In all my time as a bartender, I’ve never seen such a bunch of degenerate losers as the gang from Bitter Lawyer. They’ve been coming to my bar since the site began, but it wasn’t until they had their “holiday party” that I got the full effect.
What I know of the story is that planning began when the boys in the BL Newsroom asked Ex-Bitter to get them drunk in exchange for all their so-called hard work. It seemed like a reasonable request, but Ex-Bitter had no intention of being reasonable until he had more advertisers for the site. “Money ain’t free, ya know,” he said with a, yup, you guessed it, “bitter edge” in his voice.
Embittered and broke, the BL Newsies left work early that day and crawled into a bottle of whisky at my bar—The Bitter End. There, they resolved to get Ernest Hemingway-drunk. Or, at least as drunk as they could get before I asked to see some cash. But as the afternoon turned to night and the liquor worked its mojo, inspiration took hold.
If Ex-Bitter didn’t want to spread the holiday joy, that was his problem. So, they sent out a message to their Facebook group, knowing that they’d bring in their contributors and a handful of diehard readers who clearly had nothing better to do around the holidays. What a goddamn crew. No wonder they don’t have any advertisers.
Bitter Temp Guy
Bitter Temp Guy was the first to arrive. “It’s not like I have a real job or anything,” he said, even though he hadn’t had a day off since he passed the bar (on his second attempt, according to one wasted Newsie). He claims to have read an estimated 3.6 million documents in 2008, but when the Newsie boys insisted he buy a round, he hawed and insisted he only $2,569 in his checking account to show for it. I bet his apartment smells. And I can’t imaging the slouch has been laid since law school. He was more or less in the bag by the time the others started filtering in. Not that anyone really cared.
PhilaLawyer, is that you?
A random, well-dressed man at the bar said he was PhilaLawyer—like that was supposed to mean something to me! Since he was 1) acting like a jerk, and 2) willing to buy the drinks, the BL Newsies didn’t ask any questions. Especially after he bought them all a round a round of Peppermintinis . He started bitching like the bitter lawyer he is till he quickly figured out, “Happy Hour Is for Amateurs, fellas, and this is a sausage fest. Where the hell are the chicks?”
If you saw these cats, you’d know the answer to that question, trust me. These clowns couldn’t get laid at the Bunny Ranch.
Thankfully, a few minutes later, an attractive damn attractive woman arrived. She started a tab under the last name Dickman. “I think that’s Al’s wife!” one of the Newsie blubbered at the other end of the bar—whatever the hell that means. The Newsies stared a lot and started getting all weird and loud. Hot chicks will do that to ya.
A few minutes later, while all the Newsies kept yapping about how the hot dame, and just as PhilaLawyer was about to go in for the kill, her dopey husband came in and joined her. If you ask me, she was probably a working girl. Hired for the night from some LA modeling agency. No woman that cute marries an ass-hat like that.
As the Newsies were ogling Ms. Dickman, that BL1Y dude tried to get a game of quarters going with a bunch of apathetic, drunken Elves who eventually told him to take a hike.
I concealed a laugh, but felt kind of bad. I bought him a drink and told him to talk to Bitter Temp Guy, who was over in a booth droning on to himself about how some chicks actually dig losers. “That’s my niche. Chicks who like underachievers and want to fix them,” BL1Y said.
Sure, and most strippers are actually working their way through medical school. Whatever.
Law Firm 10 and Katie Apple
Finally, two good looking ladies showed up. Law Firm 10 and Katie Apple. They were dressed to the nines. Especially Law Firm 10. “It’s very important to look good—even at holiday parties hosted by losers.”
As they walked up to the bar, Katie Apple studies her pal’s outfit—and smoking body—and said, “You’re a ten for goodness sake.”
“A law firm ten,” she corrected quietly. “Which is a real world 7.” Apple was too new to the law to understand that a Law Firm 10 was a dubious title. But when PhilaLawyer offered to buy her a drink and give her some career advice, she quickly accepted, despite the fact that Law Firm 10 tried to warn her about guys like him.
John T. Woods
“Sorry I’m late, fellas,” John T. Woods explained to the BL Newsies. “Every time I go to Century City I get mobbed by lawyers wanting my autograph. Price of fame, I guess.”
I nearly spit out my club soda when I heard that whopper. Hollywood D-bags are all the same. It’s just a stupid web series. Not even cable.
But I gotta give the chap credit where credit is due. He was flanked by a trio of women that would make George Clooney blush. A six-foot-tall red head, a brunette with curves all over the place and a lithesome, Kate Moss-esque blonde. Apparently, the women haven’t left his side since he wrapped season one of Living the Dream. “Woodsie’s Angels,” he called them. The mere sight of them was enough to shut that barfly Alex Hump up for the night. Thank God.
The brunette leaned over the bar, making sure I got a nice look at her beautiful breasts, and whispered, “Vote for Johnnie.” Sometimes this job has its perks.
Lady of Law
Alone, another woman showed up an hour later, ready for business. She wasn’t there ten minutes before she made a bee-line for Bitter Temp Guy, but within feet of his booth, Law Firm 10 intercepted her. Her outfit was all wrong. And covered in cat hair.
“Talk to him in that sweater, and you’ll be sunk,” Law Firm 10 explained. “It’s a party, let him see some skin. It won’t hurt.”
Grudgingly, Lady of Law ditched her sweater and slammed back a house white zin at the corner of the bar and tipped me ten bones. Female lawyers on the prowl make the best customers.
“Go get him, girl,” Law Firm 10 said.
I wished her luck too. It was the holidays after all. And the poor lass looked she needed some action. Know what I’m saying?
But when Lady of Law got to Bitter Temp Guy’s booth, it was BL1Y who did the talking.
“You don’t want a temp,” he said. “I made Law Review. I bill 2,000 hours a year.”
“Who cares?” Lady of Law asked. “Nobody at Bitter Lawyer made Law Review. Did you see that article on Tom Cruise? Who were they kidding? It wasn’t even funny. Or spellchecked.”
But BL1Y did not take rejection well. He got all steamed and called Lady of Law a fat moose.
Disrespecting a woman like that isn’t allowed in any bar I run. I was about toss this guy to the curb, but Bitter Temp Guy stood up to take control. He had been drinking for hours and heard all he needed. He started mumbling about how much he loathed associates, especially first years—a breed, he said, was utterly useless.
Finally, Bitter Temp Guy grew a pair and told BL1Y to step outside. The Newsies were overjoyed by the commotion. “This is going to perfect in Loose Ends tomorrow.” As the crowd walked out into the December air, everyone knew that the altercation would make it official, because it wasn’t an office holiday party until someone made an ass out of himself. Or got his ass kicked.
I followed, ready to call the police, if things got out of hand.
Just as these two idiots were about to throw down, some dude in a Bentley rolled up. Ex-Bitter was his name.
He hopped out, surveyed the scene and quickly dispensed some advice.
“You want to make partner, BL1Y?” Ex-Bitter asked, his voice halting the fight.
“Of course, but how is that germane to this street brawl?”
“First off, only D-bags use the word germane when they could just as easily say relevant,” Ex-Bitter said. “Second, partners don’t get into bar fights. Especially with unemployed temp losers. So shake hands, go back inside and have some fun.”
BL1Y couldn’t help but listen. It wasn’t often Ex-Bitter gave unsolicited advice. Even Dickman agreed. “This guy knows what he’s talking about.” BL1Y and Bitter Temp Guy shook on it and headed back inside.
Ex-Bitter was relieved. It was almost Christmas for God’s sake. No time for fights—or potential lawsuits.
“Let’s get drunk,” Ex-Bitter said to the remaining crowd. “On me.”
“But you said that you were broke?” a disheveled Newsie inquired.
“I am,” he said, as he pulled out his Amex black card. On his way inside, he turned to Dickman and tried to hit him up for a $200,000 investment. But that Dickman’s no dummy. “I like your site, but let’s face it, it’s never going to make a fucking penny.”
Ex-Bitter smiled and said, “You’re smarter than I thought, Dickman. Now let’s grab a drink.”
Happy Holidays from all your friends at Bitter Lawyer.