Get a Bass Ale instead. It’s less bitchy.

So I’m sitting at my local English pub, taking in a nice pint of happy hour priced beer, when two slim, tiny black dress wearing, over make-upped female waifs come high heel clickity-clacking over to me. Prostitutes? Worse. Promotional beer girls. And to top it off, they’re fucking bitches.

But let me get to that part. First of all, these girls’ schtick, to quote Miss Vanessa from Kingpin, was about as fresh as a foghat concert. “Hi, I’m Angela,” a beat, “..and I’m Trish.” Way too chipper and in your face, especially for 6 in the evening at happy hour in a British pub, which, these chicks are impossibly overdressed for. These tight, black dresses and clickity-clack clog heels had no place amidst the cobblestoned floor, copper-topped bar or free happy hour pigs in a blanket. This wasn’t Les Deux, it’s a bar, where people come to blow off some steam after work, not chase underage tail and blow.

But alas, I had made eye contact with these chicks and as one of the younger and less fat regulars at the bar, they had locked into me. Trying to pawn off some coupon for a dollar off of Heineken. I accept, even though I don’t really like Heineken, once I redeem the coupon I get some free stupid shit with Heineken logos plastered all over them. But then they whip out some games on the iPhone, some music trivia quiz or whatever and I know some of the answers, so now they’re fawning all over me for having an ounce of very general musical knowledge and now I’m uncomfortable because the only reason I’m in this bar for the fourth straight night is because I want to flirt with the hot bartender working here who makes me pay for my booze. Anyway, I try to be friendly and ask where they’re from. They then ask me what brought me to L.A. “I’m an actor” [I know I said in a recent post that I’m not really an actor yet, but I already didn’t like these chicks [see above] so I figured I’d big time them because I’m a prick].

“Yeah right, isn’t everybody?”

CUNT. Yeah, this is Hollywood; yeah they are, but you’re the one who’s fucking working right now, so if you want me to buy your shitty product for slightly less overpriced than usual, why don’t you feign some interest in my comment. I am the one on National TV right now who also was on avail for, of all things, a Heineken commercial not too long ago.

Nevermind, they tell me maybe I should just download the music game app if I like playing it so much, even though they’ve already taken a lap through the beer garden and NO ONE else is giving them the time of day. I mention my lack of iPhone, and then they start pitching me how great fucking iPhones are. Suddenly I’m compelled to cash in my voucher and suck down a lame Heiny, if anything, it’ll phase these sirens out a little bit. Queen bitch is showing me all the great shit you can do with an iPhone, like looking up your Actor’s Access account directly. “Oh, can I see your profile?” I ask for absolutely no reason.

“Well, you can look that up on your own time.”

BITCH. Wow, what happened to the playful banter, the harmless flirting, the need to sell your fucking product ? Replaced by barrels and barrels of slaggish attitude. But here’s where it really gets precious:

After I get my bottle of shitty Euro-swill, they want to take a picture with me. Holding the Heineken. I inquire what it’s for; I don’t want it on some website where it appears I’m endorsing Heineken, effectively creating a conflict for beer commercial auditions, which, at this point in my acting career, is my most sought after accomplishment. I tell them this much: “You know, I’d prefer not to, like I said, I’m an actor.” Thinking I was big timing these whores again, the leader of this brainless, barely sales savvy duo big times me into next week.

“Oh that doesn’t really matter,”

Okay.

“They don’t even check conflicts nowadays anyway,”

I’m sure they don’t.

“I mean I was in a couple car commercials”

Suuuuuuure.

“and it was never an issue then, it’s no big deal.”

Should I be writing this down?

Honestly, the story ends there, because I truly for the life of me do not remember anything about these two worthless cunties after this fucking remark. I completely mentally blocked them out of my mind and who the fuck knows, maybe they ran off to some other bar where they were loathed by the barstaff less so. All I know is this chick was completely full of shit, another one of the oft-mentioned bottom feeders I come across who think they’re going to school me on the acting game; of course, while they’re passing out Heineken keychains (which broke after about five minutes of playing with it). Really? Two car commercials? And you’re still doing liquor promotions on a Thursday night because, what, you really love street theater? Get the fuck out of my bar and get me a Stella while you’re at it.

So what did these sales gals really affect at this drinking establishment? They made me feel a whole helluva lot better about myself and they reminded me why I love Bass Ale so much.

But what the fuck would I know, I’m just an actor.