Girls, please, don't drink so much
Times are hard, you look for odd jobs. So I find myself working as a doorman at a relatively nice bar. I'm here to advise you women out there: please, don't get trashed out of your minds. For a variety of reasons. You could go home with the wrong guy, you could forget to use a rubber, with the wrong guy, after you go home with him. You might not notice when the really wrong guy slips something into your drink... I had an ex-fiancee who had that happen. Rohypnol apparently shows up as a narcotic when they screen your blood after an accident, and they can blame it on you, even if you're injured.
There are also the more mundane, and practical reasons. Maybe you say something stupid, maybe you do something stupid, maybe you eat something stupid, and your bowels belch fiery fury for hours on end the next day.
But here's the top of the pile. The other night, I saw something I swear I'll take to my grave.
It's after last call, we're running everyone out. It's closing time, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here, etc, etc. This guy comes over to me. His girlfriend is in the bathroom, has been in the bathroom for a while, and he's a little concerned. Since most everyone else has left, I go to check. I'm a gentleman, I grab a waitress to witness, I announce that I'm coming in, hello, hello, is there anyone in here. (Please, god, don't be crying, passed out in a puddle of something, or hollering at the unfortunately empty tampon dispenser.)
There she is, sitting on the pot. Head between her knees, directly over her underwear... and her underwear and pantyhose are full of puke. Hair, too, but that's not what's about to be the problem. The waitress is aghast, dumbstruck, and speechless. I'm tired, it's time to go home, so I give her shoulder a shake. Come on sweety, time to go.
"Huh? Oh... hey... hi. OK, OK." Typical drunken gibberish. Then the girl stands up.
Now, I've been pretty drunk. I've woken up in some truly horrifying places, had to go back there the next day to retrieve my wallet. Kissed some women that looked like rhinos, and, well... I've been around. But usually when I come to, I have the presence of mind to look around and see where I was and what was going on, because usually... well, that's just the first thing I do.
She doesn't. She pulls her underwear, and pantyhose, snug all the way to the top, still full of puke. settles her skirt, and staggers out of the bathroom. She gives her boyfriend the slumped over, arm around the waist, I'm sloshed honey, please take me home.
God... dear, sweet, hope you're up there god... please tell me she didn't get horny when they got home. Please tell me she didn't get mad at him for not wanting to go down. For the only time in the guy's life, he may have legitimately been able to claim the smell was the reason, but still.
Girls, please. I don't want to keep anyone on a pedestal, I can understand, everyone likes a good old fashioned night on the town. And sure, there's nothing like a really good drinking story. Remind me some night to tell you about me, the fire bell, and paying for bad food with my belt buckle in Juarez.
But this was really nothing like a good drinking story. For the love of god, your underpants, your dignity, your boyfriend... or just your bouncer... Please. A little moderation, ok?
There are also the more mundane, and practical reasons. Maybe you say something stupid, maybe you do something stupid, maybe you eat something stupid, and your bowels belch fiery fury for hours on end the next day.
But here's the top of the pile. The other night, I saw something I swear I'll take to my grave.
It's after last call, we're running everyone out. It's closing time, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here, etc, etc. This guy comes over to me. His girlfriend is in the bathroom, has been in the bathroom for a while, and he's a little concerned. Since most everyone else has left, I go to check. I'm a gentleman, I grab a waitress to witness, I announce that I'm coming in, hello, hello, is there anyone in here. (Please, god, don't be crying, passed out in a puddle of something, or hollering at the unfortunately empty tampon dispenser.)
There she is, sitting on the pot. Head between her knees, directly over her underwear... and her underwear and pantyhose are full of puke. Hair, too, but that's not what's about to be the problem. The waitress is aghast, dumbstruck, and speechless. I'm tired, it's time to go home, so I give her shoulder a shake. Come on sweety, time to go.
"Huh? Oh... hey... hi. OK, OK." Typical drunken gibberish. Then the girl stands up.
Now, I've been pretty drunk. I've woken up in some truly horrifying places, had to go back there the next day to retrieve my wallet. Kissed some women that looked like rhinos, and, well... I've been around. But usually when I come to, I have the presence of mind to look around and see where I was and what was going on, because usually... well, that's just the first thing I do.
She doesn't. She pulls her underwear, and pantyhose, snug all the way to the top, still full of puke. settles her skirt, and staggers out of the bathroom. She gives her boyfriend the slumped over, arm around the waist, I'm sloshed honey, please take me home.
God... dear, sweet, hope you're up there god... please tell me she didn't get horny when they got home. Please tell me she didn't get mad at him for not wanting to go down. For the only time in the guy's life, he may have legitimately been able to claim the smell was the reason, but still.
Girls, please. I don't want to keep anyone on a pedestal, I can understand, everyone likes a good old fashioned night on the town. And sure, there's nothing like a really good drinking story. Remind me some night to tell you about me, the fire bell, and paying for bad food with my belt buckle in Juarez.
But this was really nothing like a good drinking story. For the love of god, your underpants, your dignity, your boyfriend... or just your bouncer... Please. A little moderation, ok?
posted by Taxi Mark at 1:48 AM
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