Everyone is Hollywood is seeking something. Usually it’s a career, but sometimes it’s something else. Last night, I met a frumpy sewer rat looking for souls to steal.
I was out with a new friend that lives in LA, and she’s just been approached by some guy itching to get in her knickers; Jake. Jake, the snake – apparently. And he wasn’t lying by the facial expressions on my friend’s face when he positioned himself her. So anyway, feeling like a third wheel to a straight couple in a gay bar, I start talking to this wench and her male friend. He was British and lovely, she was… there.
“Who are they?” she snarled, flicking her spindly index finger at my new friend and her hung counterpart.
I explained that one was a friend of a friend, while the other was Jake the snake.
“He doesn’t have a big dick.” She exclaimed. Like the fraggle had ever seen one before, let alone been penetrated by enough of them be able to judge someone’s dick size just by looking at them. “He looks about twelve” she continued, “he doesn’t even look old enough to be in here”. Unlike you, you dusty haggered crow, I thought, as the venom spew from her thin disappearing lips.
Everybody knows, that if you’re gonna be a bitch, the minimum required is that you’re at least hot. I don’t know why it works that way, but ugly bitches just don’t have a well-heeled leg to stand on. And this one certainly didn’t. She was like Katie Hopkins less wittier sister. And say what you want about Katie Hop, yes she’s a bitch, but on the rare ocassion she has reason to be. And on mariginally more common ocassion, she’s funny with it. This goat was being a cunt just for the sake of it. Or well, just because she lives in LA.
“She’s a bitch.” I simply stated to gay friend, when she was looking around the room for little children to eat. To which he smiled, and agreed.
Quite comically deluded how some people believe being a hard-faced troll will get you to the top. No babe, you’re going to die as miserable as that blunt cut and those split ends. Perhaps acting like a nasty old shrew is the reason why the closest thing you have to love in your life, is a distant friendship with a gay man that doesn’t like you.
“What do you do?” she asked me, desperate to know if I had anything that could help her. Apart from the phone number of a decent stylist and a load of nicotine smoke to blow up her arse. “What do you write?” she pried, after I told her I was a writer. So I handed her a business card, which she immediately gave straight back to me without hesitation. “There’s no point giving that to me, I’ll only throw it in the bin”. Do it then bitch, and don’t forget to toss in your make-up case too.
“And what do you do?” I asked in return. Not that I gave two fucks, but was curious as to what position this skank held as to look down her bulbous nose at everyone for.
“I work in advertising”. She replied.
It was like the mist on a foggy was beginning to clear and everything started to make sense. OH, you work in advertising? Is that because you’re too ugly to be actress and have retaliated to the unfortunate hand you’ve been dealt by attempting to drag every person around you into the depths of your dank existence. She comes across as the type of troll that would have stated her position in the company, had it been worth mentioning, so I’ll just assume that she gets the coffee, because nobody wants to hire a hyena with an attitude that’s as unattractive as their protruding teeth.
The conversation continued with shards of glass flying from her mouth at every opportunity. She informed me that if I was going to do well in LA, I’d have to become a total bitch. Wow, if you sucked dick like you sucked the life out of people, you might have some fucking friends. It’s clear that wasn’t on her list of priorities, so I decided to give the bitch a little bit of London ‘tude.
“I, personally think that if someone needs to be rude to other people to get ahead in life and be successful, that they’re weak as fuck. Are you weak? Is that why you do it?” I probed her like I was searching for a man’s G-spot for the first time. Think you run tings ’cause you’re from California? I’m from Lewisham yeah, so it’s probably better if you take a seat, before I have to push you onto one.
She shrugged her shoulders; with as much care for my comment as she’d put into her outfit. But you could tell my comment had got under her skin. And with no friends to bitch about me to.
