a twenty dollar bill in my shirt. "Give this to Monique and tell her to stay the fuck away from me and Chris."

Before I could respond Chris and Monique emerged from VIP and joined the two of us. Chris pulled a stack of money out of his pocket and turned to Monique.

"How much do I owe you, honey," he said, counting out bills.

Monica saw this interaction and moved in between the two of them, pushing Chris away from Monique and yanking the money from his hands.

"We already fucking paid her," she screamed. "I already fucking took care of that whore." Monica turned to Monique and got in her face, screaming something intelligible. I motioned for Pierce, mouthing the word "drama" and he headed over as Chris attempted to get Monica out the front door.

I still had the twenty in my shirt, not sure about how to proceed as Monica and Chris headed out the front, Monica screaming about how she was "never coming back again."

I turned to face Monique, pulling the twenty out of my shirt and handing it to her.

"Here," I said, "this is for you."

"What the fuck is that?" Monique's face was red, obviously shaken up from the events that just transpired. Unfortunately, her drama was nowhere close to being over.

To be continued...

Missed It By One Day

2006-10-18T13:01:00.000-05:00

Part two:

As excited as I was to see Max and Mia, I was quite disenchanted to see Chad. Not that I was surprised, however-- for the last year Chad has become quite the regular in our fine establishment, and has decided that the rules no longer apply to him. I had a clue he would turn out like this the first time I met him.

It was New Years, this year when I first met Chad. He's a large man, stands about 6'4 and to call him robust would be a compliment. He was sitting at a table with "Kismet," one of my dancers on New Years Eve, drinking a Michelob Ultra the first time I laid eyes on him. He was normal, or so I believed, nothing out of the ordinary really, until Kismet had her first dramatic incident in her dancing career.

Kismet had been dancing for maybe a week, total. She was a student at Private University (or PU for short) and needed the extra cash. She had, unfortunately, forgotten the cardinal rule of stripping: get the money up front. Not surprisingly, after a lap dance with random young fraternity boy, she was denied her pay. Fraternity boy said he already gave it to her, Kismit said otherwise; and as usual, there was nothing we could do about it.

When I walked past his table, Chad called me over.

"Hey, did Kismet ever get her money?"

"What are you talking about?" At this point, I hadn't heard of the incident yet.

"That fucker over there," Chad said, pointing to a young man in a white baseball cap turned around backwards. "He owes her money for his lap dance."

"Well, then why doesn't she go get it?" And why the hell are you involved in this? I was thinking to myself.

"She's in the back, upset," Chad said, "but if I have to go over there and kick his ass, I swear I will." He scowled and crossed his arms around his massive chest.

At this point I figured I had this guys number. Heavy guy, alone on New Years, probably deeply insecure. Domineering mother, maybe absent father, "savior" complex, and potential stalker.

"Look darlin," I said, squatting at the table, "if Kismet is going to make it in this business she has to grow a tougher skin about these things." Chad started to interrupt but I barreled on. "Yes it sucks that she's out twenty bucks, and yes, I'm sure she's upset about the whole situation, but these things happen and it's not up to you to go around kicking random guys asses for girls you don't even know."

Chad was quiet, but still pissed; every now and then stealing menacing looks at the offending fraternity boy.

The next weekend Chad was back, and so it was the weekend after that, the weekend after that, and so on and so forth until present time.

Over time Chad had elevated himself from "customer" status to a fixture in the club; rubbing elbows with management and other staff, and beginning to assume that certain rules no longer applied to him. This is a common occurrence in a certain type of man regarding strip clubs.

Three weeks ago Chad came in and decided to take a seat on the side of the bar, where we don't allow customers to sit. The seats on the side of the bar are directly next to the dressing room door, and if you're sitting there you have a perfect view inside the dressing room whenever someone opens the door. Chad knew this, but again, assumed that since he was now a "regular," these rules didn't apply to him.

Raymond was sitting at a table by the front door when he motioned for me to come over.

"Hey," he said, pointing to the bar, "tell Chad to move for me, he's not supposed to be sitting there."

"No problem," I replied, and headed off to complete my task.

"Hey Chad," I said, approaching him, "would you please move to another side of the bar or maybe a table?"

"Why?" He turned to look at me, perplexed.

"Because customers aren't supposed to sit here, you know that."

Chad looked across the bar to where Raymond was sitting, and started to scowl. He got up out of the chair and stalked over to a round table in the corner, plopped down, and crossed his arms across his chest again; exactly the way he did when Kismet had her drama.

He was still looking sour ten minutes later when I decided to find out what was bothering him.

"What's wrong?" I lit a cigarette and sat down at the table.

"Fucking Raymond. He knows I can't sit at these tables and now he's just being an asshole about it!" Chad's face started to turn red, anger radiating off his body.

"Why can't you sit at these tables?" I was curious, maybe it was a comfortability thing.

"Because if I sit out here," ("out here" being the bar, I suppose), "I'll get hit hustled all night long and I can't afford that. Raymond knows that, and he knows that why I have to sit on that side of the bar. I don't come up here because I want to, I come up here to baby-sit the girls!"

Red flag, ladies and gentlemen. Red flag.

"Chad, we have people to baby-sit the girls, they're called 'employees,'" I said, beginning to get annoyed.

"Yeah, well, what the fuck ever."

At this point I left the table. Not long after that one of our dancers, Antonia, was feeling sick. She had drank too much, and apparently was going to die. She was in the dressing room, laid out on the floor, "hyperventilating" and breathing into a plastic bag. Basically, she was drunk.

She came out of the dressing room a little while later to perform her set, but felt too sick to continue and ran off stage and back to the dressing room during the first song. Chad jumped out of his chair, as if to go after her, as I just happened to be walking by.

"Chad," I admonished, "sit down!"

"Oh, shut the fuck up!" He sat back down and resumed his stance of glaring angrily around the bar with his arms crossed around his chest.

He's been on my shit list ever since.

Back to Saturday night. Chad didn't arrive with Max and Mia, but because he "knows" Mia, as well as you can know a dancer without knowing her real name, I suppose, he sat down at their table, along with several other dancers.

They had been drinking for about an hour, and I was at the table, dropping off a fresh round of shots, when the incident occurred.

Eve was sitting in between Max and Chad, and suddenly, Chad grabbed Eve around the head, pulled her face to his, and literally tried to stick his tongue in her mouth. Eve put both of her hands on Chad's forehead and tried to push his face away from hers. After a moment, he relented.

"Don't ever fucking do that, Chad!" Eve pointed her finger in his face. "That is a no-no!"

"Oh, what the fuck ever," Chad replied. "Go the fuck away."

Eve looked up at me, and I motioned for Pierce to come over. I had just filled him in on the drama when I turned and noticed Sandra and Tracy enter the bar.

"Oh great," I said, sighing to Pierce, "here comes more drama."

Pierce shook his head and turned to handle the last incident as I headed off to deal with Sandra and Tracy.

To be continued...

Missed It By One Day

2006-10-17T14:10:00.000-05:00

Awwww, you guys!! Your comments are so sweet, but I guess I should have told you that none of the drama actually had anything to do with me (thank God for small miracles), I was just a passive observer! LOL!

I have decided, since all of the stories intertwine with one another, that I should write this as another "parter," but I will be including back story and such. The reason for the title is that all of these events happened on Saturday the 14th, instead of Friday the 13th. So, on with the show!

Part One:

I was expecting Saturday night to be rather slow. State U's football team had an away game in the Northern part of the State, and the Fair was in town. Needless to say, I was unprepared for the events that transpired, both physically and mentally.

It was early in the night and I was hanging out behind the bar, shooting the shit with Ellen. I noticed a gentlemen at the bar, arguing with Savannah about having to leave his credit card with her in order to run a tab. He was moderately tall, with longish curly black hair and rimless glasses. He looked rather Jewesque (you know what I mean) and was being an asshole.

"I want my credit card back," he demanded, looking at her over the top of his trendy spectacles.

"If you want to run a tab, you have to leave it here at the bar," Savannah said, trying to placate Mr. Jewboy while still attempting to serve the other patrons of the bar.

"You don't need my credit card, you already swiped it!"

"That was just an imprint of your card. I have to have it behind the bar in order to run your tab!" She was getting frustrated by this point.

"No you don't," he retorted, like some angry toddler who wants his way.

"Yes, yes I do."

I daydreamed for a moment, imagining this scenario playing out for hours like some schoolyard brawl over the tetherball. I started to giggle.

"Well, then close me out," Mr. Jewboy demanded. "I don't want to run a tab up here."

"Fine! With pleasure!" Savannah seemed relieved to be rid of him. Instead of Mr. Jewboy leaving, however, he insisted on sitting at the bar and paying for each drink individually-- with his credit card. Those of you in the industry understand how annoying that is. Every time you use your card we have to swipe it, imprint it, enter the last four digits, enter the amount, wait for it to print out, print out your copy, hand you the entire thing, wait for you to give it back, ring it into the register, and then close out the credit card receipt in the machine. It's a long, irritating process for a beer.

Mr. Jewboy decided he wanted to sit down in front of the dirty dish station, meaning every time we brought a glass back from a table, he either had to move over (not likely) or we had to twist our bodies into snake like positions in order to place the glasses where they could be reached by the bartender so they could be be washed and re-served.

This guy was becoming a pain in my ass.

Rather than be a bitch, I figured I would attempt to butter him up. Flirt with him a little, maybe put him in a better mood and help myself and Savannah out.

I waited until I had a tray of dirty glasses to bring back to the bar. I walked up next to him, balanced the tray on the edge of the bar, and started placing the glasses nearby.

"I like your hair," I said to him, looking at him with my best "don't you think I'm sexy" face.

He snorted in response while taking a swig from his cheap beer, as if it was something he heard all the time. I decided to give it one more try.

"You're a very cute yuppie-hippy," I was thinking, wireless glasses, good shoes, yet messy hair. Yuppie-hippy.

"Fuck you." He didn't even make eye contact when he said it, and he calmly took another drink from his long neck. The tray wobbled in my hand.

"Excuse me?" I was hoping, praying that maybe he said "thank you" and I just misunderstood.

He turned to look at me. "Fuck you. Now go away."

Every instinct in me said to spill the tray of drinks on this guy, blame it on an "accident," and walk off. Instead, I decided to agitate the situation further, just to see what would happen.

"That's kind of fucked up, don't you think?" I turned, facing Mr. Jewboy, wondering what would happen.

"Well, I'm not a yuppie-hippy."

"No, you're a fucking prick." With that I turned and walked away. Mr. Jewboy left after that beer.

As I made another round I saw one of my favorite customers, "Max" walk in with one of my favorite dancers, "Mia." I was very happy to see them both, Max is a great guy and one hell of a tipper (and I'm not just saying that because he reads my blog). As elated as I was to see them both, my balloon was quickly deflated when I noticed "Chad" following shortly behind them.

Chad, while once a nice guy in my book, has quickly become an annoying thorn in my side, and after Saturday night, has elevated himself to status of quasi-weirdo. His story, when we return from this commercial break.

To be continued...

Oh Sweet Jesus

2006-10-15T14:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Readers, I am fairly certain you are all aware that I am a Jew, and so you must realize the dire situation at hand for me to utter the words "Oh Sweet Jesus."

I am throwing up drama. The smell of it is permeated into my clothes. I have the urge to take a shower and scrub my body raw while crying "I feel dirty" over and over again like some quasi-assault victim from the Lifetime Movie Network.

(Boyfriend would like to interject here and ask why a station that focuses on "empowering women" only plays movies where they get beat up all the time? I personally think the LMN is soft-core porn for pedophiles and sexual predators...but that's another story.)

I have been at my club for three years now. In 1094 and 3/4 days (give or take for leap year) I can't remember ever dealing with this much drama at once.

I have yet to decide how to write about it. A lot of the happenstances involved regulars that I need to give you back story about, so I may just do it post by post rather than try to do another three (or four) parter. I'll let you know, whatever the case it will be started tomorrow.

If you'll excuse me, I need to go cry in the shower.

Best of luck to you all!
Waitress

Crazy Wheelchair Man

2006-10-11T15:19:00.000-05:00

Saturday night started off, as usual, moderately slow. Our other waitress, "Esmerelda," called in, her daughter was sick and her babysitter bailed. It's got to be tough to be a single mom these days.

Our hostess, "Queenie" was taking over her section. I was in the back, getting my ass kicked in a game of pool, when the early crowd started filing in. I looked up from nearly missing sinking the eight ball (I was aiming for the fourteen) and saw an older man in a wheelchair come in, followed by a large man in an even larger cowboy hat. Queenie already got their first round, so I continued on with getting massacred at pool.

A very short time later (Glen is really good at pool, and he spares me no exception) I made my first round around the club, starting at Wheelchair man's table.

"Hi, can I get your guys another round?" I pointed to the empty glasses in front of them.

"Well, hell yeah you can!" The Cowboy was loud, and I got the feeling he was used to being in charge. "I'll take another crown and water, and for this pretty lady," he leaned over to my dancer, Celestial and took her order, "she'll have a Shirley temple. Go ahead and bring him another one of whatever he was drinking." He pointed to the guy in the wheelchair.

I leaned down until I was eye level with him, and he mouthed "cape cod."

"Ok, a cape cod, crown and water, and a Shirley temple. Anything else?"

"Bring me a shot of Patron, as well. And bring this fucker one too." Cowboy pointed to Wheelchair man.

"Coming up!"

I brought the drinks back, set them on the table, and was waiting for Cowboy to pay me when I felt a hand reach up my thigh and cup me on my hoo-ha. A quick glance revealed Wheelchair man as the culprit. I grabbed his hand and moved it away as Cowboy started to laugh.

"Hah hah! You gotta watch out for him, he's a feisty one!"

"Yes, I can see that," I mused. Cowboy handed me some money and I left the table.

When I came back by the shot glasses were empty, used lime wedges creating sticky pools on the table. I reached down to pick them up when Wheelchair man grabbed my wrist, quite firmly, and took the empty shot glass out of my hand. I let him keep it.

After making another round I noticed that Wheelchair man was no longer at the table. Cowboy was sitting on pervert row at stage one, hooting as Celestial danced. I glanced around the club and noticed Wheelchair man making donuts by the shower stage, bumping into tables and other patrons.

Queenie approached him, trying to get him to stop, when he took off and headed into the shower stage. She followed, and as she did, he spun around and hit her with his wheelchair, causing his shoe to come off. She bent down to pick up the shoe and attempted to put it back on his foot. Every time she would try, he would either reverse the wheelchair or slam it into her. Finally she gave up and just handed him his shoe.

Meanwhile, at stage one, Cowboy was craning his neck in the "where's my waitress" stance, so I headed to where he was.

"Can I get you another Crown and water?" I reached for the ashtray so I could dump it into the napkin I held in my hand.

"Don't fucking interrupt me when I'm watching this beautiful woman dance!" He held his empty glass up, still staring at the stage. "Now, bring me---"

I walked away, leaving him in mid-order. If you don't want me to interrupt you, that's fine. But that means I'm not going to wait on you, either.

I headed back to the bar and ran into Queenie, recounting her exploits as Titty Bar Nurse, when I noticed Wheelchair man head for the back.

"Looks like he's off again!" I laughed, pointing to the VIP section where Wheelchair man was headed.

"Oh, God, what's he up to now." Queenie sighed and chased after him. A few minutes later I saw her making a b-line for Glen, who was at the food bar.

It wasn't long after that when Glen had a quick conversation with Cowboy, and both Cowboy and Wheelchair man left the building.

"What happened?" I asked Queenie, once she had made it back to the bar.

"He peed in VIP!" She was in shock, her mouth agape.

"Oh, you're kidding!" I stifled a laugh. "Are you sure it wasn't an accident?"

"No, he had his penis in his hands and he was peeing in VIP!!! I'm not cleaning that up, you know." She put her hands on her hips, trying very difficult to appear dominant, aside from her tiny frame.

"We'll get one of the guys to do it," I said, still laughing, as I walked off to wait the rest of my tables.

Cast and Crew

2006-10-08T04:08:00.000-05:00

So, I don't know if anyone has noticed lately, but the names have changed concerning my co-workers. I went around the bar last week and asked everyone what their pseudonym should be. The responses were quite amusing. So, without further adieu, I'd like to introduce you to the people who make up your friendly neighborhood titty-bar!

Raymond. Raymond (formerly known as "Boss," took his name from the show "everybody loves Raymond." He stands approximately 6'3, and is a hulking Italian breed of man. Personally, I wanted to call him "Donnie V" or "Luca Bratsi" but hey, whatever he wants!

Captain Egghead Orgazmo: Formerly known as "Manager," he originally wanted to be called simply captain orgazmo, but realized Captain Egghead Orgazmo was CEO, for short.

Duke: Formerly "DJ," he decided on his name while high on pain killers from a toothache!

Elvis: I haven't written about him yet, he's our other DJ who works during the week.

Glen: Our floor guy/cook (yes, we serve food). He took his name from one of the Chucky movies, don't ask me which one... I have a huge fear of dolls.

Champ: Our door guy, "Champ" is his "wrestling" name, on some game he plays.

Esmerelda: My other waitress, tiny little latina, who likes to call herself a "mexican't" because she can't speak Spanish. I wanted to call her Hamburgesa. She objected. Go figure. She and Duke are an item.

Queenie: Our hostess, funny name because she's 5'2 and weights maybe 1oo lbs. She and Champ are together.

Ellen: Second bartender, don't know why she likes this name. She and Pierce are together.

And there you have it Ladies and Gentlemen. Welcome to the strip club. I am, and always will be, your faithful Waitress.

Waitress is Exhausted

2006-10-04T14:03:00.000-05:00

Yes. Yes I am.

I finally finished the paper last night, special thanks to Boun Appitito for helping me edit and proofread!

Tomorrow is my mid-term in Juvenile Delinquency, with more papers for my thesis due on Friday. Then I have the rest of my mid-terms next week.

I need three of me. One to study, one to write, and one to go to work.

I'll have a story for you tomorrow, I'm going to go sleep now!

Best of Luck to you all!

Waitress!

All Your Plagues are Upon Us

2006-10-03T13:10:00.000-05:00

I'm copying (or elaborating, if you will) on my friend Subserviant Worker's blog about her experiences with Yom Kippur. For those of you who don't know, it started Sunday at sundown and continued into the following Monday. As per with tradition, Jewish people fast during this time, and break fast Monday night, eating bagels and fish (breakfast food, get it?).

I was a very bad Jewish girl this year.

I mentioned earlier about my lit review due tomorrow. (I'm taking a break from writing it to surf the internet and post this!) I went to school on Monday. Not only did I go to school, I broke fast and had a Red Bull and a chicken biscuit on the way to school.

I was bad.

Apparently, someone noticed. That night, Boyfriend and I headed out to run some errands. When we opened the truck we were greeted by a swarm of flies. Everywhere. Filling the truck and flying out at us.

Last night, there were two locusts on the windshield. Unbeknownst to us, there were also some in the cab of the truck, which proceeded to ATTACK us as we were driving down the road. One such locust went so far as to fly INSIDE Boyfriends shirt and start pinching him.

I told him if there were any frogs near the truck today we were selling it!

Back to the paper! Hope all is well with you!

Waitress.

Hell Hath No Fury

2006-10-02T13:16:00.000-05:00

I have a regular, I'll call him "John". He's a relatively nice man, if not a little anal retentive. He comes in on the weekends, regularly, and always drinks Bud Light. Friday night was no exception.

"Hey honey," I said, smiling at John who was sitting at stage one. "Want a Bud Light?"

"You know me too well, sweetie." He winked as he said it.

"Do you want to go ahead and start a tab?"

"Yeah," he said, reaching in his wallet, "but don't run my damn card this time. Last time you ran it and then voided it. Don't run it at all. If you run it, I'm going to be pissed."

Our credit card machine is rather tricky. On the receipt for your purchase it says "the company". On your actual bank statement, however, it prints out our name. Same with the ATM, so sometimes, anonymity can be difficult.

I take the card and head up to the bar where Savannah is standing.

"Savannah, do NOT run this card. Don't even authorize it. He's going to be paying in cash at the end, and for whatever reason he doesn't want the card run." I handed the card to her. "I don't know why, maybe it's a company card?"

"That or he's hiding from his wife!" Savannah smiled, took the card, and popped the top off a beer.

I continue with waiting tables, and time passes on, as it has a tendency to do. Later on that night, I hear Manager (who wishes to be called "Captain Egghead Orgazmo", or CEO for short) make an announcement over the DJ booth.

"Would the owner of a red Harley Davidson cruiser please report to the front door."

I figured someone had double parked, and thought nothing of it. A little while later, I hear the same announcement.

"Will the owner of a red Harley Davison please come to the front!"

Curiosity (and the need for a good story) compel me to find out what the hell is going on. I walk into the front under the pretense of making a phone call (hell, some of my best stories come from eves dropping) and I see John standing at the front door, wearing leathers and looking pissed off.

"John, what the hell happened?" I cock my head to the side and look at him quizzically.

"Someone fucked up my bike."

"Holy shit! What happened?"

"Well, they kicked it over, broke my windshield, cut the wiring and ripped off my new Fiberglas headlights!" He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a carbon-fiber headlight. You could see where it had been ripped apart, and looked as if someone had beat it with a bat.

"Oh Jesus! Is your bike still outside?"

"Yeah," he said, sighing. "I swear, when I find out who did this..." Just then, his phone rang. He went to answer it as I went outside to check out the bike.

John's bike was found laying on it's right side. The windshield was broken on the left side, which means that after someone knocked it over, they kicked the windshield hard enough to not only crack it, but break some of the pieces out. The beautiful red paint job with flames was scratched up in several places, some consistent with a fall, some not. The headlights were bent off, and the wiring from the engine was cut, loose wires hanging from the bike like fringes in a bad updo. The only thing that wasn't slashed were the tires.

I went back inside and passed John on the way out. He was cussing and muttering something under his breath. I would have wished him a good night, but under the circumstances....

When I walked up to the bar, I saw my door guy (who wishes to be called "Champ") lean into my Boss (who wants to be called "Raymond" a.k.a. "Everybody loves ___").

"He said it was his wife."

Raymond's eyes widened. "No shit," he said, shaking his head.

Savannah handed me some cash from the bar.

"What's this from?" I asked, putting the money in my pocket.

"From John's tab, he came up and said 'fuck it, run the Goddamn card'."

"Well, Savannah, I guess you were right. Looks like he was hiding from his wife!" I smiled and winked at her.

"Yeah," she said, laughing. "He just wasn't doing a very good job at it!"

I Need Help!

2006-10-02T12:28:00.000-05:00

In more ways than one....

Don't worry, I'm creating another post in another window, it will be up shortly, but here's my problem that I could use your help with.

Wednesday I have a huge 10 page lit review due using 300 pages of different articles. (In case you're wondering, it's for Research Methods and my hypothesis is that Fraternity members have more premarital sex than other students in college. I'm not trying to re-invent the wheel here. However, I have found some really interesting articles so I'm tweaking my thesis, if you will, to generalize that Fraternity membership socializes it's members to have more premarital sex, be more gender traditional, and in that sense, be more degrading towards women. No offense to frat members, I myself am a Tri-Delt...)

There I go, damn digressing again.

Here is my problem: My free trial version of Microsoft Word has expired. I've tried figuring out how to purchase it online, but it's about $250 dollars, and I think that's a bunch of crap. Since I don't want to spend all day tomorrow in the Library of State U (I do have some assimilation of a social life) I'm wondering if any of you know of any online word processing programs that could help me? Otherwise I'm going to be stuck writing it in Note Pad and e-mailing it to myself and then trying to format it early in the morning on Wednesday...

Please let me know if you know anything!

Waitress

Can I get you whaa??

2006-09-28T15:30:00.000-05:00

I don't know why this is, but it seems that a lot of the patrons in my club think I am a resident "drug finder". Usually it starts out something like this.

ME: "Here's your drink, honey, that'll be four seventy-five."

THEM: "Thanks. Man, I'm tired..."

ME: "Yeah, me too."

THEM: "Sure wish I had something to pick me up..."

ME: "Well, we do have coffee."

THEM: "No, I need something a little stronger than that."

ME: "Red Bull?" (always the eternal sales-person)

THEM: "No, how about some [insert narcotic stimulant here]

ME: [walking away]

Usually, after I make it clear to them that I will not, in any way, find them drugs, they will try to "laugh it off" like it's a joke.

Usually.

About a month ago, I was at the bar, waiting on some drinks, when this ridiculously tall guy approached me.

"Hey," he said, nonchalantly. "I'm Really Tall Guy (RTG). You from around here?"

"Yeah," I replied, resisting the urge to say something sarcastic.

"Look, I'm from Oklahoma, and I'm here for a few weeks. Do you know where I can find any weed?"

"No, sorry honey. I sure don't." In all honesty, I do know where to find weed (who doesn't) but I wasn't about to say that to a complete stranger, especially at work.

"I'm not a cop," he said.

"Good for you."

"Really, though," he persisted, "I just want to find some grass to tide me over until I get back home. Please?" He looked down at me, waiting.

"Darlin', I really don't know what to tell you."

"Well, then I suggest you go fucking find some!"

I was in shock. I stood there, trying to gauge his statement. Regardless of whether or not he was serious, that was a hell of a thing to say.

I notice the table behind him pointing and talking amongst themselves. As I turn to walk off, one of the guys approached RTG.

"Dude, you looking for something?"

RTG turned to talk to the stranger, and I high tailed it to my DJ (who wishes to be called "Duke").

"DUKE!" I screamed it across the bar. Duke snapped to attention and briskly walked over. "There's a drug deal going down with those two guys at the bar." I pointed, and Duke headed over.

Duke kicked them both out, and I never saw either of them again. I should say, however, that I might have turned a blind eye had RTG not been such a dick.

Attitude is everything.

What WAS going to be a dictionary of stripper lingo!

2006-09-27T12:47:00.000-05:00

UPDATE: THIS LINK IS NOT SAFE FOR WORK!!!

(sorry skippymom and stephen!!!)

Oh and BTW: a few definitions that I wanted to give you weren't on the list, so:

Titty tape: think Victoria's secret stick-on bras. Sheets of tan colored fabric that the girls cut holes out of (with salt shakers, bottle caps, and martini glasses for some) to cover their nipples.

T-bags: similar to g-strings or thongs, these are worn under the dancers booty shorts. T-bags, however, have a wider panty area to cover the girls' entire na-na.

Cut Off: refusing to serve anyone another drink for various reasons (intoxication, asshole-ism, etc...)

Hope that answers a few more....I'm SOOOOOO sorry about not posting NSFW earlier!!!

So, I was sitting here at my computer, racking my brain to come up with an extensive yet informative list of stripper/bar lingo, when someone did it for me!!! Thank you anonymous commenter!

You can find it here!

Ok, so blogger has been screwy today, so let's hope the link works... if not try:

www.beyondtheneon.blogspot.com/2006/03/strip-club-glossary.html

click on that!!

sorry for all the confusion!

Waitress

Go On, Take the Money and Run

2006-09-25T14:07:00.000-05:00

I've talked before about dancers who steal from customers, but Friday night was a definite example of role-reversal. No matter how many times you tell these ladies to "get the money up front," at some point in time they're not going to, and then they want us to try and force someone to cough up the money that we can't prove belongs to them. Friday night was no exception, and probably one of the largest rip-offs I've ever seen.

We were busier than I thought we were going to be, and the customers were tipping freely. Everyone was making money, having a good time, and so far, no one was getting out of control. I noticed that the strobe lights were on in the shower stage but thought nothing of it.

"Hey, Waitress," Miss Rita said as I was leaving the dressing room. She sells clothes to the majority of the dancers in my metropolitan area. "There's about six or seven girls in the shower stage, would you mind going and grabbing them some towels?"

"Yeah, sure, no problem," I replied. I went to get the towels and when I came back the girls still hadn't appeared.

"Wow, they've been in there for quite a while, huh?" I set the towels on the counter and started to head out of the dressing room.

"Yeah," Miss Rita looked up from the top she was sewing. "This is, like, the third song for them."

"Looks like everyone is making money tonight!" I smiled and went back to work.

It wasn't too long after that when I was waiting tables and one of my dancers, Texas, called me over to her table.

"Look over there," she pointed in the direction of the shower stage. "What the hell is going on?"

I turned to look and noticed a large commotion. One of my dancers, Karma, was having a strong conversation with some girl. It was apparently quite important because Karma was dripping wet, wrapped in a towel, and barefoot. This is a big no-no in the front of the house.

Right next to Karma were three gentlemen. Eve, one of my dancers, was in front of them again, engaged in a serious conversation. A little more to the left, in between the bar and the dressing room, were Boss and Peirce, involved in yet another intense conversation with another dancer, Victory. Victory seemed the most angry of all, pointing and gesturing furiously.

I could hear Victory yelling above the bar music.

"Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Pierce."

Pierce said something back that I couldn't hear from my position across the floor.

"Yeah, well, he's got it and it belongs to me!" She screamed this last part out. Pierce said something else I couldn't hear. Obviously the conversation didn't go to well, because she turned, punched the wall, and huffed back into the dressing room, slamming the door on her way in.

"What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know, but I already took my shoes off, just in case." Texas pointed to her bare feet and gave me a devilish grin. Dancers don't fight with their shoes on.

"Down girl," I shot in her direction before walking back to the bar to make my order.

Pierce was now involved in a conversation with yet another dancer, Antonio. She was crying and Pierce was leaned in, talking to her.

"That's why you get your money up front!" I could hear him say this to her as he shook his head.

"But, it's not fair, Pierce!" She hung her head and wiped the tears away that were falling on the bar.

"What the hell is going on Savannah?" Savannah lit a cigarette, took a drag, and shrugged, blowing the smoke in another direction.

I took a Bud Light to a guy sitting by the shower.

"Two seventy-five," I said, distractedly, as I placed the beer on his table.

"Man, those guys sure high tailed it out of here, didn't they?" He unfolded a stack of dollar bills and started peeling them apart.

"Mhh-hmm," I replied, still watching the bar.

"What happened?" I guess even the customers want to be privy to interpersonal club drama. Too bad I can't just tell them to read my blog!

"I dunno, honey." He handed me some ones and I stuffed them into my pants, already halfway gone from the table.

I went back up to the bar and was waiting on my next order when Eve came up behind me and put her head on my shoulder.

"Hey honey," I said. "What the hell happened earlier?"

Eve raised her head up and looked at me.

"Oh, well. These guys wanted a shower show with all six of us. Texas set it up. She told them it was $50 dollars per dancer, per song."

"Right," I said, doing the math. Each song would have cost the guys $300. Pretty pricey for a shower.

"So, Texas got the first three hundred up front. When the song was over the guys were all like 'keep going, keep going'. We told them it would be another $300 per song and they were all 'yeah, we'll pay you, just keep going.' Well, the second song ended and they wanted us to go again."

"Oh don't tell me..." I knew what she was going to say before she even said it.

"Yup, afterwards they didn't want to pay for it. They even tried to say that Texas lied to them and told them it was $100 a song, not $300. It's total bullshit."

"So that's what Boss and Victory were arguing about?"

"Yeah, they said they couldn't get our money because they couldn't prove anything." She rolled her eyes.

This is true. At this point, it's the guy's word against the dancers, and we can't prove what happened and what didn't happen. That's why we always stress to get your money before you start the dance. That way there's no complication afterward.

I know some of the girls don't like to do this, I think it's for the same reason that some guys don't like to stop to put a condom on. I'm sure they feel that it "destroys the mood". In either situation, if you don't take care of it before hand, it might burn for a little while afterwards.

"Well, honey, you know that's how it works."

Eve sighed. "I know," she said, "but some of the other girls are taking it really hard."

"I would too if I just got fucked out of six hundred dollars!" Hell, I get pissed when people order a drink and then leave, and I don't even have to eat the money on that--it's just a waste of my time. I can't imagine how I would be over six hundred dollars.

"Yeah, that's why I went up to them afterwards. I told them that I just wanted my part, I didn't give a crap about anything else, but for them to at least pay me. That was probably one of the best shower stages I've done... We put on a hell of a show."

"Way to look out for number one, Eve." I winked to let her know I was only half-serious.

"Yeah, they didn't pay me though." Eve shrugged. "Oh well, at least I got fifty from it."

"Yeah, fifty dollars for ten minutes isn't too bad," I replied.

"True, but one-fifty would have been a lot better."

"True." I couldn't very well argue with her logic. I was just happy she wasn't that upset about it. Like a trooper, Eve put on a happy face and went back into the trenches to make some more money.

She's a better woman than I.

Happy New Year!

2006-09-23T06:27:00.000-05:00

Happy Rosh Hashanah to everyone!

For those of you who don't know, Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year, so happy New Year to all of my friends out in cyber-land!

On Rosh Hashanah, it is customary for Jewish people to contact their friends and loved ones (and even those we dislike) and apologize for any transgressions we may have caused, even inadvertantly throughout the year. Here are some of the responses I recieved from my loving, wonderful friends:

"No."

"What did you do?"

"Huh?"

and my favorite:

"So you're telling me you're apologizing for being a Jew?"

Yeah...It's been a long night!

Luckily, some really crazy people have been coming in the past week, so I have plenty of stories in draft. Also, next week I will be posting a "Strip Club Dictionary" because I noticed in some of the comments that a few of you were confused with my lingo. Should be funny trying to explain what "titty tape" and "cutting the string" are...

So, until Monday, happy Rosh Hashanah, eat some apples dipped in honey (so the new year will be sweet and fruitful) and take care!

Always,
Waitress

Walk the Line

2006-09-20T12:57:00.000-05:00

It was early Saturday, and the bar was slow. My southern state had an away game, and we weren't expecting much business. I was on the bar and the floor and the only people in the bar were four gentlemen at stage one. One of my dancers, "Dawn", was there with me and we were talking as I was waiting on these people.

"Hi guys, what can I get you to drink?" I was standing directly behind the gentleman on the far right. As I took his order, he turned his body to face me and put his hand on my ass. I gave Dawn a shocked look and stepped back, quickly.

"Please don't touch me," I said, while giving him a stern look. Usually when I reprimand someone, they will quickly apologize and all is well. This jack-ass; however, obviously felt that the rules didn't apply to him.

"What, is that not allowed, or something?" He asked this question in a condescending manner, the corners of his mouth turning up into a sneer.

"Yeah, it's not allowed. In fact, it's illegal, so don't do it again." I was getting pissed by this point.

"Well, is there a line or something because I don't see it." As he's saying this, he's elbowing his buddies next to him, as if this is all one big production for his amusement only. My only comfort is the look of embarrassment on his friends' faces.

"You'll see the goddamn line when we throw your ass out the front door for touching me!"

I turn on my heels and march to the DJ booth where Manager is DJing.

"Hey, Manager, see that guy at stage one?"

Manager nods in agreement.

"Keep an eye on him, he's going to be a problem."

I fill Manager in on the situation and head back to the bar. Soon enough, Mr. Jack-ass heads to the bar, obviously wondering why I never took his drink order. Manager, on top of his game tonight, starts down the DJ booth and makes it behind my bar as Mr. Jack-ass is approaching the front.

"Hey, can I get a bud light?" Mr. Jack-ass is addressing Manager, another thing I hate. Why is it that with some men, if there are two people behind a bar of opposite sex, they will automatically ask the man for something? I should write a paper about it.

There I go, digressing again...

"She's the bartender," Manager nods his head in my direction, "she'll get you what you want."

"So, are you the manager?" Mr. Jack-ass asks, suddenly the epitome of respect and well-behavior.

"Yeah," Manager responds.

"Well, is there anyone else who's working the bar right now?" Gee, Jack-ass, look around. Do you see anybody else in the bar?

"No, man, she's it." Manager looks over and gives me a wink.

"Well, can I talk to you for a second?" I guess Mr. Jack-ass has a complaint he'd like to file. Too bad nobody bothered to tell him this wasn't corporate.

Manager and Mr. Jack-ass step off to the side of the bar. I can see Mr. Jack-ass gesturing grandly with his hands, and Manager rolling his head around his neck, as if in an effort to pop it.

"Well, maybe you should keep your hands off my wait-staff!" I hear Manager say this, and then take off for the DJ booth. Conversation over.

Mr Jack-ass walks back up to my bar.

"What is your employee number?" He demands this question, fingers tapping on the bar.

I laughed. Hard.

"One. That's my number. I'm number one." I resume stocking the bar, giggling to myself.

Mr. Jack-ass turns red in the face and huffs off. I see him go to his friends and point furiously to the front door.

As they are getting up to leave, one of his friends comes to the bar and hands me a twenty. He winks and walks out.

Note to all: make sure that a bar you are in is actually run by a corporation and not independently owned before you decide to act like a jack-ass! It will definitely save you face.

Free Willy

2006-09-19T12:21:00.000-05:00

It's Friday night, and my shift is almost over. Luckily I went home and took a nap after class so I'm not nearly as tired as I was last Friday night. It's been a rather slow night, and I'm hanging out at the bar waiting for last call, when one of my dancers, Sam, comes out of the dressing room.

"Hey, can you go get me a towel?" She's preparing to do a shower stage.

A shower stage is something different that we have at my club. It's a separate room connected to the dressing room where, for a fee, you can sit and watch your favorite dancer, or two, take a shower.

I get Sam her towel and sit back at the bar. A few seconds later she comes bursting back out of the dressing room.

"Oh my god, Waitress, seriously, the shower." She's laughing so hard that she can barely form complete sentences.

I walk to the shower stage and peek in. Immediately I jerk my head back out of the room and scream for my DJ.

"DJ!!! Seriously!!! The shower!!!" Now I know how Sam felt.

DJ walks to the shower stage, sticks his head in, and immediately jerks it back out. His mouth is agape, a look of shock and humor spread across his face.

Inside the shower stage sits an old man. His pants are down around his ankles and his shirt is pulled up over his belly. There, on full display, is his willy, standing at attention.

DJ, not wanting to let this comic gem go unnoticed, yanks the curtains in front of the shower stage open.

Across the room are two guys sitting at the bar, having a conversation. One guy notices the commotion and looks up. His jaw drops and he starts to slap his friend on the arm, while his friend is still talking. From my position at the bar I can hear this conversation.

"So, I was telling her," the second guy is saying "that I-- dude, what? Why are you hitting me? Oh my GOD! What the fuck is that!!!"

About that time four dancers burst out of the dressing room, collapsing with laughter. They too, had let curiosity get the better of them and peeked in on the peep show through the dressing room connection.

I look over at the shower stage, where DJ and floor guy are now trying to kick this guy out, without having to touch him. Apparently he doesn't seem to understand what he did wrong. When they finally convince him to put the mouse back in the cage, they escort him to the front door.

DJ comes back in shortly and heads to the dressing room. I can hear the laughter from my seat at the bar.

Sometimes, all you need is a good peep show to keep the night going.

The Freaks Come Out at Night

2006-09-14T14:30:00.000-05:00

Part Three

As I'm heading up to the bar to recount the previous drama to my bartenders and waitress, my boss stops me.

"Hey," he said, pointing at the three guys at stage one-- the same three involved, albeit inadvertently, in Micah's drama. "See the guy in the middle there? He's cut off, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. No problem."

Ryan jerks his thumb behind him, in the direction of the other bartenders. "I already told them, I just wanted to make sure you knew about it."

"Ok, I'll keep an eye out."

At this point in time, I feel like sleeping woman walking. It's approximately 3:30 in the morning, which means I've been awake and functioning for 22 hours. All I'm hoping for is a stress free end to the night, and maybe sneaking in a quick nap before last call.

About fifteen minutes goes by when I hear my DJ call out for "Pierce", one of the floor guys, and my boss. My ears perk up, as best they can considering the circumstances, and I see the two men making a b-line for the three guys at stage one. I pull up a chair at the bar, watching the festivities.

My boss walks back to the bar, carrying a full pitcher of beer and two full glasses. Behind him, I see the guy who was cut off and his friends standing up and glaring around the bar, menacingly. Soon, a small crowd is gathered while Pierce and my boss attempt to escort these guys out of the bar. After what seems like a heated discussion, the "gentlemen" leave the bar.

"Conflict averted," I think to myself. My mind starts to drift and I'm aware of how much the men that work here have matured since we first opened. If that would have happened two years ago, you can bet there would be a fight.

Suddenly, my neck jerks up and I realize that I have fallen asleep at the bar. Not wanting to make a spectacle of myself, I decide to take a comfortable chair in a quiet corner. Soon, I'm starting to drift, when I hear:

"Wooooooooooo! Weooooeeeeeoooooooo! HeeeeYaaaaaa! Whoooooohoooooo!!!"

I pick my head up from my hands and attempt to search out the cause of the affronting noise. It's coming from a rather large man in a red t-shirt sitting at stage one. I hoist myself out of my chair and walk to the bar.

"Savannah," I say, to my bartender. "See that guy sitting at stage one?" Savannah nods in affirmation. "He's cut the fuck off!"

Around that time my DJ says the sweetest words I ever heard.

"Last call! Last call for alcohol! If you have any tabs at the bar, please close them. Last game on the pool tables, and remember, this is your last chance to get a lap dance!"

"Oh thank God," I mutter to myself, under my breath. I resume my position in the low chairs, this time pushing two of them together and curling into a ball in the middle. The lights soon come on.

Suddenly, I am awoken by screaming coming from the dressing room. I pick my head up from the chair and one of my dancers frantically comes rushing out.

"There's a GUY in the dressing room!!! There's a dude in here!!"

Like a blur, Pierce, my DJ, and my boss run to the back. I hear doors slamming, and someone yells.

"What the FUCK did you think you were doing in my dressing room?" My DJ's voice is loud, reverberating through the empty club.

I look up in time to see the same guy in the red shirt at stage one, the very one I cut off, stumbling out from the dressing room entrance.

"Uhh, I don't know?" He slur's the words, attempting to catch his balance from being flung out of the room.

"You don't know? You don't know!?!? How the fuck do you not know!" My DJ is right behind him, screaming at him as he's walking to the door.

"Uhh, I thought it was the exit?"

"The motherfucking exit has the big ass sign that says 'exit' in glowing neon! That door has a sign that says 'dressing room' you fucking retard." DJ is angry now, taunting the big man.

"Um, my bad dude," is this drunk man's reply.

"Your bad. Your FUCKING bad!" DJ opens the door and grabs the guy around the neck. "I tell you what, motherfucker, if I ever see you in this bar again, I'm going to drop you like a bitch and fuck you in the ass." At the same time, DJ literally throws the guy out the front door and slams it behind him.

The whole bar is silent, staring at the DJ. Pierce starts snickering. The next thing you know, the entire bar is rolling with laughter.

"Dude," Pierce says, clutching his stomach, "you just told him you were going to fuck him in the ass!"

"Damn right! And I will too, if I ever see that sorry fuck in here again."

I smile to myself as Boyfriend walks through the front door.

"Hey, did you know there's some drunk guy in the parking lot, yelling about ass sex?"

The laughter starts all over again.

Sometimes, the drama is worth it.

The Freaks Come Out at Night

2006-09-13T13:43:00.000-05:00

Part two

I made my rounds around the bar, exhaustion beginning to really take a hold on me. I started to forget drink orders, and made way too many trips to the bathroom to sit down for a moment. I really should have gone home and slept rather than getting my nails done, but at least my hands look pretty.

Eventually, Preggars, Bigun, and "the bitch with the short brown hair" left the bar. I had stopped waiting on them after the altercation with Dawn, partly because they were already drunk, but mostly because I didn't want to deal with the other half of the pancake.

Approximately an hour later I'm standing at the service station, waiting for my drinks, when Terry, one of the bar regulars, grabs my arm.

"Fight, over there, look!" He's pointing and gesturing to the right side of stage one, the same spot where the first drama occurred.

I look up and all I can make out is a large commotion of dancers. One girl, "Lilah" is holding another girl, "Micah". Micah is about 5'4 and weighs maybe 95 pounds. She's a teeny tiny dancer, and every time I see her I can't get that damn Elton John song out of my head.

Lilah goes storming back to the dressing room, and as she passes me, I asked her who was fighting.

"No one," is her curt reply.

I would love to have left it at that, but curiosity got the better of me, and so later on, when I was waiting on a table where Micah was sitting, I asked her what happened.

"Dude," she said, "okay, so I get off stage and I'm going around thanking everybody. See those three guys at stage one?"

I turn to look where she is pointing and see three gentlemen, two with baseball caps, and one without sitting with their backs to us.

"Yeah, what about them?"

"Well, they tipped me and so I came up behind them and gave them a hug and said thank you. As I was walking off, this crazy bitch shoved me from behind and started screaming 'get your fucking hands off my boyfriend!'."

"Oh Jesus," I reply, rubbing my temples with my freshly manicured fingers. "Another angry girl."

"What?" Micah was confused, she doesn't know about my blog.

"Nothing, never mind. What happened next?"

"Well, I turn around and she's still standing there, screaming at me, so I start to go for her, you know, I'm thinking 'what the fuck-- I'm going to hit this bitch', when Lilah grabs me around the waist and holds me back."

That must have been where I first started paying attention, I think to myself. I also think that it's probably a good thing that Lilah held her back, considering how tiny she is.

"So where's the girlfriend now?" I look around, not seeing a woman by herself.

"She left," Micah replied.

"But her boyfriend is still at the stage!"

"I know, he told her he wasn't leaving." Micah takes a drag of her Black and Mild and I walk away, shaking my head.

As I walk up to the bar to recount the events to my bartender and other waitress, I can't help thinking that maybe Angry Girl has more problems in her relationship than getting hugged by a stripper. I barely have time to process this information before the next round of drama was upon us.

To be continued...

The Freaks Come Out at Night

2006-09-12T12:42:00.000-05:00

Part One

Friday night was a very hard night for me. After being in class all day I went straight to work without taking a nap. Because of this I was more than a few steps behind all the drama and fighting that ensued. Maybe that's a good thing.

There were three specific dramatic events that occurred Friday night. They are all rather exciting and some are long winded, so I am splitting them up into three parts, for the sake of suspense. This is part one.

Early in the night a table of regulars, meaning I remembered them enough to know what they drank, came in. The guy and the girl I had met before, but they brought two friends with them, "Preggars" and "Bigun". I automatically brought them a pitcher of Miller Light and four glasses, as well as Red Bull and Preggars had a coke. The trouble didn't start until three pitchers and a few hours later.

"Hey there, girl," Bigun drawled at me. He was a large, sweaty man, wearing a cut off grey t-shirt that showed several badly done tattoos on his upper arms. "I want to do some shots, you think any of these people will drink them with me?"

"I am sure that if you're buying, people will drink," I said.

"Well, hell, bring me a shot of Rumplemintz and whatever the rest of these people want."

Several dancers were sitting with them, so I took orders. Preggars wanted a glass of wine and the other lady, my regular, drinks Washington Apples, so I brought her one as well.

Soon, the drinking was underhand. Preggars was on her second glass of wine, my regular lady was on her third Washington Apple and was stuffing one's down my pants, and Bigun was drinking double Jack and Coke's. At this point, the exhaustion is starting to hit me, and I'm moving rather slow.

I decide that it's in this table's best interest if I only hit them (wait on them, for those not in the business) every other round. They seem to be heavy binge drinkers and I'm loathe to cut people off. I'm standing at the service station when I look up to see Bigun dancing around and attempting to take his shirt off. I motion for Boss to come over.

"Hey, see that big guy over there? He's going to be trouble. Try and keep an eye on him if you can, I'm too tired to deal with it."

As I'm saying this, Bigun attempts to do some version of a pirouette and knocks into another guy trying to carry his pitcher of beer to his table. My ears perk up, as I'm afraid that a fight might ensue. Luckily, pitcher man doesn't seem to mind.

A few moments later one of my dancers, "Dawn" comes up to me, enraged.

"Oh my GOD Waitress," she pants, "do you know what the fuck just happened?"

"No, what honey?"

"Well, you see that bitch with the short brown hair over there?" She motions to my table of regulars. "I was on stage two and Miranda was on stage one. This stupid bitch goes up to tip Miranda and starts talking shit about me!"

"She was talking shit about you to Miranda?" I was intrigued, and surprised. "While she was tipping her?"

"Fuck yes she did! She said 'I don't like Dawn, she walks around here like she's the shit. I haven't liked her since she was fat."

"Ooooh no she didn't!" I'm excited now and the ghetto in my voice is coming out of me. "You were never fat, Dawn. What did Miranda do?"

"She told her that she needed to keep her voice down because I was on the other stage."

Remember what I said about alcohol being liquid courage? Do you also remember what I said about strippers being able to fight? Luckily, there was no fight in this instance.

When Dawn got off stage, Miranda told her what "bitch with the short brown hair" said. Dawn, not being one to put up with flack, marched up to "bitch with short brown hair" and confronted her.

"I said 'do you have something you want to say to me, because apparently you like saying it to the other girls here'."

"Oh my God what did she say?" I waited, holding my breath.

"This bitch stood up and I was like, okay, let's go, and she said 'no no no no no' over and over again."

"Just like that, 'no no no no no'? Nothing else?"

"Yeah, it was weird, just 'no no no no no'."

Dawn laughed and went back to her customer. I went back to waiting tables. That is, until about an hour later when the next batch of drama exploded.

To be continued...

For Corey

2006-09-11T00:20:00.000-05:00

Today marks the fifth anniversary of September 11. I can still remember where I was when I watched the towers fall. I can still feel the carpet of my living room under my feet, and the smell of the mulberry candle lit on the coffee table. I can only imagine what the people of New York remember.

What I remember more vividly was the woman who was putting up flyers the next day, searching for her husband. She begged, crying into the camera, for anyone who knew anything to please contact her. It was heartbreaking, her sheer panic in the face of the ultimate destruction that embraced the city. She spoke of her children, how they missed their father, and she mourned for the other families. I don't know what ever happened to her, but I pray for her to this day.

This is not about political affiliation. This is not about who did what, who didn't do what, and who could have done it better. It's not about the news, the media, or the propaganda. This is about unity, about togetherness. Today, of all days, we need to embrace and remember.

This is to all the victims, all the survivors, and all the brave, selfless men and women who refused to stand by and watch as their country suffered a blow unbeknownst to the majority of us in our short, self-absorbed lifetimes.

This is for the soldiers, strong and severe in their crisp uniforms. Eyes foreward and jaw set. This is for the parents, bursting with pride and yet simultaniously crippled with fear for the sake and safty of their babies.

This is for Kevin, who cried on my shoulder last week when he found out his daughter enlisted. For Cassidy, who's husband Daniel comes home from Iraq in two weeks.

This is to my good friend Corey, who ships out next week. May he, and everyone else doing their part to serve and protect, know that he is missed, loved, and above all, appreciated.

God Bless,

Waitress

Quicky

2006-09-10T15:12:00.000-05:00

Here's a funny video for the weekend while I'm working on new posts:

Pole Dance Gone Wrong It was a little bit sexy until...

This link may not direct you properly, so you can definitely see it here.

Scamming Strippers

2006-09-06T14:53:00.000-05:00

In every job, as well as in every area of life, you are going to come into contact with many different breeds of people. Eventually, and unfortunately, you are going to brush shoulders with a scammer. They will ultimately get caught, the taste of greed too much for them to ignore. The bad ones will steal too much too soon and be caught quickly. The good ones can keep it up for an extended period of time. This is the story of two such scammers, "Angela" the bad one, and "Nadine" the good one.

Dancers can scam in many ways, but usually it's either stealing from the customer or stealing from the other dancers, and either way it can be tricky to prove. Unless they steal the bag (or other identifying objects-purse, wallet, keychain) or unless the person/dancer has put some sort of "mark" on all of their bills (don't laugh, it's happened), the chances of proving that a certain amount of money was actually your money can be very difficult.

Angela was a new girl. Soon after she started, things started disappearing. This is quite common in strip clubs; either the new dancer is stealing, or another dancer is stealing and the new girl takes the heat for being new and unknown. Shitty, I know. One of my dancers, "Nicole" had an abscess tooth, and left her painkillers on the dressing room counter. She went to the bathroom and when she came back, you guessed it, they were gone. There were two dancers in the dressing room at the time, Angel and another girl. The suspicious finger was already being pointed at Angel. Later on that night, one of my girls was onstage when her bag came up "missing". Twice in one night. Remember what I said about greed?

The clincher, and the smoking gun for her being fired came the next night. A dancer who had drank well past her limit was in the dressing room bathroom, throwing up. Angel, apparently going for Miss Coneniality entered the bathroom and held her hair for her. When the girl finished puking, her money was missing from her bag...The bag that was on the bathroom counter. Despicable. Absolutely despicable.

Nadine was scamming for quite a while longer. The rumors had been flying for quite some time, customers who went to the bathroom would find their money gone when the arrived, wallets were missing from chairs, etc. First of all, don't leave your wallet/money at the table if you are not there to guard it! Nothing personal about dancers, it's just good common sense. I can't begin to tell you how many times I have picked up stacks of money from tables and escorted it back to their owner who is at the bar, standing by the stage, or coming back from the bathroom. Don't do it. Not a good idea.

Yet I digress again, back to the story.

One day Nadine had a car wreck, apparently a bad one. She told a friend of mine, which I found out later, that she felt the wreck was karma coming to her for stealing all that money. She said she learned her lesson and was going to stop. Or so she "tried".

Two weeks ago Nadine got a lap dance. The gentleman paid her with a $100 bill (lap dances are $20) and waited for his change. And waited for his change. And waited. And. Waited.

Nadine high tailed it back into the dressing room and refused to come out until the gentleman had left. When questioned, I do believe she lied (I was waiting tables at the time) and said he was bothering her and she didn't feel comfortable coming back out, or something to that extent. The guy left, very angrily, and we all know how word of mouth spreads...

Nadine's mistake was to brag about what she had done to one of the other girls, without checking the bathroom first. There, going pee pee, was a girl with cow eyes (inside joke guys) who walked out of the dressing room and, after making sure that the incident did, in fact, occur, let it be known to the right people what exactly had happened.

As they walked Nadine out to her car they told her she wasn't needed any longer.

Ahh Karma. You never know when it's going to rear up and bite you on the ass. Moral of the story? Don't steal. And don't leave your money laying around. But mainly, don't steal.

I have reached a Milestone!

2006-09-06T14:24:00.000-05:00

Ahh dear readers, and I thought this day would never come.

My little baby blog has....Wait for it....Wait for it....

SURPASSED PORN!

Yes, dear readers, I didn't think this was possible, but it seems that if you Google blog or Beta blog search "Naked Women" my blog is the first to appear! And I owe it all to you!

Now, to pass on some of that good blogging karma, I would like to talk about some of my favorite blogs...

First off, we all know how much we love Waiter Rant, Boun Appitite, Lobster Boy, and the Insane Waiter, but I would like to talk about some of the lesser known blogs.

First, I love, love love Barista Brat. She is wonderfully funny, and her stories about making coffee at the Starbucks always make me laugh. You must check her out.

Secondly, for those of you interested, there is a wonderful blog, Barely Legal, and it's not a porn site either. It's written by my friend Mike and his friend Russ. They are recent Law School graduates, and Mike is rebelling against taking the bar exam. It's a wonderful blog, and they just got a book deal as well.

Skippy Mom has a fabulous blog that is ridiculously funny about her families swimming pool business. Definately check that one out.

And finally, because I think she's fabulous and she gave me my very first link which brought many of you in, I have to give a "shout out" to Subservient Worker. I'm sure many of you know her already, but if you don't please check out her daily dose of insanity at the Country Club.

And now on to more stories about the strip club!

Always,
Waitress

This has absolutely nothing to do with the strip club

2006-09-05T21:38:00.000-05:00

Seriously, nothing to do with it. Please stop reading if you're going to get upset that it has nothing to do with the strip club.

I am not sure if this is a nation-wide problem, or just something that is going on in my state, I am in the Bible Belt, let's not forget, but it is something that is really upsetting me. Apparently, we are having a large hubbub of legislation about whether or not we should teach Creationism in our classrooms. I, being a staunch Liberal (and Jewish) am appalled at the thought of teaching a Judo-Christian philosophy to the "melting pot" of formative youths in our country.

At what point in time does religious education cease to be taught in the home and begin to be shoved down the throats of our impressionable public school children? And here I thought that freedom of religion also meant freedom FROM religion. Before long we will be dividing classes up not by age, but by religious choice. I can see it now...

"Attention students, today's science lesson will be held in different classrooms. Can I have all the Christian children please report to room 3, all the Jewish children, report to room 1--oh wait, it seems the Muslim children have already taken that room for their own, the Athiest children can go to room 6, and as for the Agnostic children, we haven't really figured out where to put you yet, so why don't you just wander around until you find a place that you feel comfortable in."

Seriously, though, soon public schools will cease to become public and instead become sectioned-off private schools where different children obtain different educations based on prior religious decisions made by parents who, as it would seem, are much happier fighting over what is or isn't taught to their children rather than fulfilling their obligation as parents and teaching it to them themselves.

I leave you today with a fitting quote from Graham Nash:

Teach your children well
Their father's hell did slowly go by
And feed them on your dreams
The one they picks the one you'll know by.

Again, terribly sorry that it's not about the titty bar. Please remember that I am working on my degree in Sociology, and from time to time I might become so fired up about something that I need to post it on here to get it out of my system. Thank you all, and I wish you a wonderful day.

Always,
Waitress

Ask The Waitress #2

2006-09-05T14:26:00.000-05:00

Since I had the weekend off, I have no new stories to share with you wonderful readers. *I do take that back, considering I have yet to write about the two girls who were fired last week, I'll do that tomorrow*

This e-mail came to me today, so I thought I would post another "ask the waitress." Please don't hesitate to e-mail me anything your heart desires, I enjoy reading them! In case you forgot, it's

sexyserverbabe@sbcglobal.net

On to the e-mail:

I am a dancer in a small club. We have around 60 girls and 15 to 20
of these girls (including myself) work almost every day. I mostly keep to
myself and I am polite with everyone. My husband is one of our security
men and we try to keep it secret but whenever a girl finds out about us then she
tries to use it against me. A customer actually told me that a girl said
that if he got a lap dance from me then security would beat him to a bloody
pulp. What would be a polite way to end the cutthroat crap without getting
violent? If I got violent I am afraid that my man will get fired because
I'm supposed to "know better". They would also toss me out because I have
to many tattoos for their taste and sometimes I feel that they are just looking
for a reason to get rid of me.

Scared to lash out,
Calico

Dear Calico:

You didn't mention if management was aware of your marriage, the only reason I bring it up is that some clubs have a "no dancer/employee relationship" clause. Ours doesn't. In fact, our manager (one of them) was married to one of our dancers, and after she became pregnant with their beautiful daughter, she became "house mom," and our DJ is dating a dancer (both of them, actually) and our door guy is dating an ex-dancer. I can't help but wonder why you feel the need to keep your marriage private, considering that nothing stays a secret in a titty bar for too long. The only time that a problem can (and will) arise in an interpersonal work relationship is when someone with power plays favorites, or is perceived as playing favorites.

Many times dancers will bitch even when there is nothing to really bitch about. In the case of my DJ/dancer relationship, some of the girls would bitch about the type of music that he played. My bar has a strict no rap/no hip hop policy, so all that is left is rock, country, and R &B. Even with those limitations on music the girls found a way to complain that he was playing favorites with her music. I couldn't tell you if he was or not, I have learned to tune the music out by now.

As far as the girl who cutthroat you, that is completely uncalled for. I would suggest that you handle this in an upfront manner, completely leaving your husband out of it. His job doesn't depend on your conduct, and your job doesn't depend on his. Think about it this way, if he was to get fired (God forbid) for some reason (maybe he was too aggressive in breaking up a bar fight), there would be no cause for them to fire you.

You did mention, however, that you feel as if they are trying to get rid of you already, because of your many tattoos. We have two dancers that have a lot of tat's, they tend to go for the Goth look, and, quite frankly, I don't see anything wrong with it. If the girls all looked alike we would only cater to a very small, particular crowd of people. As they say, variety is the spice of life.

But I digress...

If management is aware of your relationship with your husband, then I advise you to first make them aware of the situation in a non-confrontational, non-whining way. Wait until a good, quiet moment at the club (hah!) and politely ask if you can speak to your manager in private. Start out by asking whether or not he/she has any problem with your relationship with your husband, then move into explaining what happened with said bitch. That way, if something violent were to come of the situation, management would already be aware of it, and less likely to be angry. It also gives your manager a chance to handle the situation in the best way possible. If he/she blows you off or makes light of your situation, it may be a clue that you are in the wrong bar.

If; however, management is unaware of your relationship (which I highly doubt) then I would stick to just confronting the girl. Be aware that by confronting her, you will be admitting to the relationship with your husband, the afore mentioned bouncer. If you would still like to "keep up appearances" of a non-relationship, I suggest you let it roll off your shoulders. Just remember, what one dancers knows, all dancers know. If you are ready to come out of the closet (so to speak), then I suggest you calmly speak to the dancer in the dressing room about how you felt that it was inappropriate for her to tell a customer such horrendous lies.

If past experience has taught me anything, it's that the dancer is going to deny ever having said anything, then run around to all of her other dancer friends and exaggerate the situation which may, inadvertently, cause more drama. Just be warned.

Hope it all works out for you,
Waitress

Anybody else have any suggestions for this poor girl? Please comment about them!

Happy Labor Day!

2006-09-01T17:32:00.000-05:00

Yes, Dear Readers, it is Labor Day weekend, which for me translates to NO SCHOOL ON MONDAY!!!!

Boyfriend and I are leaving town tonight (yay! A weekend off!) to go to Boyfriend's Parent's house in the northern part of My State, where there is a really nice lake.

We will not be returning until late Monday night, so I will try and post then! Have a great three day weekend!

Always,
Waitress

The Long Awaited Ask The Waitress

2006-08-30T12:57:00.000-05:00

To Dance, or Not To Dance

Gypsy_Jo sent this email:

I danced for 16 years up and down the eastern seaboard, and retired
in 2001. retired, hah, I quit, I didnt retire,lol. thats a story unto
itself.
ever catch why most strippers end up in the skindustry? what is that
special catalyst that makes most girls strip? I have my own theory but wonder
what yours might be.

This is a touchy subject for most people, so I'm going to attempt to answer it in the most non-offensive way possible.

As most of you know, my bachelors is in Sociology; well, it will be when I graduate. One of the many papers I have written in my time was for a Victimology class, and I stumbled onto this tidbit:

If a girl is sexually molested in childhood/adolescence, she is four times
more likely to become a dancer/prostitute that other girls. Ninety-five
(95) percent of all prostitutes were sexually molested as
children/adolescents.

Please note that these are just dry statistics and do not reflect my personal beliefs on the subject as I do not wish to offend any dancers/ex-dancers out in the blogosphere. I simply found the information interesting. On to my personal opinions.

Over the past few years, stripping has become less of a taboo profession, and has entered into more mainstream America. Shows like King of Queens and Law and Order are integrating stripper poles into their episodes, certain rap stars have glamorized the profession, showing girls dancing while hundreds of dollars are being thrown, and celebrities like Janet Jackson are publicly coming forward and admitting their love for stripping. This may explain/have some effect on why girls get into the business in the first place. All they see is the fun aspect of it portrayed in entertainment society, and are completely unaware of what actually occurs.

Another reason may be lack of options. The majority of my dancers have no college education, several of them never graduated high school, and even more of them have children. Dancing is a good way to make a lot of money with no formal education. With no education and no formal training, options for making an actual living in this country are very, very slim.

Yet another reason, though very small, is the actual college girl who does it to pay her tuition. This does happen, just not very often. One of my dancers just graduated college, another one is a year ahead of me, and I am very proud of these girls. These are the ones who will stop dancing after they reach their goal.

Probably, a more prevalent question is not why girls get into the business, but rather, why they stay so long. I've mentioned before that time stands still in the strip club; what I mean by that is this: when working in the same environment with the same people for a few years, you are less likely to notice the passage of time. When things never change in your personal environment, time has a way of "standing still". You may have started dancing at age eighteen, but before you know it you're in you early to mid thirties with even less options and less time to start over. Even worse, after you've been dancing for five, even ten years, you lose the excitement to do your job and start making less money. Not only that, every year there's a new crop of younger, more energetic girls competing for your money.

The ones that are smart (and yes, we have many) will save their money and after a few years leave the business to start something else. The one's that aren't will usually attempt to move into another aspect of the business, be it selling clothes, acting as a "house mom" (more on that in a later post) or, in some extreme cases, will settle down with someone who can either support them financially or is in some business they can integrate to. We've had girls leave to become cosmetologists, peircers, and receptionists.

There is no one specific reason why girls dance, nor is their one reason why they stay. The only constant fact in the situation is that these girls are, no matter how they are portrayed, good people. They're smart, funny, and caring, and it's a shame that most of society perceives them as dumb and stupid, with big fake boobs and bad fashion sense.

I hope that this answers your question, Jo, and I really hope that no one is offended by my opinions today.

Always,
Waitress

Psych 101

2006-08-28T12:23:00.000-05:00

Back to school time, next to the Holiday season, is the slowest time in the strip club. With the economy in the shitter, people usually have enough extra money to either buy new school supplies/clothes or go to the titty bar. Take a guess as to which one won.

The only upside to the slow business as of late has been the extra time I've been able to spend b.s.-ing with my co-workers. Friday night I spent the first two hours of my shift at the bar hanging out with Savannah.

"I'm sick again," she said, in between attempting to hack up a lung.

"You're always sick. You're husband trying to poison you again?"

Savannah started laughing.

Approximately four weeks ago I came to work and Savannah looked like hell. Her hair was matted to her forehead, her skin was flushed, and her eyes were droopy.

"Savannah," I said, as nicely as possible, "you look like shit."

"I know. I can't seem to get any better." She paused to blow her nose. "I'be been sick por monts bow."

"Why don't you go to the doctor?"

"I go all the time. I'm afraid they think I'm a hypochondriac. Or I have that thing where I make myself sick."

"Munchausen's," I replied, having just finished a semester of Abnormal Psychology.

"Huh?"

"Munchausen's syndrome. It's where you make yourself sick to get attention. The other one is Munchausen's by Proxy, you know, from The Sixth Sense? Maybe your husband has it and is poisoning you."

If at all possible, Savannah's clammy complexion paled in the black-light.

"Savannah, I was joking. Seriously. Calm down, honey, I'm sure he's not trying to kill you."

Back to Friday night, and Savannah is still attempting to laugh while keeping her vital organs inside her body.

"You know what the worst part was?" She asked, tears brimming in her eyes.

"What?"

"The next morning, I went to check my e-mail and the last page up was a website about the different kinds of poison!"

We're both laughing now.

"So why the poison website?" I was intrigued.

"Oh, that. He was checking the floor cleaner to make sure it wouldn't hurt the babies. The only thing I could think of was 'well, fuck, looks like I'm going to need to start making my own coffee!'"

"Well," I said, "you can always drink the coffee here, unless you think someone is trying to take your job!"

Savannah started laughing, then stopped.

"Savannah, seriously, I was joking. No one is trying to kill you. Savannah...."

Ask the Waitress

2006-08-24T16:55:00.000-05:00

Thanks to gypsy_jo for this idea!

For those of you who do not know, school started for me today, and I am exhausted, so I may not be posting stories every day, more like every other day. So, I would like to introduce to you:

Ask the Waitress!

Yes, dear readers, I have set up an e-mail address where you can ask me anything your heart desires and I will answer here in this post. Please note that some or all of your message will be posted, so excersise caution and don't say anything you wouldn't want repeated. Here's the address:

sexyserverbabe@sbcglobal.net

Please, e-mail on!

Always,
Waitress

Revenge of the Stripper

2006-08-23T10:12:00.000-05:00

As I have posted before, strippers can fight. That is undeniable truth; however, sometimes the dancers like to exact their revenge in other, more productive ways. Usually these actions take place in the locker room--the place where dancers change, get ready, and store their things. These are just a few of those stories. [Insert "tah tah tah" noise from Law and Order]

Once upon a time we hired a D list porn star to dance for us. Apparently, this girl had a web based forum about her career which she continuously updated, and she decided that it was a good idea to write negative comments about the other girls at the club. These comments ranged from telling people that she was the best looking girl there with the best body, and calling the other girls "white trash."

As you can probably imagine, these comments didn't sit well with the other dancers, or with management on a whole. Rather than get into a physical confrontation, one of my girls decided to break into her locker and pour foot powder all over porn star's clothes, makeup, etc. Although this may not seem too extreme, let me state that it was well known that porn star had terrible allergies to foot powder. Eventually, she stopped working for us.

Then there was the time that two dancers had some "she said/she said" drama. This was several years ago, so I am rather fuzzy on the details, but the point was that one girl (dancer X) was talking a lot of shit about another girl (dancer Y), not only to other girls, but to customers as well. Dancer Y then decided to pee into a plastic cup and pour said urine all over dancer X's clothes, makeup, shoes, etc. Dancer Y was fired.

And we can't forget the time that dancer T was upset at dancer M, more "talking shit" drama, but also because dancer M was sleeping with dancer T's ex-boyfriend. Dancer T decided to grab a permanent marker and write several nasty things (including drawings) on dancer M's locker. The only problem? We recognized her handwriting. Note to all--if you're going to deface someone else's property, write with your less dominant hand to avoid getting caught. Neither dancer works for us anymore.

More recently was the time that someone had some sort of problem with dancer A. Apparently, whoever it was decided that it would be better to rip all the stickers off her locker. This case is still pending investigation.

Petty? Probably. Stupid? Sure. However, it's better than what happened to this poor girl:

One dancer, dancer W, was very unliked at the club. She was well regarded as "cutthroat" and rather reveled in screwing up the other girl's money by hustling their customers while they were onstage. Finally, one of my girls had enough.

While back in the dressing room, a confrontation arose between W and T. T was very angry that W kept taking her customer to the lap dance room while she was onstage.

"I just think it's fucked up that you're hustling my customer," T exclaimed, angrily.

"Shut the fuck up you fat bitch," was W's reply.

T was smoking a cigarette at the time and effortlessly flicked the lit ember into W's face.

Later on in the night, as W was walking out, T was onstage. W walked out to her car, put her things in the trunk and stormed back in as T was putting her clothes back on. She tried to attack T, but she was apparently one of the rare sort of stripper that doesn't know how to fight. She came at T like a crazed lioness, with her hands up and fingers curled into claws, apparently trying to literally scratch her eyes out.

T laughed and right hooked her across the face. Then T proceeded to beat the shit out of her inbetween the two stages.

When it was all over, T was left with a scratch on her cheek. Dancer W was fired, for premeditated assault.

The island of misfit toys

2006-08-21T14:04:00.000-05:00

For every happy, well adjusted person whom life has smiled upon there is someone else who has, sometimes through no fault of their own, been turned away from the system. Misfits. The socially inept. For whatever reason, these people are trapped in a state of perpetual emotional rejection, some shunned for so long that they are no longer able, even at middle age, to have normal social relationships. I see many of these people at the strip club; people so desperate for affection and reassurance that they will seek out any venue in order to recieve it, even if they have to pay for it. This is the story of my friend Ed.

I met Ed about two years ago when my bar was still in its infantile stage. He shuffled in the club, head down, and made his way to a back corner table, as far from the other patrons as he could get. His hair was long and disheveled, and he had a baseball cap pulled down tight over his head. He sat against the wall, staring down at the buttons on his shirt. I could almost feel his willingness to disappear.

"Hi honey, what can I get you to drink," I said, placing my hand on his arm.

Ed jumped as if someone had slapped him. He briefly looked up into my eyes and then immediately looked back down at his shirt, as if making eye contact was painful.

"Oh, um, well," he stammered, "I guess you could get me a beer. Don't go to any trouble or anything, if you're not too busy."

"Sweetie, I'm never too busy to get someone something to drink, that's my job. What kind of beer can I get you?"

"Oh, well, you know. Whatever, I'm not picky. Just whatever you don't mind bringing me, I guess."

Somewhere along the line in this man's life, he had been beaten down emotionally so badly, or for so long, that he couldn't tell me what beer he wanted, for fear whatever he chose would be the wrong one.

I had some time, we weren't that busy, so I spent the next few minutes with Ed, playing a beer version of the twenty questions game. I finally got him decided on a Michelob. When I brought the beer back and set it on the table, Ed jumped again. He paid for his beer and tipped me a dollar.

The rest of the night was pretty much the same. I'd stop by the table to check on him. Ed would make brief eye contact, but mostly he just stared down at his shirt. He drank a few beers, and left before I realized he was gone.

And that's how it was with Ed. Over the course of the next six months, whenever I was working, Ed was there. Over time he was able to talk to me. I found out he had been in the military, he was shipped off to Germany, and then he did two tours in Vietnam. When he came back home he ran, trying to escape the things he had seen and the people he had killed. For ten years after, he traveled from state to state; attempting to find peace in a tormented soul. He spent most of his time at the VA, and when he wasn't there, he was here. He would show up at my club right after we opened, and more times than not he would be there when we closed. Sometimes he slept in the corner, and I let him. I knew it was against the rules, but I figured he didn't want to go home---wherever home was.

Ed was a very, very kindhearted man, if not just a little misplaced. He started bringing me presents, but not in the way you might think. Ed would bring me random things from his house--ashtrays, Christmas tree ornaments, refrigerator magnets. I accepted every gift as if it were a six caret diamond necklace.

Slowly, Ed started to change. He no longer sat with his back against the wall, his new favorite table was low on the floor, directly between the two stages. He would often have well over three dancers sitting with him at one time, and frequented "pervert row" to tip directly at the stage. Then, one day, Ed stopped coming, At first I was a little worried, but close to a year went by and I put him out of my head.

He showed up again last weekend, for a birthday party for one of my dancer's. He looked happy, and I hope that he is.

I think, deep down, we are all misfits, just waiting for our own private island where we can be accepted and flourish. I hope that Ed has found his. I hope that someday I will find mine.

The type of woman you meet in a strip club #3

2006-08-21T13:47:00.000-05:00

Girl who thinks this is just a regular bar.

Listen, ladies, some of you out there don't seem to understand the workings of your friendly, neighborhood titty bar. It is not, no matter how much you may want it to be, just another club, and should not be treated in such a way. I realize that in any other bar it is perfectly acceptable for you to go up to random strange men and have them buy you drinks; however, it can, and usually will, get you thrown out for behaving in such a way in a gentleman's club.

First off, please do not bitch about you having to pay a cover charge. In case you didn't read the sign, this is a gentleman's club, and you're lucky we don't charge you double the door cover. Secondly, do not expect to be let in unescorted (unless you are obviously more interested in women). I realize some of you might be offended by this last statement, so please bear with me and allow me to explain the dichotomy of the dancing club.

Understand, please, that in a normal bar, the only people who are working for tips are usually just the bartenders and the waitresses, with few exceptions being DJ's, floor guys, ect. In this situation, it is almost encouraged for random men to buy you drinks, as it all helps to fuel bar sales and does not hurt anyone in the establishment. Contrarily, in a strip club, there are anywhere from 15 to 30 girls a shift, all there to make their wages on what customers deem appropriate to give them. Because they are considered "independent contractors" they do not recieve an hourly wage, and must pay a "house fee," sometimes called a "tip out" to do business in the establishment. By engaging in routine acts with the male (and sometimes female) patrons, i.e. sitting at their table, having some drinks, they up their chances of getting better tips on stage and lap dances--all helping to make their wages for the night.

Enter you, girl who does not understand this and likes to hustle other tables. It may very well start out innocently enough. You're sitting at your table, and you happen to make eye contact with the gentleman sitting at the table next to you. Over the course of the night, you make conversation with said gentleman, and he may even buy you some drinks. It's very possible you might even move to his table.

THIS IS NOT OKAY. Every drink that is bought for you is less money my dancers are making. This makes my dancers very unhappy, and rightfully so. The chances of this happening if you are "escorted" by another male are much, much slimmer. It is, however, perfectly acceptable for your male companion to buy you drinks; if he didn't, I would question why you were with him in the first place.

"But waitress," you plead, "he offered to buy me a drink! It was only polite for me to go sit with him and say thank you."

This is still, really not a good idea. We had a fight last weekend because some patron bought a girl a drink, and her boyfriend didn't appreciate it. In a typical caveman-esque type of attitude, boyfriend decided to confront patron.

"Ghooo. Chomp chomp. Me man. You not man. Gruuuh. No buy for woman."

"Chruug. You asshole. Me do what me want with me money. Gharrhn."

Fight ensues. Now, in tracing back the problem we can easily see that it all started when the patron bought girlfriend a drink. If girlfriend had politely declined said drink, boyfriend's ego would have stayed intact, and I doubt that much of this would have happened.

Saturday night we let two "lesbians" in the club. Unescorted. Before I knew it they were sitting with a large table of Hispanic men in the corner, enjoying their free drinks. Although this was bad enough, they were taking turns making out with each other, and then making out with the Hispanic men at the table.

I didn't raise a fuss because I was in a bad mood and I needed the comic relief. They all left together, I can imagine what transpired afterwards.

Now, understand that wile the girls were sitting with the male group, the group had stopped paying attention/tipping the dancers on the stage. This is my whole point about letting unescorted women into the strip club, it's just bad for my dancers.

For those of you who are pleasant, keep your hands to yourself, and mind your own business, I say come, hang out and have a drink with me.

First round is on me.

Pointless, self-indulgent post

2006-08-20T07:08:00.000-05:00

Yes, dear readers, I am going to rant for a moment about nothing really in particular. If this does not interest you, please stop reading now! There will be new posts about work on Monday.

So, on with my pointless, self-indulgent rant.

Waitress is depressed. Boyfriend is out of town this weekend, camping with some friends, and it's the longest we've spent apart in almost two years. Although I am a huge, HUGE fan of "alone time," we've made a point to share the same bed every night. Sniff sniff. Alas, I have my doggie to take up his half of the bed--as well as drool and snore.

Unbeknownst to me, tonight was "how many cunts can we fit into one bar" night. The women (customers) out numbered the men, and they were bloody awful. Just to give you an example: Earlier in the night I approached a table with two guys and a girl to take their drink orders. I placed my hand on the woman's shoulder in an effort to get her to acknowledge me, the music was quite loud and I couldn't hear a word she was saying, and she literally leaned halfway out of her chair, turned her torso to face me and said "don't fucking touch me." Arrgh. So, in true waitress form, I threw my hands in the air and shook them while saying "oooh, cooties."

I know, it was lame, but I was tired and couldn't think of anything better.

The night wouldn't be complete without the firing of a certain someone and the mental collapse of another, both of whom I have written about before...

But this is a cliffhanger, so you'll have to check back on Monday! (Ha, did you see what I did there? You know you're going to check back now!)

So, until Monday, dear readers, I bid you farewell, and a happy return for those of you in school or those of you with children who are in school. I'm going to go to bed and hopefully, when I wake up, Boyfriend will be home.

Waitress

The type of woman you meet in a strip club #2

2006-08-17T13:32:00.000-05:00

The curious girl.

The curious girl is a strange form of woman who, although may appear normal on the outside, when placed in a social environment where alcohol flows freely and sexual taboo's are lax, morphs into "curious girl," who then tries to make out with all of my dancers and jump onstage.

Curious girl may not fully transform until after several visits to the strip club. At first, she may appear to be "angry girl," yet after returning weekend after weekend she finds herself more comfortable with the goings-on of everyday tittie bar night life.

A telltale sign that curious girl is in the building is when the DJ must remind patrons not to touch the dancers; sometimes a dozen times in one set. You see, curious girl believes that since she is also a woman, the rules no longer apply for her. More than likely, her boyfriend is egging her on, enjoying the show, and she's enjoying the attention being lavished upon her. She may also buy several lapdances for herself.

Note to curious girl: if you are going to get lapdances in my establishment (or any strip club, for that matter) please, please wear underwear if you are wearing a skirt. It really bothers my dancers when you sit down on the couch and spread your legs, giving anyone in the room full view to your hoo-ha. I realize that you are quite tipsy at the moment, and it probably seems ok, considering half the woman here are naked, but it's not. Cover up the na-na, okay?

Once curious girl has finally understood the "no touching the dancers" rule, she will then decide that it's okay to touch the waitress. Normally, from woman, I tolerate this kind of behavior, but it is very difficult to carry a tray of drinks across the bar and have drunk women attempt to slap you on the ass as you are walking by. The chances of me knocking over the entire tray are very good, so please, curious girl, exercise some caution.

We had a curious girl in last weekend, and as she was attempting to slap my ass she missed, and hit me square in the back. I was very, very irritated by this; however, rather than resort to physical violence, I have found it is much better to talk to curious girl as if she is a misbehaving puppy.

"NO!" I said to her, wagging my finger in the air. "Bad curious girl, baaad girl." Curious girl coked her head to the side and looked up at me with a wounded expression on her face. "Sit down, siiiiit down and behave." That usually does the trick.

During some point in the night curious girl (while molesting me) will ask me if we are hiring for dancers. Alcohol should be sold as liquid courage. It makes even the smallest man believe he can kick the shit out of someone four times his size, and it makes pretty girls think they should get onstage and have a twirl. I send her to the manager at this point, who tells her to come back when she's sober. She never does.

For some reason, curious girl decides at some point during the night, that it's okay to perform her own private show on her boyfriend/random person that she is sitting with. Again, the DJ will usually utter such profound phrases as "unless you work here, stop dancing" which curious girl will completely ignore and which forces me to be the bearer of bad news as I try to explain to her that she's not allowed to dance/fuck her boyfriend in here.

Unfortunately, sometimes curious girl will become addicted to the strip club. Weekend after weekend she's faithfully here, downing her Washington apples and enjoying the view. Unfortunately for her, curious girl's boyfriend no longer shares in her excitement. While he once thought it would be "awesome" if his girl were to hook up with another chick, he's now finding it cold and lonely on the shoulder, being forced to do nothing but helplessly watch on as his girlfriend finds other things to tickle her fancy, so to speak.

Let this be a warning, then, to all the men out there. Be careful what you wish for--you may never know whether or not your girlfriend is a "curious girl" until it's too late. Take heed, young man, take heed.

Things that annoy me

2006-08-15T18:40:00.000-05:00

Ok so, anyone who has ever worked in the service industy has dealt with these people. The people that God put on this planet to test your patience. These are a few of my favorite instances.

Scenario 1:
Me: "Hi, what can I get you?"
Dumb ass: "What do you have?"
What I want to say: "I have a fucking bar you dumb ass now order something. Jesus, you're standing right here, you see the fucking bottles of alcohol, stop asking stupid questions and wasting my fucking time!!!!"
What I do say: "I have a full bar."

Scenario 2:
Me: "Hi, what can I get you?"
Dumb ass: "What's good?"
What I want to say: "I have no fucking idea what is good to you. I don't know you, I'm not your fucking tastebuds, so why don't you just order what you usually order and stop asking stupid questions and wasting my fucking time!!!!"
What I do say: "Everything."

Scenario 3:
Guy with a bunch of other guys behind him.
Me: "Hi, what can I get you?"
Dumb ass: "Yeah, I want a bud light," turning to the guy behind him, "dude, what do you want? A bud light? Okay, so I need another bud light," turning to another guy, "dude, DUDE pay attention what do you want? I don't know what they have-- ok, a bud light. Okay so I need another bud light," turning back to first guy, "hey, where did so-and-so go? Do you know what he wanted? Well, I don't know either. Let's just get him a bud light. Okay so I need another bud light."
What I want to say: "LOOK motherfucker, you don't go to McDonald's and say "Yeah, I want a cheesburger and a coke, a cheesburger and a coke, and a cheesburger and a coke; you say I want three cheesburgers and three cokes! Figure out your order before you get here and stop wasting my fucking time!!!"
What I do say: "Okay, four Bud Lights?"

Scenario 4:
Me: "Hi, what can I get you?"
Dumb ass: "A crown and coke."
Me: Putting ice in a high ball.
Dumb ass: "Wait, not so much ice."
Me: Dumping half the ice out.
Dumb ass: "A little less."
Me: Dumping a little more ice out.
Dumb ass: "Okay, a little more."
Me: Putting five or six ice cubes in.
Dumb ass: "Okay, a little less."
What I want to say: "JESUS you picky motherfucker it's no wonder you're in a fucking strip club alone instead of hanging out with friends/loved ones if you're this damn neurotic with your everday life! Stop being so damn picky and quit wasting my fucking time!!!!"
What I do say: "Like that? Is that good? Ok, now? Oh, ok."

Check out this T-Shirt!!!

2006-08-15T14:41:00.000-05:00

One of my regulars had this t-shirt on the other day when he came in, and I laughed for a good ten minutes! No matter how true/tacky it may be, it's still fabulous!

Those of you who want to know, you can find it at www.tshirthell.com.

To my wonderful readers

2006-08-15T09:38:00.000-05:00

So, I've noticed a jump in readers lately (thank you waiter rant!) and I just wanted to give you all a "hi and welcome to my blog" moment! I hope you enjoy everything, and I wanted to use this post to invite you all to leave a comment and let me know who you are, what you do, if you have a blog, ect. ect. ect. I read them faithfully, and I'm interested to know who you all are! So, have a fabulous read and a wonderful day!

Waitress

All this for ten bucks!?!?

2006-08-15T08:49:00.000-05:00

It never ceases to amaze me what people will fight over. Sometimes I just sit back and go "wow, are you kidding me?" Last weekend was like that.

We had a dancer come back to work last weekend, for the first time in about three months. The reason for her extended hiatus is neither here nor there, it will just suffice to say that she had quite the flair for dramatics. Regardless, I welcomed her back and committed myself to running drinks for the night.

About two hours into my shift I'm waiting on Dancer V's table when she supplies me with this wonderful tidbit of information.

"I'm going to get fired tonight," she said, no real emotion in her voice.

"Why is that honey?"

"Because I'm going to kick N's ass. Bitch owes me ten dollars."

I'm not too concerned at this point, remembering that V does like to "write checks her mouth can't cash" or some other tired cliche about talking more shit than you're willing to show.

"Look, V, make sure you're not bringing this drama to the front of the house. If you have a problem, deal with it in the back."

I continue on as usual, the rhythm of waiting tables synchronizing with the heavy beat emitting from the DJ booth. A few hours later I'm at the front door translating for some Hispanic patron's when N comes in.

"Where's [manager]? I want to talk to him," she says, while slapping her fist into an open palm.

"Honey, he's outside right now dealing with something, can I help you with anything?"

"Yeah, you can get that bitch V away from my fucking customers! Every time I get up to go onstage she's running over there taking them to the lap dance room and fucking with my money!" N is angry at this point, and whether or not I feel she has the right to be, the situation needs to be diffused.

"Look," I say, putting my hands on her shoulders, "why are you here tonight?"

"To make some fucking money," she replies.

"Right, and how much money are you making while you're standing in here with me?"

"None, but I'm not making any fucking money out there with her hustling all my fucking customers either." She has a point.

"Ok, N, do you know why God gave us shoulders?"

"Why?"

"To let shit roll off them. Now, go out there, make your money, and deal with whatever needs to be dealt with after work."

My impromptu speech seems to have some effect and N goes back inside and back to work. I stick my head outside and tell B (manager) that I've done my best to calm N down for the time being.

A little while later they decide to send V home, apparently for bringing too much drama into the front of the house. If you don't understand, let me explain:

People, mostly men, come to strip clubs for various reasons, but one of the more prevalent being to get away from the bitching and drama that they have at home. They like the fantasy and the women who will sit and listen to their stories--be it for a fee, but regardless, they enjoy the break from monotony. When dancers have their own interpersonal drama (which is quite frequent) bringing it to the customer's attention loses business for the club. Lost business for the club means less money for everyone. V wouldn't keep her problems in the back, so they deemed in necessary to send her home.

Apparently V wasn't too happy with this news, and after she walked out the front door, she turned right around and came back in.

Door guy motions for me and tells me to go find V and tell her she needs to leave. As I'm looking around for her, I see her making an infuriated b-line to the table directly in front of the front door--the table where N is sitting.

Now, N is no dummy, and although it may appear she is talking to her customer, she is actually watching V approach from the corner of her eye. When V is approximately four steps from her chair, she tells her customer "hang on one second for me." Fabulous. Absolutely fabulous.

Before I can get to her, V swings at N, misses, and pulls off her wig instead. N kicks off her shoes, flies out of her chair, over the back, and tackles V to the ground--all in one fluid movement. I arrive at about this time, and attempt to get N in some version of a full nelson to get her off of V. The struggle ensues for half a minute before other people realize what's going on and one of our floor guys manages to help me pull the two women apart.

Now I am sitting on the ground with N in front of me, attempting to catch my breath. (I really should quit smoking.) DJ is screaming into the microphone for me to get N into the dressing room, but we can't seem to find N's shoes. *Walking on the floor without shoes on is a big no-no. The chances of you stepping on broken glass are very high, regardless of how many times we may vacuum the carpet* So, while the search is on for N's shoes, random customers keep coming over to check on us, and offer to help us up.

Finally the shoes are found and we make our way into the dressing room. I pick N's wig up from off the floor and stick it on her head. It was rather comical. While I'm in the dressing room, three of the dancers who had just left come flying into the door, plying N with the usual "what the hell happened" questions.

As N is recounting her story I walk out of the dressing room, smiling and shaking my head.

Ten dollars. All this for ten dollars.

Wow.

The type of woman you meet in a strip club #1

2006-08-14T06:20:00.000-05:00

The angry girl.

You know who you are. You probably didn't even want to come to the titty club, but your boyfriend wanted to go, so you begrudgingly agreed. Now you have decided to make it your personal mission to piss off as many people (myself included) as possible so your boyfriend will finally leave.

You like to sit in the corner of the bar, scowling at anyone and everyone in the building; muttering such deep and interesting thoughts such as "fucking whores," "her breasts are fake," or, "I don't fucking want to be here."

When I come up to take your drink order you like to pretend you're better than me, turning your little nose up like you just smelled something terrible and avert your eyes while saying "I'm good, thanks" in a tone that lets me (and everyone else at the table) know that not only are you not good, but you really don't mean the "thanks" part either. What you probably wanted to say was "get the fuck away from my table/boyfriend, girl in tight jeans who I am going to assume is a whore because she works here." After I leave you will make your boyfriend go to the bar and get you something to drink.

One night, a few months ago, we had an angry girl who's boyfriend decided to buy a lap dance. The song had barely started when she ran to the lap dance area and hit the dancer across the head. The dancer then beat her ass in front of God and everybody until we were finally able to pull them both apart.

After you have bitched/started enough drama your boyfriend will finally decide to leave; unhappily. Usually you will end up getting into an argument in the parking lot, which will require my lot guy to come over and ask you to take it somewhere else. Sometimes this can turn into a fight between your boyfriend and the lot guy, considering your boyfriend is already pissed off and, as much as he may want to, can't very well hit you--his crying girlfriend.

Do you see the mess you are creating by coming to my club, angry girl? Do you understand the lives that are being affected by your insecure actions?

Please let me give you this piece of advice. If you are, in any way/shape/form, insecure about your relationship with your boyfriend (which includes insecure about how you look, whether or not your boyfriend is cheating on you, or if he still finds you attractive) do not go to a strip club with afore mentioned boyfriend. It will only end badly for you and everyone else involved.

What you don't seem to understand, angry girl, is that a strip club is, in fact, the safest place for your boyfriend. He's not going to get laid, get head, or get anything else your crazy, emotional mind can conceive of. The most he's going to get, other than an empty wallet, is an erection (which will turn out good for you when he gets home). The chances of him hooking up with some skank at a regular bar are astronomically higher than the chances of him hooking up with a stripper. In case you don't realize it, these girls have husbands, children, boyfriends/girlfriends, and do this because it's their job, not because they are some strange form of nymphomaniacs who enjoy sleeping with random patrons for a dollar.

So please, angry girl, do us all a favor and just say no to the titty bar. Go to another bar with your girlfriends instead. Trust me, we will all have a better time without you around.

Quanto para bailar?

2006-08-12T13:18:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure if this is the case with other "gentlemans clubs" but mine has a very healthy following of Latin patrons. I would just like to start out by saying that I fucking LOVE them. The majority of the time they are respectful and tip me well, which is more than I can say for some of the affluent white patrons that we have.

Since I am the only person in my bar who speaks Spanish, it is an unwritten rule that I will play translator many, many times a night.

Last weekend I had several sitting at the tables against the wall. They were extremely new to America and didn't speak a lick of English. Rather than post this in Spanish (because I'm not sure how to make an upside down question mark or a squiggly over the n) I'm going to give you the abridged version in English.

Them: How much for sex?

*Believe it or not, this is a common question and I do not get offended by it. I can only assume that it is different in their culture*

Me: I'm sorry, but there's no sex here. You can have a dance, but there's no touching.

*It never fails to make me feel badly for them when I see their face fall when I answer. Right afterwards they will almost always apologize, I think that's rather sweet*

The night continued on as usual, them asking me ususal questions in Spanish (where's the bathroom, do you have any food here, can you go get that dancer who was wearing the striped shorts for me); however, the last question my little spaniard asked me threw me for a loop.

He walked up to me as I was taking dishes to the bar with a twenty in his hands. I assumed he was going to ask me to find a dancer for him, when he said, in perfect Spanish:

"May I please have a bag of cocaine before I go?"

I couldn't help but laugh. After I explained to him that I couldn't get him some blow, and he probably shouldn't ask anybody else for some either, they left.

I remember thinking how amazingly different South America must be.

I was feeling rather daft

2006-08-12T11:07:00.001-05:00

It's close to eleven AM and I still can't fall asleep. I suppose I can thank all the Red Bull that I drank during my shift for this wonderful insomnia.

Here's a quicky post on things that I have said without thinking. (I promise I am intelligent)

While holding my friends baby before my club opened:
"Okay, I have to go get ready, I'm going to go put the baby back in his kennell."

On discussing the first time I ever gave oral sex:
"I spit it all over the place, I couldn't help it! I wasn't expecting it to be warm!"
Other bartender: "What, did you expect it on ice?"

After admiring one of my dancers very curly locks:
"You're so lucky, I wish I had hairy curls."

That is all. Maybe now I can get some sleep!

Yet another Cat Fight

2006-08-12T05:52:00.000-05:00

This is another short one for you, I'm trying to keep my eyes open after the hellacious night I had tonight!

Let me first start by explaining that women who come to strip clubs usually fit into one of these few categories. *I am in the process of working on a specific blog that goes into more depth*

---pissed off girl with her boyfriend (likes to sit in the corner and scowl)

---lesbians (i love this kind)

---pretty girls who get "curious" the drunker they get (the most common)

Tonight introduced me to an entirely different sort of woman...the kind that gets drunk and tries to steal strippers' money.

In case none of you bothered to read my previous post---strippers are hard core people. They are not scared to get into a fight. Be warned.

Tonight I had a group of younger guys in my section, you know the kind: polo shirts with the collar popped and the front tucked into their jeans. One of them came with his girlfriend who, as far as I could tell, was very nice and easy going.

Goes to show how much I know.

It's nearing three in the morning; I'm at the front door bull-shitting with my boss, when all of a sudden one of my dancers busts in looking frantic. Apparently, while she was onstage, her crown royal bag with all of her money in it had "disappeared."

Long story short (because I desperatly want to go to bed) we find the bag somewhere in the vicinity of the afore mentioned girl. I am not sure if the bag was in her purse or in her chair; neither of which really matter at this time.

The bag was returned to the dancer, no harm---no foul.

Yeah right.

As I'm waiting tables I look up just in time to see dancer run from the dressing room to the stage and right hook shady stealing girl across the face. One of my floor guys/managers "Pierce" (ha ha to those of you who get it) manages to pull dancer off shady girl. Shady girls boyfriend tries to grab dancer, and I grab shady girl's boyfriend.

Dacer leaves. Shady girl cries in the corner for the rest of the night.

Moral of the story: DO NOT fuck with dancers. You may very well get your ass kicked. Or, you may lose a nose. BTW: ewww!!!!

It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye

2006-08-05T10:36:00.000-05:00

Talking with someone online today reminded me of this story. It's a quicky, so enjoy.

For those of you who have never been in a strip club, let me please give you a word of advice. Never. Under any circumstances should you tip a dancer with loose change. This poor sap learned his lesson the hard way.

So, this random guy tipped one of my dancers a quarter on the stage. She then took her stilleto off and beat him in the head with it.

He lost an eye.

She went to jail.

He still comes in the club, but he wears an eyepatch. I have to serve him his beer on the left side or he doesn't see me.

As the Bouncer Stumbles

2006-08-05T08:40:00.000-05:00

Tommy worked for us for several years as a bouncer, he was one of the few who traveled around all of the respective bars until he finally came to rest at mine. The higher ups then deemed him ready for management purposes; apparently due to his lack of a social life and strong build.

Approximately six months ago our club was incredibly short staffed. Billy was on vacation, Savannah was working her first Friday night behind the bar, and I was the only person on the floor. Savannah, who is an unusually stressed out person to begin with, was quickly falling apart.

"Savannah, I need four Bud Lights, three Corona's, and two Jager-bombs," I screamed across the bar, hopefully loud enough to drown out the heavy beat of jungle music coming from the DJ booth.

"Huh? Two Rolling Rocks?" Savannah was speaking listlessly, like a person with too much on her mind.

Rather than scream out my order yet another time, I raced around the bar to make my drinks myself. Poor Savannah was starting to shake uncontrollably.

"Jesus, girl, chill out. They will not die of thirst before you get to them!"

I ran my drinks and made my way back to the bar, my mind desperately trying to hold on to the thirty-plus orders that I had just taken. As I squeeze my way through the throngs of people loitering in my server station; which I REALLY hate, I notice that Savannah has seemingly disappeared. Upon closer inspection I realize that she is curled up on the floor behind the bar, head between her knees, apparently hyperventilating.

Immediately I race around the bar, screaming at Tommy, who (I might add), is sitting down, watching the entire scenario with hapless wandering. I suppose old bouncer habits die hard.

Let me pause here, before I offend any bouncers (or would-be bouncers) and say that I do not dislike bouncers, and I feel they provide a vital part of a club's DNA. I do need to add, though, that the majority of the time bouncers are paying attention to the crowd, not what the employees are doing-unless the employees are involved in some sort of altercation with the crowd. This is part of their job. Now, may I reiterate in saying that Tommy was no longer a bouncer; therefore, he should have been paying attention when Savannah collapsed behind the bar. The bar that he was sitting at. Two feet away.

Tommy gets up from his chair and carries Savannah into the dressing room. Meanwhile, I am now behind the bar. The bar that has not been re-stocked all night. The bar that has no clean glassware. The bar that is crawling with people shouting out drink orders, yelling for their tab, and wondering why their waitress (me) has not been back with the drinks they ordered a few minutes earlier. Tommy emerges from the dressing room and sits back down at the bar.

"Tommy," I say, quite calmly for the current situation, I might add, "please do me a favor and help me gather and wash these dirty dishes so I can serve these people some drinks." I did not, nor do I not still, think of this request as unreasonable.

To my absolute astonishment and impending fury, Tommy gets up from the bar and heads...wait for it...back into the dressing room!

"OR YOU COULD BE A LAZY FUCKING ASSHOLE AND GO HAVE A NICE LIE DOWN!!!"

Almost instantly, Susan, our eight-and-a-half month pregnant house-mom/Ryan's wife, appears behind the bar to help wash dishes. She was so big by this point she could barely reach the glasses above the sink. Had I not been so infuriated, I would have laughed.

Tommy emerges from the dressing room and stands in front of the bar, where I am scrambling like a madwoman to serve the entire club's clientele. I am now selling Bud Light directly out of the case boxes which are on a dolly behind me because I do not have time to re-stock them at the moment. He places both hands on the bar, palms down, shoulder-width apart and leans across directly into my line of sight in a supposed authoritative manner.

"Bartender, let me ask you a question," he begins, in a condescending tone which I find not only offensive, but laughable.

"Get the fuck away from my bar." Short, sweet, and to the point. I don't have time for this bullshit while I'm now the only person serving the entire bar.

"Would you talk to a manager like you just talked to me?" Tommy sneers, I suppose thinking that I have in some way jeopardized my job.

"Get the FUCK away from my bar you dickhole."

"Seriously, would you talk to Billy in the way you just talked to me?"

"I would if he was a lazy fuck-off like you are!" I screamed this last sentence whilst gesturing violently with my hands. "Now get the FUCK AWAY FROM MY BAR!!!"

Tommy storms off as Susan, poor about-to-pop Susan who is now attempting to maneuver her huge belly in a way that she is able to re-stock beer, places her hand on my arm in a feeble attempt to calm me down.

I look up and see Tommy in the DJ booth venting to Ryan, and a few moments later Ryan appears behind my bar.

"Don't worry about it, I'll talk to you after work," he says, laughing.

"Just keep that asshole away from my bar, Ryan, or I swear to God." Like most people, I never actually finish the "I swear to God" threat. Some things are better left unsaid. That, and I have never in my life been in an actual physical fight, and would probably get my ass kicked if I ever tried.

"He's taking Savannah to the hospital, he won't be here the rest of the night." Thank God for small miracles.

The night continues on uneventfully, and ends rather profitably for me. As we're all sitting down for our shift drinks Ryan gives me the best news I've heard all night.

"Tommy's fired. He won't be coming back."

I fight the urge to launch into a spontaneous "happy dance." I don't know about the rest of you, but my happy dance is a version of "the percolator" mixed in with a dash of "the one leg up." Very amusing to watch, sometimes painful to perform.

After our little altercation, Tommy huffed into the DJ booth, demanding that I either apologize for not respecting his authority, or be fired. It took all the strength Ryan had not to laugh in his face.

As a nice added bonus, Owner came in the next evening, right after we opened, to reassure me that Tommy was not only fired, but fired for good.

For those of you confused about that last statement, my bar has a slight "revolving door" policy. Employees are sort of like fruit flies---you may think you got rid of them, but a few weeks, or even a month or two, later-there they are. As if they never left.

When I started writing this story, a few weeks earlier, this was the ending. Not so, anymore. In a long, extensive, drawn out drama for the ages, Tommy had become a single father. I've always heard that fatherhood changes you, but was not prepared for the length that it does.

Last weekend Tommy came back to the bar for a little visit. He brought his beautiful son with him, and we had a nice reminisce. When the lights went out and the bar prepared to open, Tommy decided to head home, not wanting to subject his motherless son to an endless supply of breasts without getting the benefit of what they were properly intended for.

"Hey, before I go, there's something that's been bothering me and I wanted to talk to you about it," Tommy said, the conversation taking a serious note. "I'm really sorry about the way I acted the last time I saw you. I was rude and inappropriate and I feel really badly about the whole situation."

I suppose I had a rather stunned look on my face, because he continued. "I was a different person back before my son. It really puts things in perspective, and it always bothered me the way I left things between us. So, anyway, I'm really sorry."

I watched Tommy lovingly wipe the drool from his son's face and carry him out the door. I wish him and his son the best, and hope that, in some way, we are all changed for the better when we have children.

Please please forgive me

2006-08-05T07:25:00.000-05:00

Please forgive me for my recent hiatus. It's not that i don't really love doing this, I've just been very busy in my personal life. But, alas, I have returned!

Preserved Craig's List

2006-07-12T23:29:00.000-05:00

Okay, okay, I realize that I am cheating you out of an original story this time; all I can do is hope for your forgiveness. In my defense, it is my birthday this weekend and boyfriend and I are going on vacation, so much of the week has been spent packing, cleaning...much fun.

I came across this post on a forum for preserved Craig's List posts. I found it humorous...hope you enjoy it:

my RANTS for strippingOriginal Link: http://stlouis.craigslist.org/rnr/116576718.html

RANTS:

1) Hey you over there, holding that one dollar bill in your hand with a death grip and waving it around at me like it's the fucking deed to Trump Towers... what the fuck do you want me to do, grow another pussy?? It's a fuckin' dollar, put it down on the tiprail already.

2) Men that come into the club for a lapdance with NO underwear or boxers and thin-ass, nylon shorts, so we slip and slide on your hard-on (which always feel like a sharpie pen). Ew! I don't even bother dancing with you nasty fucks anymore.

3) You with the thick-ass jeans--this was an impromptu visit, eh?

4) Don't pull my thong up during a dance and ask me if that felt good. It does NOT FEEL GOOD.

5) Hey you loser, counting all your bills to me after the dance, all $20 in ones, and rubbing your fingers between each one to make sure you are giving me just that one dollar. Yes, you.

6) No I will not let you just "slip it in real quick" for 50 more bucks. If you're going to proposition me, at least don't insult my worth.

7) Stop asking me if my tits are real. There are as real as my affection for you.

8) If you cum in your pants, you have to tip me an extra $100 for being a lame-ass who can cum from just a lapdance.

9) Stop asking me out. You're a smelly, fat loser and the only reason I'm smiling and cooing at you is because I want your money. Outside of the club I wouldn't even fart your way.

10) Stop bitching at me about the goddamn two drink minimum. First of all your breath stinks, you have a piece of salami stuck to your goat-tee and you look like Jay Leno. Secondly, I don't give a shit.

11) Don't bitch at me about the $8 non-alchoholic beer either. Hide a bottle of Jack in your coat pocket next time like everyone else does.

12) My horniness is in direct proportion to your income.

13) No, you CAN'T SMOKE. Dumb. Ass.

14) Boys, don't sit in the front row with your homeboys and act all engrossed in some deep conversation (knowing damn well you ain't talking 'bout shit) during a girls performance because you want to look like you're too "cool" to notice the hot, naked girl in front of you.

15) DON'T SIT IN THE FRONT ROW IF YOU ARE NOT GOING TO TIP. Fer chrissakes!!!!!!!!!!!

16) Dumb ass, don't ask me, "so what do you guys do when you're on your period?" Answer: I lap dance only with guys in dark pants.

17) STOP trying to grab my tits!!!!!!!!! That's extra.

18) SHOWER FIRST, you nasty fuck!

19) If you don't tip me, I'm going to call your wife.

20) I had a feeling you weren't going to tip me, so I took extra care to rub my lip gloss on your collar and wear extra glitter lotion before our dance.

21) Hey cheap-asses: please don't come to my work. Just stay home and jack off to reruns of "I love Genie" instead. It will save us a both a lot of unpleasantry.

22) Stop asking me why I do this job and get all analytical on me. For the MONEY you moron, that's why. Duh.

23) No seriously, my real name is Vixen Blue.

24) NO, I will not take a dime sac of weed for payment. I can tell it's oregano anyway you sick mutherfucker!

25) Sorry, I don't do that. Ask the ugly girl with the overbite and the black roots over there by the bar.

26) It is not okay for you to bounce me on your cock like a baby on a knee. Not okay.

27) Stop complaining about how short the song was. It felt like the fucking maxi-single to me.

28) Yes I will fuck you, but only for 10 grand. More if you're ugly. So basically, more.

29) DO NOT come into the club looking for a girlfriend/date. DO. NOT.

30) I don't care if you're cute and/or Brad Pitt's stunt double. I do not give free lapdances. Cute don't pay the rent.

31) Girls--what's with the pole smell? Can we do a little hygiene check? Nothing than worse than twirling around a pole and getting a whiff of stale pussy.

32) Girls--stop lip-syncing to the song you're dancing to on stage. Especially if you don't quite know all the words.

33) Girls--if your toes curl and hang over your platforms a la' Fred Flinstone, you need to go up a size.

34) Girls--drowning yourself in Angel perfume is just as bad if not worse than the BO you're trying to cover.

35) Hey DJ! You suck!

36) Girls--may I suggest complete sobriety before getting tatted up? Tattoos should be meaningful, or at least semi-meaningful, or at least semi semi-meaningful. That fucking smurf on your ass is lame.

37) Girls--some songs should not be stripped to. Please. No Disney soundtracks (you know who you are), Sade, Bjork, or Aaron Carter. PLEASE.Thanks for listening.

Vixen Blue

I'm still around!

2006-07-07T17:03:00.000-05:00

I've been out of town for the week, it's been very nice. No phone, no computer....

But to the point, I'm still around. I must work tonight and tomorrow, but expect more stories in the next few days!

Mr. Fuck Off

2006-06-29T15:59:00.000-05:00

It was a Friday night, and it was already getting started with a bang. We were slammed, and short handed. I was running tables on the floor and making my drinks behind the bar, Abbye was holding down the other end of the bar, and Terry had the other half of the floor.

I look up from making a Gin and Tonic to see a blur of Sugar, one of the best dancers we have, slam some girl up against the wall by the dressing room, throw her on the floor and immediately jump on top of her to commence pounding her face in. I run around the bar to split it up when I realize this is no ordinary cat fight. Usually two women fighting consists of a lot of screaming and hair pulling, not this time. I was afraid if I jumped in the middle I would get caught in the crossfire, so to speak, so I let the bouncers break it up.

This story; however, is not about that fight. It's about what happened after.

Approximately ten minutes later, after the hubbub had calmed down and all had returned to normal, we noticed that Terry was no longer there.

"All these guys are asking what happened to their waitress," my best friend Abbye told me when I made a trip to the bar for more alcohol.

"Well where the hell is she?"

"I don't know, I haven't seen her since the fight."

It was about that time that Ryan, one of our managers, came to the bar to tell us that Terry, having been terrified by the fight, grabbed her purse and hit the door.

"She quit!" I exclaimed, shocked that someone would quit not only in the middle of a slammed Friday night, but because of a silly catfight.

"Yeah," Ryan responded, "she said she couldn't work in this kind of environment anymore. Can you cover the whole floor?"

"No problem." I didn't see it as a big deal, I just saw it as more opportunity for me to make money.

I made a round of drink orders and when I came up to the bar, Abbye was explaining the situation to someone at the bar. He was average looking, glasses, nothing outlandish about him, but he was very upset that his waitress had disappeared. He seemed to take it almost personally, which should have been warning sign number one.

"Look, darlin," Abbye pointed towards me, "she's got your tab now, she'll take care of you."

"Sorry about all the confusion sweetie, just chill out and I'll take care of everything."

"I just don't appreciate the fact that my waitress ran off with my tab," was his response. I could understand his concern, I've worked in a few bars where the waitress carried the credit cards around with her, which could have been disaster. Fortunately, in my club, we keep all the cards behind the bar, thus eliminating any stressful situations.

As Abbye was explaining this to him, I made yet another round, dropping off drinks and taking orders...Such is my life on the weekends.

When I returned to the bar for another round of drinks, the gentleman with the tab was sitting in a table chair in front of the server station, facing the stages.

Let me break away for a moment and explain a few things. There is a difference between bar chairs and table chairs. Bar chairs are straight backed and high, when you sit on them you are sitting level with the bar. Table chairs are low, rounded, on wheels, and padded. The height of a table chair is a smidgen shorter than the height of the bar, which means that you can literally push a table chair underneath the bar, if their was room for it to fit. Also, for those of you not in the industry, the server station is the area of the bar where the waitresses make their orders and pick up their drinks. It is usually characterized by bar mats, featuring whatever brand of beer the distributors gave us; condiments, lemons, limes, olives, sometimes cherries; and the cash register, for easier transactions and less time at the bar for the wait staff. Having someone sit or loiter in the server station is a big no-no, it cuts into our service time and hurts not only our money, but the bars as well. The more time it takes to order and be served, the less drinks we can take out a night.

Now you can understand the rest of the story.

Normally, I would just tell someone to get out of the way, but I knew this gentleman had already been upset once tonight, and I wanted to be as polite as possible in order to salvage what was left of his evening, and possibly his opinion.

"Sweet heart, this is probably the worst place for you to be sitting. I'm going to be coming and going from this spot all night." Sugar wouldn't have melt in my mouth at this point.

"Yeah, what the fuck ever."

"I'm sorry," I said, as I leaned even further down until I was eye level with him, "what did you just say to me?"

Without even granting me the benefit of tearing his perverted gaze away from the stage, he said "whatever, fuck off." At the same time, he lifted his right hand, palm facing towards him, and made a shooing motion in my direction.

I went from lovely to livid in less than half a second. Forgotten were the drink orders, forgotten was the tray.

"Ryan, get this motherfucker out of here!" I screamed to the DJ booth as I ran outside to find Billy.

Billy was sitting on the bed of Ryan's truck, talking to Officer Johnson, as I burst through the double doors of our club, panting, steaming anger from my pores.

"Billy. Motherfucker. Inside. Asshole. Want. Him. Out." The words were coming in short bursts. I'm not sure if it was the snide "fuck off" without even the benefit of eye contact, the "you're no better than a fly who's annoying me" shooing motion, or a combination of the two, but I was irate. I was irate enough for thirty people.

"Billy," Officer Johnson interjected, "would you like me to take care of this one for you?" And who says cops don't come in handy?

Just then, Ryan came running outside.

"Who the hell am I supposed to kick out? You ran outside before you could tell me!"

In my haste to have this asshole removed, I had forgotten to point out which asshole. I rushed inside with Ryan and Billy at my heels.

I pointed him out to them, and then stood, staring, ten feet away. My blood was boiling. I wanted vengeance. As Ryan and Billy are talking to this guy, trying to get him to leave in the nicest way possible, his friends are starting to gather around, attempting to figure out what all the commotion is. Now Ryan and Billy are dealing with fifteen guys, instead of just the one. While this is happening, Mr. Fuck Off has made his way back to the bar and is, incredulously, ordering a drink.

"Abbye," I screamed at the bar, "don't you FUCKING serve him. Tab him out, he's cut the fuck off."

Abbye looked at Mr. Fuck Off, shrugged, and began tabbing him out.

At this point in time, several of Mr. Fuck Off's friends are coming up to me, begging me with bribes to allow him to stay. I wasn't having it.

"I don't care how much money you're offering me, I want him the fuck out of here."

"What about two hundred? Three hundred? C'mon, please. He's eaten some xanax tonight, he's normally not like this." They were bartering, pleading, begging. I was stone.

Ryan walked up to me, put his hands on my shoulders, looked me dead in the eyes and told me to get back to work. I didn't move. I couldn't move, my anger had rooted me to the spot.

It was then that I became aware of my surroundings. I turned around and realized that every dancer in the club who wasn't onstage was standing behind me, ready to strike. My own private militia, stationed at arms. Tatum, a friend of mine, grabbed me in a bear hug.

"We got your back girl, don't you worry. We got your back."

I think it's times like these when you realize who your true friends really are. It's easy to be friends with someone when everything is sunshine and roses. When the shit hits the fan, and they stand behind you; that's when you know.

Eventually Mr. Fuck Off and his crew were escorted out of the building. I went back to work, no worse for the wear. Five minutes later, Ryan approached me.

"I'm just letting you know," he started, "we're letting those guys back into the club."

"What!? Why!?"

"They're coming in by themselves, Mr. Fuck Off isn't with them. They left him in the truck out in the parking lot."

I guess it really is hard times when you realize who your friends are. Poor Mr. Fuck Off's friends abandoned him in the truck while they went back inside the club. I can't say that I felt sorry for him.

Maybe your quality of friend is equal to your quality of person.

Mr. Five Dollars

2006-06-27T16:14:00.000-05:00

It was a Saturday night, about a month ago, and we were pretty busy. Terry and I were waiting tables on the floor and Savannah was behind the bar. I was heading off to the dressing room to use the bathroom when I heard Savannah yelling for me.

"Oh my god! That tab of Terrys! It was a $400.00 tab and he tipped her $5! Can you believe that shit!" Savannah's face was flushed, eyes blazing with anger.

"Who the fuck did that? Where is he?"

"Right there, the cheap asshole!"

I looked to where Savannah was pointing and saw a young guy, about 24 or 25. I had waited on him earlier before Terry arrived. He was young, but showy. Earlier he wanted to buy every dancer a drink, so of course, it was my job to run around taking drink orders from the ones that I didn't remember off the top of my head.

"That motherfucker!" I was pissed. Regardless of the fact that it wasn't my table-you don't tip one percent. I would rather someone stiff me completely than tip me one percent. It's insulting.

Terry walked up to the bar where we were talking, looking crestfallen.

"I don't know what to do! I wasted my whole night catering to that piece of shit, more than I spent with my other tables," Terry cried. I felt for her, that's the way it is with tabs. You run your ass off hoping that they'll take care of you at the end.

"Did you give him his five dollars back and tell him to shove it up his ass? I would," I told her.

"I can't do that," she said, "I don't have the guts." This was true, she didn't. Terry had spent most of her employed life working for corporate, where the customer was always right and you did your damnedest to bend over and take it in the ass while keeping a smile plastered on your face. I did my time in corporate.

"I got you. Don't worry."

I took five dollars out of my pocket and ripped it into small pieces. My boss was sitting at the corner of the bar and motioned me over.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm taking this five dollars and throwing it in this asshole's face. Is that okay?" I was getting angrier and angrier as the seconds ticked off the clock.

"Do what you have to do," my boss replied.

With each step across the bar my anger was growing. I was no longer doing this for Terry, hell, I wasn't even doing this for myself. This was for every waiter or waitress who ever wanted to tell some cheap son of a bitch to go fuck himself but would lose their job. This was for the tired, the poor, the exhausted. This was for us.

I walked up to the chair he was sitting in, and he turned his bleary eyes upward towards me. I took the ripped up money out of my pocket and threw it directly in his face. Hard.

"There you go motherfucker! There's your fucking tip back!" I was screaming. What smattering of dancers that were left at the table shot up, looking confused and bewildered. Usually I am a peacemaker, until you piss me off.

I turned and stalked off, but not before telling all the dancers what a cheap fuck he was. In two minutes flat, Mr. Five Dollars was sitting by himself, looking sad and confused. I didn't really care.

I went back to work, thinking nothing more of the incident. About ten minutes later Terry caught me at the bar.

"Mr. Five Dollars wants to talk to you," she said, looking concerned.

"That guy's still here?" I looked across the crowd and, sure enough, he was still sitting at the table all by his self.

"Yeah, he says he wants to know what he did to make you mad."

"Did you tell him it's for tipping you five dollars on four hundred?" I knew the answer to this already.

"No." Terry looked at her shoes, slightly embarrassed.

"One of these days, Terry, you're going to grow a pair." I wasn't trying to give her a hard time but I couldn't fight all her battles for her. "Watch my tables, I'll be right back."

I sauntered back over to the table, doing my best at looking like I was tough. I sat down and looked at this poor excuse for a man sitting across from me, looking all the more pitiful with little pieces of dollar bills stuck to his shirt and littering the floor around him.

"You wanted to talk to me?"

"Yeah. What the hell did I do to piss you off?"

I was surprised by this. I figured the guy knew already

"Look," he continued, "I've been here all night, and I've taken care of all of these dancers. I've tipped them, bought them drinks, bought dances. I've spent almost $1,000 in here tonight and this is how you treat me?"

"You need to ask yourself how much you took care of the people who took care of you." He looked confused so I elaborated. "Who brought you all those drinks?"

"My waitress."

"Right, and who tracked down all the dancers you wanted to sit with?"

"My waitress."

"Very good. Now how much did you tip her."

"Hell my tab was over four hundred dollars!"

I wasn't sure if he was confused or changing the subject, so I just took control of the conversation.

"It doesn't matter to us how big your tab is. What matters to us is how much you tip us at the end of it all. Terry has been waiting on you all night long, running your tab, bringing your drinks, and at the end of it, you slapped her in the face. An average tip is 15%, and for good service you should tip 20% or higher. How much do you make an hour?"

"Thirty dollars," was his answer.

"We make three dollars. Three. Dollars. Everything we live on, everything we pay our bills with we make in tips. Now Terry is trying to figure out how the hell she's supposed to pay her electricity bill and take care of her daughter with five dollars. She spent her WHOLE NIGHT waiting on you, and that's how you show your appreciation. Five Dollars. She deserved eighty." I was laying it on, doing everything I could to make this guy feel guilty.

"Well, can I run my credit card again to tip her?"

When all was said and done, Mr. Five Dollars took his credit card back up to the bar and ran it for eighty dollars, which he then gave to Terry along with an apology. I felt like applauding. All in all it was a good night for us.

I wonder if Mr. Five Dollars told his friends about the titty bar that night. I just hope he never again stiffs another waitress.

On My Deathbed

2006-06-20T19:11:00.000-05:00

UPDATE: i've been at the doctors and the hospital for the last two days, do expect to see some stories sunday or monday. I have some in draft i'm working on, but it's hard to write right now.

Terribly sorry for the lack of posts as of late...if the title gives you any indication I am sick sick sick.

I'm going to the doctor tomorrow, so hopefully all will be well by Thursday and I can write some more.

Must go back to my deathbed now!

Mr. Asshole

2006-06-15T14:02:00.000-05:00

This happened one random Thursday night when my bar was moderately slow. I'm doing double duty, bartending and waiting tables in the bar and around the stages. There's a smattering of patrons sitting at random tables, the majority of them paying cash, but one in particular is running a tab for himself and his friend. This is his story.

One of my most beautiful (and favorite) dancers, Sam, is sitting with them. After she gets settled I make my way over to the table to give the routine pleasantries and take drink orders.

"Can I get you guys anything to drink?"

"Yeah, we'll have two shots of Jack Daniel's and two Miller Lights."

"Would you like to buy Sam something to drink?" This is my standard response if they don't immediately offer. Ninety-nine percent of the time they will say yes. If they say no, it's a good indication to the dancer's that they're not going to make any money off this table.

"Yeah, get her whatever she wants, I've got enough damn money on that credit card I could buy this place."

This is a warning bell to anyone who has ever worked in the bar/cocktail industry. Similar to the "verbal tip" this usually ends badly for the server. The people I have come into contact with who brag about how much money they have are usually the cheapest people of them all.

Sam orders a shot of Hot Damn and a Bloody Mary. She drinks her Bloody Mary's with no spice, no pepper, just vodka, bloody mary mix, and some olive juice. A travesty if you ask me, but who am I to judge?

I return with the three shots, two beers, and a bloody mary. Said gentleman (who shall soon be referred to as "Mr. Asshole") is continuing his "I have a lot of money" sermon for anyone who will listen. I wink at Sam and she giggles.

Over the course of the next few hours, life continues on as it normally would. Mr. Asshole with the tab continues to order shots for the table; on average, about every third time I pass by. Soon, his cheeks are ruddy, his eyes are slightly bloodshot, and he's laughing louder than most people do.

I'm debating whether or not I should coax him into cutting himself off when he catches my eye and gives me the standard "I would like my tab" sign: one hand flat in the air with the palm up while the other hand mimics a pen scribbling in front of the other.

When all is said and done, after three hours of drinking and bragging, Mr. Asshole's tab ends at $137.50. Not a huge tab by my club's standards, certainly not breaking the bank if you have enough money to "buy the place."

I drop the tab off at Mr. Asshole's table and continue back to the bar. Sam has long since gone, looking for her next victim to hustle. Immediately after receiving the tab, it's as if someone let all of the hot air out of Mr. Asshole's head. Melo-dramatically he slumps back into his chair, then shows the bill to his friend. He looks at me. Looks at the bill. Looks back at me. Scribbles something on the paper, and storms up to the bar.

"Is something wrong?" Obviously their is, but it's a standard response, drilled into the heads of countless waiters and waitresses, no doubt learned in "waiting tables 101."

"Yeah! How the fuck did my tab get so high?"

Ahh, my favorite. Symptomatic drunken amnesia. This rare disorder affects certain people. Everything is normal until the bill arrives, then POOF, the last three hours of their life is gone-erased from their memory as if it never happened.

"Well," I start into the explanation of how much he ordered vs. prices, all concluding to the credit card tab in front of him.

"That's bullshit," he replies, glaring at me through watery lenses. I glance down at the credit card slip and notice a huge zero slashed through the tip line.

"Don't you think that was kind of an asshole thing to do?" I ask, pointing at the offensive paper which is radiating anger from its position on the bar.

"Yeah, well, I think you're an asshole," is his response. He turns and stumbles back to his friend at the table who is looking rather embarrassed.

My boss is sitting at the far end of the bar and he motions for me to come over. I'm explaining the situation when Mr. Asshole decides to make his way back to the bar, apparently for round two.

"Go talk to him, maybe he's going to tip you."

"I don't want his fucking money, Billy." Those of you who have ever been in this situation understand. It's not about the money anymore, it's about the principle of the matter.

"Do you have a million dollars in the bank?" This is Billy's idea of motivation. "Because until you do, I suggest you go try and get your money!"

"I will pay you ten dollars if you go talk to him so I don't have to."

Billy laughs and gets up from his chair. He walks behind the bar and stands in front of where Mr. Asshole is steaming hate rays.

"I don't mean to be an asshole," Mr. Asshole starts in, "but---"

Before he can finish Billy cuts him off.

"That's really not a good way to start a conversation. Usually people who say they don't mean to be an asshole are just looking for an excuse to be an asshole." I couldn't have said it better myself.

Their conversation continues for a moment and then Billy calls me over to where he is standing. When I arrive, he asks me for a list of what Mr. Asshole ordered. I hand him the sheet of paper where I kept track of his tab. We're not very high tech, but it works for us. I've been there for three years and I'm not often wrong.

"Listen," I start, turning to Mr. Asshole, "you had---"

"I had two shots of Jack Daniels and a Miller Light and my friend had two shots of Jack Daniel's and a Miller Light. That's all I had. I didn't drink any Hot Damn."

I glance at Mr. Asshole's friend. He appears to be attempting to sink into the table.

"That's right, you didn't drink any Hot Damn. Sam did. But you ordered it for her."

"I'm not blind, I know what I had." I think the word he was going for was ignorant, or stupid, but hey, blind works.

"I'm not blind either, and neither am I intoxicated." By this point, my patience is wearing thin.

"No, but you're a fucking liar!"

This was it for me. I turned to Billy, so furious I had hot tears brimming in my eyes and a flush was beginning to rise in my cheeks.

"Billy, nobody talks to me like that. Nobody calls me a fucking liar!" I can barely get the words out, my hands and body are shaking from the adrenaline that's pumping through my body.

Billy turned and walked around the bar and stood toe to toe with Mr. Asshole. Billy is about 6'3" and is a large man. I've seen him carry four people out at once. I've also seen him open a door with someone's head. He's not the person to fuck with. Mr. Asshole; however, stands about 5'6". I would have been amused by the pairing had I not been so infuriated.

"It's time for you to go," Billy growls down at the little man.

"I'm not fucking going anywhere! And I'm not paying this Goddamn tab!"

In one swift move, Billy has snatched Mr. Asshole around the throat with one large forearm, and has twisted his arm behind his back with the other, literally lifting him a foot in the air. Whatever Mr. Asshole was going to say next was cut short with a gurgle and a squeal. Billy carried him like this out into the parking lot.

Business continued as usual. No one really paid much attention. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.

Ten minutes later, when I've almost calmed down, Billy walks into the bar with one of our regular police friends.

"Will you please give officer Johnson that guy's tab?" I can see the amusement in Billy's eyes.

I hand the officer the slip of paper with all of Mr. Asshole's drinks on it. I even added prices so there's no confusion.

"Thank's Billy, I'll take it with me," Officer Johnson says. "I wouldn't worry too much about him, that guy's all talk."

Apparently, after Billy escorted; ahem, dragged Mr. Asshole into the parking lot, he exploded with a barrage of insults. This didn't really faze Billy. He crossed the line when he threatened to stop payment on his credit card and take us all to court. That's when Billy called his bluff by calling the police. As soon as Officer Johnson arrived, Mr. Asshole took off. Typical.

A few weeks later, Mr. Asshole showed up again. Our door guy, who was there the night of the incident, refused to let him in. Mr. Asshole immediately threw a fit, once again proclaiming how much damn money he had. Billy, overhearing the commotion, walked to the front door.

"Is there a problem?" Billy towered over the little man, amused by watching him squirm.

Mr. Asshole's eyes widened to the size of teacup saucers. "I want to come inside," he stammered, in a much subdued tone of voice.

"I tell you what," said Billy, "you can come inside when you own the club."

Billy walked inside as my door guy collapsed into a fit of laughter.

That was the last time we saw Mr. Asshole. He never did stop his credit card payment. We never did go to court.

Come to think of it, I don't think I ever paid Billy that ten dollars.

David and the Dancers

2006-06-14T20:02:00.000-05:00

It's Saturday night, about eleven PM and my bar is slowly filling up when I notice my favorite customer to hate-David, sitting ever so primly at a table by the door.

First let me tell you a little about David. I first met him about a year ago when I was hanging out at my club and the bartender ran off somewhere, so naturally, I jumped behind the bar to help her out. David was one of the patron's standing there.

"Sorry for the wait, darlin', what can I get you to drink." I said, as polite as a southern girl can be.

"Give me a Bacardi and Coke in a tall glass, and you better put some damn alcohol in it."

This is one of my pet peeves. Before I even have a chance to make his drink and hand it to him for sampling, he is already telling me it's not good enough. First of all, I'm not going to give you just soda and charge you $5.00 for it, I'm not that mean (although I have done it before just to see if some drunk guy would notice--he didn't). Secondly, no please, no pleasantries, even after I have apologized for a problem that wasn't even my fault.

As I am making his drink, I delve into pleasant casual conversation, hoping that I can somehow lighten his mood with my banter...no such luck.

"What's your name, darlin'?"

"Leroy, now hurry the fuck up."

By this point I'm really angry. Some people (women and men) think that servers/waiters are personal punching bags for the night. Having worked 10 years in the industry, I have never seen it so prominant as in a gentleman's club. For some reason, where women take off their clothes for money, all sense of politeness and general hospitality fly out the window faster than the girls tops on the second song.

"Look," I say, gritting my teeth, "I'm not even supposed to be here today." As I'm saying it, flashes to Donte in Clerks are running through my head, and the phrase "you'd feel a lot better if you lit in to a few customers every once in a while" is too tempting to ignore. "Besides that," I continue, "I'm standing back here trying to make your drink, apologizing on behalf of my other bartender, trying to make sure that you have a pleasant night, and you have the audacity to talk to me in a way that is completely rude and uncalled for. I'm not even sure if you should be served this drink because I'm assuming that one would have to be quite drunk to speak to me like that."

At this point my boss is giving me the look that says "are you okay? Do we need to kick this guy out?" I love my job mainly for that reason. We don't put up with bullshit from people.

To my surprise "Leroy" apologizes, introduces himself by his real name, David, and gives me the standard "I've had a bad day, blah blah blah." I've had a quasi-relationship with him since, mainly because I'm the only person there he's nice to.

Flash foreward to Saturday night. Two unsuspecting dancers move to David's table. I can see trouble before trouble starts.

After I've taken their drink orders, I jokingly tell the dancers "make sure you don't put up with any of David's shit." And then, not-so-jokingly, I tell David to be nice. Before I have even returned with their drinks the girls are gone.

"What happened to the girls," I inquire, setting the drinks down on the now-deserted table.

"Fat bitches pissed me off. And one of them stole my fucking lighter. Cows. I'm leaving, I'm never coming back here again."

This is standard response from David. I don't think I've ever seen him leave in a good mood. I should have warned the dancers not to try and hustle him, but it would've been pointless. If you go into a strip club, expect to get hustled. Before I even get inside the dressing room to give the girls their drinks I can hear the yelling.

"That motherfucker called me an asshole! Can you fucking believe that! He called me an asshole!"

"What happened?" I ask, not beacuse I am surprised, but because it's the right thing to do.

"I asked him if he wanted a dance, and he said he would buy me a drink but that was it. So I told him he shoudn't come in if he didn't want to spend any money. Then he called me an asshole. Fucking prick."

I catch my bosses eye in the mirror and he winks. Inwardly I smile. Ahhhh David. Sometimes I appreciate the spice he brings.

To Blog or Not To Blog

2006-06-14T19:41:00.000-05:00

I said I would never blog. In fact, and in all reality, I dropped a class last semester because the professor wanted=actually, required us to blog about class after class every class. I felt that it infringed on my right to oppose blogging, which I did-and to a point still do.

HOWEVER, being an avid reader of several "waiter" blogs, I have decided (and realized) that persons who serve/bartend in gentlemen's clubs should have their voices heard as well. So in abandonment of past morals, I came, I saw...I blogged.