Once upon a time, unscrupulous bar owners hired women of questionable repute to boost bar sales. They were called "B Girls" and they flirted with male customers to entice the gentlemen to buy drinks for them. The practice is illegal now.
In recent years however liquor and beer companies have employed similar tactics. They hire scantily clad, provocative women to go into bars and inspire alcohol sales, circumnavigating the room like living billboards -- enticing weak or unsuspecting men to buy their liquor brands.
I call them Booze Floozies and they are powerful and evil.
The Jack Daniels floozies dress in black. They wear skimpy, black Jack Daniels shirts, thin black stretch pants, and a Jack Daniels stick-on patch on their asses. The Coors Light Sirens dress in snug, silver, shiny dresses. The Smirnoff Twist chicks wear rubber leotards and wigs of varying colors. The St. Pauli Girl girls act like sex-crazed German farm wenches looking for an ornery horse to ride. The Bacardi bawdys, Jager jezebels, and Miss Coronas all descend upon your favorite watering hole and urge you to drink there swill which would be fine except, I want to drink my own goddam drinks at my own goddamn pace and I don't need some fake-flirting booze bimbo convincing me otherwise.
May 14, 2001: Wednesday, 11:12 pm:
You are sitting on a stool at one end of the bar. A Jager brunette is on the other end. She is making her way up the line of customers sitting on bar stools. She approaches the first in line and shoves her chest into his face. He is stunned, as if a grenade threw him out of a foxhole. Her cleavage is so . . . expansive. It's like a fault line. Like her cleavage were the crevice that opens during earthquake and -- before he even knew what she was selling -- he found himself freefalling into her fiery, molten core.
"Will you buy a shot of Jagermeister?" She asks.
"Must. Have. Jagermeister." he replies.
Up the line she comes, to the next guy. "Would you like to buy a shot of Jagermeister?" she coos.
"No Thanks," he says, and turns away. She puts her arm around him and whispers in his ear, "Are you sure?" He shrugs and retrieves his wallet. "Two shots of Jager," he tells the barman.
Up the line she continues, to the next guy and the next and you watch as men -- men who are stronger, bigger than you -- crumble to the floor in her presence. You worry that you might not be able to resist her siren call. So you begin practicing what you are going to say when she arrives. "No thank you, I don't like Jagermeister. No thank you I don't like Jagermeister. No thank you I don't like Jagermeister..."
Up the line she comes. Destroying everything in her path. You see men -- men who were once wild bucking stallions -- rise from the floor, beaten and confused, with the Jager logo branded on their foreheads, and that crazy, cackling floozy waving the still-sizzling branding iron in the air.
Up the line she comes, until she is upon you. Flying in your air space. Bombing your silos. Breaking your code. You smell her hot, rank breath and something twinkles in your groin. It feels wonderful. Some would say it feels like love. You say it feels like a mouse scuttling on your testicles like they were exercise wheels. Her eyelashes flutter as she urges you to purchase a shot of Jager.
"No you Jager I do not thanks like," you respond.
She softly places her hand on your shoulder and tells you to imagine how it would be to drink sweet Jager from her indecent fault line.
You shudder, but remain composed.
She realizes you are one stubborn bronco. She snaps her fingers and two bejeweled concubines materialize from thin air, presenting you with . . . The Box of Swag.
Oh no, not the Box of Swag!
Oh yes, the Box of Swag,"
The concubines place the box before you. Inside is an assortment of trinkets: Jagermeister key chains, Jagermeister patches, Jagermeister stickers, coasters, glasses, mugs and all the meaningless debris you would normally just toss in the trash. Only, now, they are as precious metals. For these are gifts of the booze concubines.
"Oh Yes I will buy your Jagermeister," You say, as you frolic in the Box of Swag -- running trinkets through your fingers like a greedy king in a treasure chest -- "And we shall thrash like lovestruck hyenas in a vat of warm grape oil," you say as you reach into the Box of Swag and take a key chain you will never use, a sticker you will never peel, a small box of shot glasses that will gather dust in your cupboard forever, and a hat that will fall apart the first time it touches your stinking, greezy head. Then you pull out your wallet and purchase not one, not two, but thirty-six shots of Jagermeister for you, the girl and -- "Oh hell. . . ring the bell" -- the whole goddam bar.
I call them the Booze Floozies and they are powerful and evil.