Hi! I'm the waitress at your local nudie bar.
“Two drinks!” you scream, “they didn’t tell us at the door!”
Let me explain, idiot:
They don’t tell you that at the door because they don’t want to scare you cheap bastards off. See, you come in, you see a naked dancing lady, chances are, even the cheap mofo’s want to stay. You’ll probably be too distracted by the live pussy to notice the signs on all the tables that say, “two drink minimum.” So I’ve been hired at minimum wage to inform you.
I don’t tell you this. Instead, I smile, and in the sweetest, bubbliest voice minimum wage can buy, I say,
“It’s not the doorman’s job to tell you about the two drink minimum, it’s MY job!”
I hold a little sign with all the drinks and prices on it in front of you and ask kindly, “What would you like?”
You ignore the sign and say, “I’ll have a Budweiser.”
This is where I change my tone to sad and empathetic.
“We don’t serve alcohol,” I explain, “It’s illegal in San Diego to have full nudity and alcohol.”
I feel you. I understand. You make me want to drink.
Other times, I think, good try, little under-21 punk. You only got in because it’s an 18 and up club.
You finally look at the sign I’ve patiently held in front of your face. This is where you exclaim loudly, “$4.25 for a COKE?!!”
Inwardly, I sigh. Outwardly, I correct,
“$8.50. You have to buy two.”
I sense your confusion, (not too good at math, eh?) so I explain again,
“It’s a TWO drink minimum.”
Let me explain: In America, when you have a business, you want it to make money. Say you have a nudie bar in a city/state where it’s illegal to have full nudity and booze under the same roof. Where the heck are you going to make your money? You gotta sell something. So you sell cokes and juices for $4.25. And you make it a two-drink minimum.
Now you’re really upset.
“8.50 for two cokes? I’m not paying $8.50 for two cokes!”
Here’s a reality check, idiot: First of all, I’m talking to you. I doubt women talk to you much, unless, like me, they’re in the service industry. That’s gotta be worth something. Secondly, have you been to the movies lately? They’re like $9, and you don’t even get cokes. What’s more, you have to leave after an hour and 50 minutes. In a strip club, the entertainment is live. Nudity, right in front of you, and you can stay longer than an hour and fifty minutes. Plus you get two nonalcoholic drinks. For a mere $8.50. It’s really a super bargain. So get off my ass. I didn’t set the prices.
The more I think about this, the more it bugs me. You aren’t paying $8.50 for cokes; you are paying $8.50 for the privilege of having many women take their clothes off and dance before you. Ask some random non-crack head woman outside to take her clothes off and dance for you for $8.50. See what happens. You might get slapped, you might get the police called on you. Now, with that same $8.50, you go try to get 15 women to do it. It ain’t gonna happen, buddy. So buy the drinks and realize it’s a bargain.
But I don’t balk at your resistance to the $8.50. Instead, I make a cute little flirty face and purr, “It’s really worth it…” (I’m a real fucking bargain at minimum wage, I tell you.)
Now what gets me is the sheer percentage of you who will---after all this---say,
“Nah, I’m good. I don’t want anything.”
You look past me, at the naked dancing lady, verbally and non verbally telling me, “go away …”
I try to put it in even simpler terms. I say,
“It’s a two drink MINIMUM. You HAVE to buy two drinks to be in here.”
Then pause, dumb it down more:
“You HAVE TO BUY TWO DRINKS.”
You don’t want to tear your eyes away from the bent over ass a few yards in front of you. I know, it’s a joy to watch a pretty naked girl bent over slapping her own ass. But somewhere in your pea brain, it registers that you cannot fully enjoy the ass until you get the persistent waitress to leave.
“Okay, okay,” you grumble.
“What would you like?” I ask, slightly relieved. My smile is warmer.
You look back at the sign. On it, an assortment of non-alcoholic beverages. Coke, diet coke, Sprite. Orange juice. Cranberry juice. Etcetera.
You start reading it. Slowly.
Yessssssss, your waitress has allllllllllllllllll dayyyyyyyyyy...
After an eternity, you decide.
“I’ll have coke.”
I turn to your friend, whose been standing next to you the entire time.
“What would you like?”
“Uh, nothing. I’m not thirsty.”
Part Two: I Bring the Drinks
“Are you guys paying separately or together?”
“That’ll be eight fifty,” I say.
You see two cokes in front of you. You complain,
“Ahh, you bring ‘em two at a time?”
“Yes, you idiot. Like I would trust you to buy one now and one later?”
Actually I only say, “Yes. “
You hand me a twenty.
I make change, giving you eleven one-dollar bills and two quarters.
Why so many ones?
A. Because it’s a strip club! I’m hoping that once you see a big pile of ones, you’ll realize what they’re for, and give me one.
B. I know if I don’t give you a bunch of dollar bills now, you will be asking for them later when the stripper whose ass you’ve been staring at hits you up for money……… And lastly,
C. Since you’re probably not going to tip me well on the drinks, you for sure aren’t going to tip me for a second trip if I have to bring you change later. I unload all my ones on you now to save myself the trouble.
But I do make it slightly inconvenient. I have learned not to hand you your change, which you will pocket. If I put your change on my tray, you have to pick it up. I’m counting on you being too lazy to pick up the quarters. That way, I’ll get at least fifty cents, (yeah, it’s pathetic what I gotta do for fifty cents). Fifty cents is more of an insult than a tip, but because I make so little, I figure it’s better than nothing.
So you pick up the bills. You look at the two quarters on my tray, decide it’s not worth it, and leave them. You didn’t tip me; you were just too lazy to pick up the quarters. You don’t say thank you. Neither do I.
I turn to your friend.
“$8.50,” I say.
He’s rifling thru his pockets. He’s scrounged up a five-dollar bill and three wadded ones. He drops them on my tray.
“It’s $8.50,” I say. “You’re short fifty cents.”
He looks at you.
“You got fifty cent?”
You remember that fifty cents and nod at my tray. It’s already there. For a $17 order, I get nothing. And because I value/need my job, I don’t say anything.
Here’s a little rule: When you buy a drink, never tip less than a dollar. I live so far under the poverty level that I have to go to bars with $2 drink nights. I still tip a buck a drink.
If you ask your strip club waitress to go get someone because you want a lap dance, give me a dollar for my trouble. If you didn’t tip me for drinks, and don’t intend to tip me to go get her, get off your ass and get her yourself.
Lastly, don’t come in with a bunch of guys, have a big order, not tip me, then ask me to change $40 into ones to tip the dancers with.
I’m not making a living wage. My paychecks do not even cover my share of rent. And guess what? In the tipping/service industry, the government assumes we are getting tipped, and taxes us accordingly. I lose money when you don’t tip. It costs me money out of my paycheck!
My favorite: I wish you were out there reading this, but I’m assuming you’re retarded and illiterate. You came in. You bought two drinks. You asked for all ones for change. You gave me nothing, explaining, “I need these for tips.”
Let me explain something: You’re telling me that the naked ladies are more important for you to tip than your server. Well guess what? Some of those naked ladies (deservedly) make over $500 per night. Your dollar, little man, doesn’t mean shit to her. You will only mean something to her if you get her in a private booth and let her do a string of lap dances for you at $15 a pop. Ten dances, she’ll remember you and smile at you next time you come in.
I’ve seen strippers pick up dollars time and time again and not say “Thank you.” I will always say thank you for a dollar. That dollar will mean a lot more to your waitress.
I can’t believe you, saying, “I need these for tips.” Then not tipping me, your server.
I hope all that jacking off gives you carpal tunnel.