It's been about a month and a half since my last update and I apologize. I did end up getting hired at another club a few weeks ago, which came at very fortunate timing; I became incredibly pissed off at the management at the previous club and spontaneously quit the Friday before the Monday I found out I was hired and asked to work immediately.
This club presents its own challenges but is overall a better, more relaxed atmosphere to work in. The first week I found myself in a high, but quickly found myself experiencing a sense of loneliness and alienation... what can I say? I miss the people I worked with.
(Un?)Fortunately with this industry, you're never really very far removed from anyone else in it - customers included. This past week I met a customer I saw a few months ago at the old club and he took the liberty to remind me of the day he had previously seen me: The Easter Bunny Face-Rapeage Day.
It was a given Easter would be a slow day. I worked it for the irony. A few hours passed and, as predicted, very few folks wandered in.
Then, out of the blue, a mob of white Easter bunnies flooded the place, dancing like they were London ravers from the early 90's. No joke.
Decked out in full-body white fur costumes with large happy heads, complete with empty, soulless eyes, they partied with PBRs in paws, and a few sat down at the rack. A tall one stood up from his seat and his speckled bunny pants dropped to reveal speckled boxer shorts over a pair of thin, hairy legs belonging to a (bunny) man who subsists entirely on a diet of top ramen and strawberry pop tarts.
Moments later I found myself in the private area with a new bunny, grimacing as I realized this particular wascaly wabbit wasn't wearing anything under his fur outfit; his boner jut out, giving me the feeling of an unwilling participant at a furries convention. It was like an advanced-level alpine ski slope: reach the edge, flatspin and follow through with a perfect landing, $20 in my garter and a compulsion to wash my hands.
Before I could get away, he sheepishly thanked me, lifted his giant happy rabbit head and attempted to plant his tongue in my mouth like a sloppy rendition of Attack Of The Kissing Rabbit. Horny motherfucker.
His lips had just reached mine as I pushed/punched his face away, tongue still sticking out between his lips. I stopped and gave my Look of Disapproval ( ͠ʘ_͠ʘ) and left.
The realization shortly hit me: guys, the Easter Bunny tried to face-rape me.
No matter. I went back out on the floor and gave four bunny girls a dance simultaneously, as their Easter orgy glitter clung to me. Such is life.
Awfulness: 8/10
Douchiness: 10/10
Monday, July 19, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Anti-Positivism
I'm sick as a bug and am not at work today.
Also, a bit of news: I've apparently been hired at another club however I've not yet gotten a phone call to let me know that I've been hired. The new one is located amongst a big neighborhood and has a lot of regulars, whereas my current club is located away from housing and has a heavy out-of-town customer base. It'll be an interesting switch (if they ever call me).
Now on to my promised poker story: The Little Gay Pooper Poker
The Little Gay Pooper Poker is a little gay man who came in one day last December, right around Christmas. He stands about 5 feet tall and has a little brown hat, and shnazzy brown dress shoes, and freely admits that he loves men. Being the little gay man that he is, he was very charismatic and friendly toward me at the bar, showering me in witty little compliments while looking up to me (literally). He is little. He is gay. And I did not feel threatened.
When it was my turn to go on stage, Little Gay Pooper Poker took the seat directly front-center, beaming up at me with his proud little gay smile. Nothing was out of the ordinary. I started my dancing.
Toward the end of a fairly normal stage run I did my usual ass-jiggle on my hands and knees, doggy-style, with my asshole in the air, which the little gay man then poked-- Wait, WTF. His finger had tried to rape my ass, couldn't enter and so instead pushed me forward resulting in my face to the floor.
**SPECIAL BREAKING NEWS**
Unless you're accustomed to anal every night, you really can't just poke someone's rectum and expect your finger to go inside. It doesn't work that way; it's not a vag. Also: not everyone is accustomed to anal play like his friends evidently were. [Returning to the regular program]
In under a second I had angrily spun around and slapped his hand away, screaming into his face, "WHAT THE FUCK? WHY THE HELL DID YOU THINK YOU COULD DO THAT?"
The crowded club fell dead silent, all eyes at the stage.
"I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING PLAYTHING AND YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO FINGER-RAPE US. WE'RE NOT YOUR SEX TOYS! I'M NOT PUTTING UP WITH THIS SHIT AND YOU'RE SO FUCKING OUT OF HERE."
The bouncers at the other end of the club were alerted something was going down but - and here's the (little, gay) surprise - the little gay man had run his little gay ass out the club before anyone could catch him.
I don't know that I've ever been that pissed off at anyone before. I actively stood by the door waiting to see if he'd try to sneak back in, then met a couple who came in and said they were across the street at a restaurant when a little man went rushing in... Customers told me the little gay man was hiding there the rest of the evening, afraid to be seen outside by the bouncers.
Friends later told me it was obvious he'd try to do this, seeing as he has a fondness for the butthole.
Awfulness: 10/10
Douchiness: 5/10
Also, a bit of news: I've apparently been hired at another club however I've not yet gotten a phone call to let me know that I've been hired. The new one is located amongst a big neighborhood and has a lot of regulars, whereas my current club is located away from housing and has a heavy out-of-town customer base. It'll be an interesting switch (if they ever call me).
Now on to my promised poker story: The Little Gay Pooper Poker
The Little Gay Pooper Poker is a little gay man who came in one day last December, right around Christmas. He stands about 5 feet tall and has a little brown hat, and shnazzy brown dress shoes, and freely admits that he loves men. Being the little gay man that he is, he was very charismatic and friendly toward me at the bar, showering me in witty little compliments while looking up to me (literally). He is little. He is gay. And I did not feel threatened.
When it was my turn to go on stage, Little Gay Pooper Poker took the seat directly front-center, beaming up at me with his proud little gay smile. Nothing was out of the ordinary. I started my dancing.
Toward the end of a fairly normal stage run I did my usual ass-jiggle on my hands and knees, doggy-style, with my asshole in the air, which the little gay man then poked-- Wait, WTF. His finger had tried to rape my ass, couldn't enter and so instead pushed me forward resulting in my face to the floor.
**SPECIAL BREAKING NEWS**
Unless you're accustomed to anal every night, you really can't just poke someone's rectum and expect your finger to go inside. It doesn't work that way; it's not a vag. Also: not everyone is accustomed to anal play like his friends evidently were. [Returning to the regular program]
In under a second I had angrily spun around and slapped his hand away, screaming into his face, "WHAT THE FUCK? WHY THE HELL DID YOU THINK YOU COULD DO THAT?"
The crowded club fell dead silent, all eyes at the stage.
"I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING PLAYTHING AND YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO FINGER-RAPE US. WE'RE NOT YOUR SEX TOYS! I'M NOT PUTTING UP WITH THIS SHIT AND YOU'RE SO FUCKING OUT OF HERE."
The bouncers at the other end of the club were alerted something was going down but - and here's the (little, gay) surprise - the little gay man had run his little gay ass out the club before anyone could catch him.
I don't know that I've ever been that pissed off at anyone before. I actively stood by the door waiting to see if he'd try to sneak back in, then met a couple who came in and said they were across the street at a restaurant when a little man went rushing in... Customers told me the little gay man was hiding there the rest of the evening, afraid to be seen outside by the bouncers.
Friends later told me it was obvious he'd try to do this, seeing as he has a fondness for the butthole.
Awfulness: 10/10
Douchiness: 5/10
Monday, May 24, 2010
Socialization
Usually I like getting folks from out of town; if they fuck up, there's no risk of running into them outside of work.
They also bring stories with them, about where they live and what they do, and why they're visiting. A neat little bonus is that I've learned strip clubs in most other states suck considerably in comparison to the ones where I live; here, the clubs are full-nude, most with full bars. We also actually dance here as opposed to simply peel off clothing. (Most of us girls are also fully, 100% real. Huzzah!) Out-of-state-ers like this, and out-of-state-ers continue to keep coming back. Yay. :)
That said, there's really only one problem I can think of that I have with people from elsewhere, though I'll get to that in a bit. Yesterday I had the "pleasure" of meeting a couple douchebags from northern Michigan who routinely drive up to Canada to fulfill their strippa needs.
The tall, stalky one of the two motioned for me to come over. I lean over the short railing, upside-down, boobs to his face, and greet him. Without so much as a "hi" he goes, "can I touch you?"
"No."
Then, like a child asking for cookies, he pipes, "can I touch you please?"
"No, sorry, you can't touch."
"Awwh... okaaay." I smile an apology at him and continue, now moving on to a bent-over position, jiggling my ass about a foot away from his nose. At this, his short stumpy friend tells him to take his dollar bill and "stick it right in there".
"Don't do it," I warn.
"Nah man, I ca-"
"STICK IT IN!" And the mother fucker pokes my asshole with a folded dollar bill.
"HEY!" He pokes me again as I'm spinning around to address him. "Do that one more fucking time and I'll personally kick your ass out."
"Well where we're from we can touch!"
"Well you can't fucking touch here!"
(The stalky one is staring at my body while I continue to argue with stumpy one.)
"Why can't we touch?! We should just go back home and tip the girls there."
"THEN GO."
Stumpy, feelings hurt, sits back and tries to rile up stoner-Stalky, who, without missing a beat, replies, "nah man... I like this one." He stares transfixed while I ignore them the rest of the time.
A little while later I'm back on stage and they're still sitting in the same two seats. This time they don't tip, so I spend my time entertaining the other customers. At the end I collect my tips and Stumpy grumbles loudly, "you didn't pay any attention to us."
"That's because you didn't tip."
"We didn't tip because you weren't paying attention to us."
With other patrons throwing down three or four bucks, why on earth would I divert my attention to stingy dirtbags and ignore the tippers? Furthermore, they poked my butt, even justifying their actions with the childish, "my mommy lets me do this in my house so you should let me do it in yours." Except instead of a house, it's a poophole.
(I motion at the other patrons) "The other customers know to tip to get attention-" (I motion at the huge rules sign located directly on the stage wall, directly in front of them) "-or know how to read. The rules are one dollar per song per person."
He stares at me for a full 30 seconds, then puts down a dollar. I shake my head and laugh, then leave.
These two really exemplified a problem I do have with out-of-towners: they assume rules where they live are (or worse: ought to be) the same as wherever they should happen to go. This is usually most problematic in the private rooms; many think they're paying for groping and sometimes oral sucking/sex, just like back home. When in doubt, please, goddammit please, ask what the rules are. It would at least show you're trying to be good.
In retrospect this one might've been my fault. After all, I've had a prior experience with a pooper-poker in the past (note to self: next blog topic). It's really only that I'd hate to deny some good close-up ass-shaking just because there's a few bad eggs - everyone likes the jiggling. 99% of the time people don't try to poke me. It just seems unfair.
Awfulness: 8/10
Douchiness: 8/10
They also bring stories with them, about where they live and what they do, and why they're visiting. A neat little bonus is that I've learned strip clubs in most other states suck considerably in comparison to the ones where I live; here, the clubs are full-nude, most with full bars. We also actually dance here as opposed to simply peel off clothing. (Most of us girls are also fully, 100% real. Huzzah!) Out-of-state-ers like this, and out-of-state-ers continue to keep coming back. Yay. :)
That said, there's really only one problem I can think of that I have with people from elsewhere, though I'll get to that in a bit. Yesterday I had the "pleasure" of meeting a couple douchebags from northern Michigan who routinely drive up to Canada to fulfill their strippa needs.
The tall, stalky one of the two motioned for me to come over. I lean over the short railing, upside-down, boobs to his face, and greet him. Without so much as a "hi" he goes, "can I touch you?"
"No."
Then, like a child asking for cookies, he pipes, "can I touch you please?"
"No, sorry, you can't touch."
"Awwh... okaaay." I smile an apology at him and continue, now moving on to a bent-over position, jiggling my ass about a foot away from his nose. At this, his short stumpy friend tells him to take his dollar bill and "stick it right in there".
"Don't do it," I warn.
"Nah man, I ca-"
"STICK IT IN!" And the mother fucker pokes my asshole with a folded dollar bill.
"HEY!" He pokes me again as I'm spinning around to address him. "Do that one more fucking time and I'll personally kick your ass out."
"Well where we're from we can touch!"
"Well you can't fucking touch here!"
(The stalky one is staring at my body while I continue to argue with stumpy one.)
"Why can't we touch?! We should just go back home and tip the girls there."
"THEN GO."
Stumpy, feelings hurt, sits back and tries to rile up stoner-Stalky, who, without missing a beat, replies, "nah man... I like this one." He stares transfixed while I ignore them the rest of the time.
A little while later I'm back on stage and they're still sitting in the same two seats. This time they don't tip, so I spend my time entertaining the other customers. At the end I collect my tips and Stumpy grumbles loudly, "you didn't pay any attention to us."
"That's because you didn't tip."
"We didn't tip because you weren't paying attention to us."
With other patrons throwing down three or four bucks, why on earth would I divert my attention to stingy dirtbags and ignore the tippers? Furthermore, they poked my butt, even justifying their actions with the childish, "my mommy lets me do this in my house so you should let me do it in yours." Except instead of a house, it's a poophole.
(I motion at the other patrons) "The other customers know to tip to get attention-" (I motion at the huge rules sign located directly on the stage wall, directly in front of them) "-or know how to read. The rules are one dollar per song per person."
He stares at me for a full 30 seconds, then puts down a dollar. I shake my head and laugh, then leave.
These two really exemplified a problem I do have with out-of-towners: they assume rules where they live are (or worse: ought to be) the same as wherever they should happen to go. This is usually most problematic in the private rooms; many think they're paying for groping and sometimes oral sucking/sex, just like back home. When in doubt, please, goddammit please, ask what the rules are. It would at least show you're trying to be good.
In retrospect this one might've been my fault. After all, I've had a prior experience with a pooper-poker in the past (note to self: next blog topic). It's really only that I'd hate to deny some good close-up ass-shaking just because there's a few bad eggs - everyone likes the jiggling. 99% of the time people don't try to poke me. It just seems unfair.
Awfulness: 8/10
Douchiness: 8/10
Monday, May 10, 2010
Strain Theory
It was extremely busy right in the middle of the holidays last year. I suppose the logic is such that people get tired of spending time with their relatives and escape to the land of Strippadom.
I was giving a dance to this drunken, mangled guy and turned around to shake my booty at him. I turned back around and
His cock is out.
Holy mother of fuck.
This is hilarious.
I stop and turn to the side, desperately trying to contain laughter. I could very well laugh loudly while pointing at his dick - would he then have put it back in his pants? But what if my laughing encouraged bad behavior? I didn't really have time to think about this (in retrospect I should've just laughed at it) and worked instead on composing myself again. After a minute or so I finally say,
"You need to put that away, sir."
He blinks as if regaining consciousness and shoves it back in his pants. He shoves it. I'm trying my damnedest not to crack up the rest of the the time I'm there, and I continue knowing he'll probably not remember a damn thing in the m
He whips his cock out.
Again.
In all its hard-on glory.
This time I double-over in laughter and through stifled fits of lols I repeat, "SIR! You need to put that away!"
"Bu... but c'mon, can I have it out just a little? Like this? I won't do anything I swear, I just want it-"
"No, this is against the rules, I can and will kick you-"
"-out..."
"-out!"
He sniffs and slowly puts it back, with the demeanor of a heartbroken child who just lost a protest to have another candy cane and eat it too.
Awfulness: 1/10
Douchiness: 3/10
I was giving a dance to this drunken, mangled guy and turned around to shake my booty at him. I turned back around and
His cock is out.
Holy mother of fuck.
This is hilarious.
I stop and turn to the side, desperately trying to contain laughter. I could very well laugh loudly while pointing at his dick - would he then have put it back in his pants? But what if my laughing encouraged bad behavior? I didn't really have time to think about this (in retrospect I should've just laughed at it) and worked instead on composing myself again. After a minute or so I finally say,
"You need to put that away, sir."
He blinks as if regaining consciousness and shoves it back in his pants. He shoves it. I'm trying my damnedest not to crack up the rest of the the time I'm there, and I continue knowing he'll probably not remember a damn thing in the m
He whips his cock out.
Again.
In all its hard-on glory.
This time I double-over in laughter and through stifled fits of lols I repeat, "SIR! You need to put that away!"
"Bu... but c'mon, can I have it out just a little? Like this? I won't do anything I swear, I just want it-"
"No, this is against the rules, I can and will kick you-"
"-out..."
"-out!"
He sniffs and slowly puts it back, with the demeanor of a heartbroken child who just lost a protest to have another candy cane and eat it too.
Awfulness: 1/10
Douchiness: 3/10
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Double Bind, Pt. 2
Imagine my surprise when I see Mr. Dirty Simon Pegg scuttle into a seat at the rack as I'm dancing a set tonight. I stopped, tickled with surprise! Our subsequent conversation went something very similar to this:
"The girls told me you were jacking off at my rack."
(Here's his surprise! omg! wtf! w/e! face.)
"...Seriously?"
"Yeah."
He becomes very quiet and contemplative, then speaks up,
"I swear I wouldn't do that!"
"Look, the girls have no reason to lie to me, and the two who told me are really sweet girls. They're not lying. They saw your hand in. your. pants."
(Pause)
"I might've had my hands in my pockets."
"Mmhmm. And see, I wanted to talk to you about this last Sunday, but before I could get dressed, you-" (*cockroach scuttling away* hand gesture) "-scuttled away, out the door."
(Pause)
"I wasn't even here that Sunday."
(I laugh) "Oh yes you were."
(Pause)
"Oh that day! No, you must be thinking of the wrong person, see, I actually left the rack and talked with someone else for a while before leaving."
"No actually, you got all pissy and immediately left."
"Oh, I was in a hurry that day."
Oh, the lulz.
(Pause)
"You know... there's a difference between looking like you're masturbating and actually masturbating."
At this point he slowly scuttles away from the rack and sits at the furthest seat at the bar away from me. He leaves upon the realization that all the girls refuse to sit and talk with him about how smart he is(n't).
He had also tipped me again despite being clearly flustered and embarrassed while pretending to act cool. I think it's safe to say this round went to me.
Awfulness: 1/10
Douchiness: 10/10
"The girls told me you were jacking off at my rack."
(Here's his surprise! omg! wtf! w/e! face.)
"...Seriously?"
"Yeah."
He becomes very quiet and contemplative, then speaks up,
"I swear I wouldn't do that!"
"Look, the girls have no reason to lie to me, and the two who told me are really sweet girls. They're not lying. They saw your hand in. your. pants."
(Pause)
"I might've had my hands in my pockets."
"Mmhmm. And see, I wanted to talk to you about this last Sunday, but before I could get dressed, you-" (*cockroach scuttling away* hand gesture) "-scuttled away, out the door."
(Pause)
"I wasn't even here that Sunday."
(I laugh) "Oh yes you were."
(Pause)
"Oh that day! No, you must be thinking of the wrong person, see, I actually left the rack and talked with someone else for a while before leaving."
"No actually, you got all pissy and immediately left."
"Oh, I was in a hurry that day."
Oh, the lulz.
(Pause)
"You know... there's a difference between looking like you're masturbating and actually masturbating."
At this point he slowly scuttles away from the rack and sits at the furthest seat at the bar away from me. He leaves upon the realization that all the girls refuse to sit and talk with him about how smart he is(n't).
He had also tipped me again despite being clearly flustered and embarrassed while pretending to act cool. I think it's safe to say this round went to me.
Awfulness: 1/10
Douchiness: 10/10
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Double Bind
We want customers to stay, because customers bring money to the bar and to the dancers. We do what we can for them - we entertain them, keep them company, offer a wide assortment of alcoholic drinks, all for the purpose of keeping them happy and in the bar.
But we get bad apples. And we get a lot of them.
There's only a few rules, and the rules are in place for the protection and comfort of both the girls and the customers; it's not like we arbitrarily make them up to screw them over - no, we WANT to keep them there. The general rule of thumb is to act as if you're visiting an acquaintance's home. That said, the rules include but are not limited to:
1. Keep your pants on.
2. Keep your cock in your pants.
3. Keep hands OUT of your pants.
I assume most people have the common courtesy to not drop their pants in front of their grandma. In many ways this is better than being at your grandma's house, because you can talk as dirty as you'd like with no chance of encountering an awkward situation involving withered tits.**
Which leads me to DSP (Dirty Simon Pegg - this guy looked just like Simon Pegg, albeit a very dirty version of him). He came in on a Friday afternoon, bought a PBR, sat at my rack and commenced making entitled-prick stares at me (pursed lips, eyelids half closed, appearing displeased). No matter. I thanked him for tipping and ended up having a nice conversation at the bar with him consisting entirely of how smart he is and how much about this industry he knows, since he used to be married to a stripper and all that jazz. He eventually asks for a private dance, during which he continues his entitled-prick staring directly into the inner depths of my vagina. No matter. On the customer meter of awfulness, he rated about a 3/10 - not bad, not bad.
Until two girls pull me aside and tell me he was jacking off at my rack.
Because I'm on an elevated stage, I cannot see the lower half of the customers' bodies when they're sitting at the rack and would never have known if he was masturbating or not. But the girls are not positive they're talking about the same guy I'm thinking of. I feel I'm a pretty reasonable person, and I refuse to kick someone out unless I'm positive they've broken a rule. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt even if you are a scumbag. So when he crawled in the next day, I asked him, directly, "did you jack off at my rack yesterday?"
"No I did not."
DSP then proceeds to tell me that he's simply too gentlemanly to perform such a vulgar act and that he is embarrased that I would suggest such a heino-- "Are you sure you didn't? I won't kick you out if you tell me you did - I just need to know the truth."
"No I damn well fucking didn't."
I tell the girls what he said, then ask them if it's him. It most goddamn certainly is, and they even describe, in detail, the sight of his hand stroking down in his pants like he's petting a fucking hamster nestled between his legs.
And just like that, I found myself in a double bind - this guy would clearly continue to spend money on both the bar and I, however he clearly crossed a line... though nobody else saw. No, I decided, I would have to do the right thing; as I walked up to confront him he scuttled out of the bar.
I should probably end the story right there but find it hilarious that he came back the next day. I was ready to lay it on him, but he came in just as I was on stage. I effectively ignored him the entire routine, yet for some reason he still tipped me. As I'm about to calmly explain to him why I ignored him and why I'm unhappy with him, he very flatly proclaims "COULDN'T SEE" and scuttles out the door.
**Which actually reminds me of another story, for another time.
Awfulness: 3/10
Douchiness: 8/10
But we get bad apples. And we get a lot of them.
There's only a few rules, and the rules are in place for the protection and comfort of both the girls and the customers; it's not like we arbitrarily make them up to screw them over - no, we WANT to keep them there. The general rule of thumb is to act as if you're visiting an acquaintance's home. That said, the rules include but are not limited to:
1. Keep your pants on.
2. Keep your cock in your pants.
3. Keep hands OUT of your pants.
I assume most people have the common courtesy to not drop their pants in front of their grandma. In many ways this is better than being at your grandma's house, because you can talk as dirty as you'd like with no chance of encountering an awkward situation involving withered tits.**
Which leads me to DSP (Dirty Simon Pegg - this guy looked just like Simon Pegg, albeit a very dirty version of him). He came in on a Friday afternoon, bought a PBR, sat at my rack and commenced making entitled-prick stares at me (pursed lips, eyelids half closed, appearing displeased). No matter. I thanked him for tipping and ended up having a nice conversation at the bar with him consisting entirely of how smart he is and how much about this industry he knows, since he used to be married to a stripper and all that jazz. He eventually asks for a private dance, during which he continues his entitled-prick staring directly into the inner depths of my vagina. No matter. On the customer meter of awfulness, he rated about a 3/10 - not bad, not bad.
Until two girls pull me aside and tell me he was jacking off at my rack.
Because I'm on an elevated stage, I cannot see the lower half of the customers' bodies when they're sitting at the rack and would never have known if he was masturbating or not. But the girls are not positive they're talking about the same guy I'm thinking of. I feel I'm a pretty reasonable person, and I refuse to kick someone out unless I'm positive they've broken a rule. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt even if you are a scumbag. So when he crawled in the next day, I asked him, directly, "did you jack off at my rack yesterday?"
"No I did not."
DSP then proceeds to tell me that he's simply too gentlemanly to perform such a vulgar act and that he is embarrased that I would suggest such a heino-- "Are you sure you didn't? I won't kick you out if you tell me you did - I just need to know the truth."
"No I damn well fucking didn't."
I tell the girls what he said, then ask them if it's him. It most goddamn certainly is, and they even describe, in detail, the sight of his hand stroking down in his pants like he's petting a fucking hamster nestled between his legs.
And just like that, I found myself in a double bind - this guy would clearly continue to spend money on both the bar and I, however he clearly crossed a line... though nobody else saw. No, I decided, I would have to do the right thing; as I walked up to confront him he scuttled out of the bar.
I should probably end the story right there but find it hilarious that he came back the next day. I was ready to lay it on him, but he came in just as I was on stage. I effectively ignored him the entire routine, yet for some reason he still tipped me. As I'm about to calmly explain to him why I ignored him and why I'm unhappy with him, he very flatly proclaims "COULDN'T SEE" and scuttles out the door.
**Which actually reminds me of another story, for another time.
Awfulness: 3/10
Douchiness: 8/10
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