Loud obnoxious drunk guys

Yeah, I know what you're thinking - what is this, a post about every single day of work? And I can see where you might get that from the title. But there are some loud obnoxious drunk guys who really, miraculously, lower the bar. Like for instance, ones who are drunk by 4:00 p.m. on a Monday. Or who throw things at female bartenders and laugh when the girl has to pick it up five times in a row. Or - and this will have to take the cake here - ones who yell, loudly, while you're onstage, "When are the hot girls going to get here??"

To my credit (I guess), he was yelling it into the ear of another girl, who had been patiently sitting through his drunken douchebaggery for hours. And he followed it by laughing the kind of laugh that only a guy drunk at 4:00 p.m. can laugh, the kind where everyone for blocks can hear him, and you can practically taste the little bits of bar pretzel he spits at anybody within a five-foot radius.

The Toilet

Maybe I didn't make this clear enough in my last post.*

The dressing room to the new club is guarded by a black door with the word "Kittens" painted on it in Disney-style writing. It gives the impression that inside this room, we magically become little playthings that are distracted for hours on end by balls of yarn so that you can stare, uninterrupted, at our breasts.

If I had taken an extra step or two forwards after pushing open said door, I would have bashed my hip on the ceramic sink strategically placed directly in front of the entrance.

After walking back through a room no larger than your average storage closet, I enter the area where the lockers are, and I then place my personal items on the only shelf space in there: a toilet.

Just to be clear: the toilet isn't somewhere off to the side, it isn't hidden by a curtain. No. The toilet is front and center, proud and white. There is no doubt that the room we are supposedly using to muster the sexy was once, in it's heyday, a stall. A handicapped stall, maybe, but a stall nonetheless. I just find this fascinating. Why not take the toilet out? Would that be so hard? Why not give us ladies the feeling - right before we set foot on the floor to make our millions - that we are somewhere a little more sensual than a crapper? I just don't feel as though it sets the proper tone. I can't get over it.

*Or maybe I'm just so enthralled with the concept that I decided one sentence in one post didn't do it justice...

"If You're not Sucking my Pussy..."

This new club is amazing. For those of you who lost sleep over whether or not I'd get put on the schedule, per my last post, you may set the Ambien aside - I did. In fact, the manager called me the very next day to find out if I could cover for a few girls who called out sick. I almost said no because I had to pick my man piece up at the airport that night, but when I started to say I was too busy, this guy actually said to me, "oh...party foul." I mean, who can turn that down?

I only worked for three hours my first shift. The place is a fucking D to the I to the V to the E. No DJ, to begin with. Just a jukebox, which is sort of cool for the kitsch factor, I guess, but it stops being quite so cool a few sets in when you realize you've played all five of the good songs already. I did have the opportunity to dance to Warrant's "Cherry Pie," though, thanks to that jukebox, which I think the 13-year-old me would have been particularly proud of.

It's also the kind of club that keeps the lights on during the day, the better to use the pool tables and dart boards. The carpet is green, the ceiling to the stage is so low that you very seriously risk your life if you attempt a pole trick, and - the piece de resistance - there's a toilet smack in the middle of the dressing room. Just right out there, just a toilet right in the fucking middle of the room. I have no idea if it functions or not.

Anyway, an hour or so before I was going to leave, this girl comes in to start her shift. She's got short, bobbed hair and tattoos all over. She comes in yelling, screaming across the room to girls and to the five customers sitting at the bar who I assume were all regulars. After she gets dressed and does her first stage set, she walks back over to the bar.

"Hi Mike!" She's talking to one of the five guys, all dressed in work t-shirts, drinking beers and looking like they've spent the past twenty years of their lives standing outside in the California sunshine and have never bothered with something as bougie as SPF.

Mike mumbles something to her drunkenly, which I can't quite make out, but can pretty much fill in the blanks by the following: she gets up, angrily walks towards the dressing room, then turns around and yells back, "If you're not sucking my pussy, I'm not buying you a beer!!"

The only problem here is that the place is far away. I'm not sure how long I'll stay...but in the meantime, it's fucking awesome.