I’ve drunk to much, and now I’ve drawn a blank. I think this piece was going to be something witty, but now I fear it’s jus’ gonna be somethin’ about nothin’. And in the process, a complete massacre of the English language. Thank God I don’t know French. They hate massacres. Inevitably, the drunken, slurry speech about how your wife never puts out enough or the way your fav’rit football team lost on the weekend descends into a swathe of “blarggghargaaagh” and “musssshhhhinblaghreachhh”, before a big burly bouncer chucks you out on your drunken ass. Mention having an enormous penis (perhaps even in a more crude manner than I have here!) or a set of testicles that would make King Kong feel small and shriveled and watch the womenfolk at the Bar roll their eyes in disgust. Or, is it a come-on? In your drunken stupor, how can you tell? Groping lady-parts or pulling your pants down to dance along the bar isn’t considered acceptable behavior, and nor should it, yet each and every weekend around the world, people of all ages and physical abilities try to do just that.
You know how you go out for a night on the town and end up waking up looking like Jon Voight did at the end of Anaconda when the anaconda puked him up? Shit that film was cool. That’s how cool you’ll be if you end up in a river full of anacondas, but on a night in downtown Metropolis you ain’t gonna get very far with stylin’ up like LiLo after a bender. Puke and stained clothing, as well as a stench of urine and spilled beer, will make anybody approaching you retch in disgust, so don’t be confused if you think you’re Gods gift to women and all the women you meet just happen to be Lesbetians. They aren’t, and neither are you. We may poke gentle fun at those among us who get hammered and end up on the internet with their mugshot looking like a reject from Faces of Meth (Gary Busey, you fucking legend you!) but the sad hard fact is, man, you ain’t Gary Busey and nobody gives two cracks how cool you think you are while you’re pissed.
Pissed people are generally offensive, whether they mean to be or not. They’re inconsiderate, loud and obnoxious. Or asleep in the corner, but those types don’t come along as often as the potty-mouthed fight-seekers. They make good tabloid fodder, the ever-present security vision highlight reel on the five-o’clock-news will attest to that. Drunken fighting only looked cool when Jackie Chan did it. So don’t bother, because you’ll look like a right tool. And not the good kind.
I was out on my good mate’s Bucks Night (otherwise known as a Stag Night in more seppo sections of the world) and it was, I believe, quite late in the night (or early in the morning, I forget), when we stumbled past a hotel that was packed so deep with people they were falling out the windows. Now, our group (I think there were about a dozen of us) had enjoyed a night of strippers, booze and music; we’d successfully made our way down the nightclub district visiting almost every bar, strip-joint and club we could gain access to. Most of us were a little tipsy, and more than a few of us were absolutely fucked up from the floor up. So we’re walking -staggering- past this bar, with the Buck wearing a set of fake boobs and a hula skirt (and not much else) when some drunk dude lurches from the doorway and proceeds to face-off against my friend. The Buck, who stands about nine feet tall if he’s an inch, looked down to his nipples, which was about where our drunken interloper made it to, and laughed drunkenly. Note to self, never laugh at an angry drunk dude. This guy had taken offense at the Buck wearing a hula skirt, and wanted to make something of it. We didn’t know him, and he didn’t know us. And the hula skirt wasn’t that bad, honestly. For a moment, in a drunken moment of gayness, I thought about trying a move.
Now, I’d like to say that the dozen of us manned up and took this clown down to Chinatown, but before we could bear arms and send his testicles on holiday to his sphincter, the bouncer at the door made his move. Now, the bouncer was even bigger than my mate, the Buck. He was as wide as he was tall, and looked like he’d take on a bunch of Hell’s Angels and pick his teeth with their bone fragments. He grabbed this dude by the arm, and swung him around to face him. The drunk dude was about to launch an attach at the bouncer in retaliation when he suddenly he realized that he was physically outmatched. As the guy looked up into the face of the bouncer, I got the sense that his bowels had let go with fear, and piss began to run from his crotch. We just kept walking, and I don’t know how that little tete-a-tete ended up, but I like to think it involved a parking meter, several minutes of insertion, and a lovely amount of ass-banditry.
Mental note – always wear brown pants out for a night on the town: you never know when you’re going to shit yourself. If you feel angry about something, don’t start a fight at the bar. The bar-folk don’t give a shit what your problem is, they just want you to either buy more booze, or getthefuckout. No sense being there to be taught that lesson by some big hairy guy with more ink on his arms than a BIC employee. I’ve already written a short diatribe on the perils of being drunk out in public, but I wanted to reiterate it again specifically for the guys reading this. Guys, you don’t look good when you’re pissed. Unless you’re fucking Jack Sparrow or that guy from The Rolling Stones who looks like he died forty years ago and nobody told him. Don’t try it.
I only say all this because I’ve really got nothing more to add. I’ve blown my creative wad, so to speak, with my previous posts. So I’m just rambling. Rambling like the Crazy Cat Lady on The Simpsons, ‘cept I’m not crazy and I don’t have any cats. That I know of. My original idea was to write something pithy (no, not pissy with a lisp) about drink driving, about my unfulfilled fantasy about having sex with Mila Kunis, and even a tentative prod at my inability to coherently form a sentence without brackets. I promise, my next post here at the Bar will involve the tale of the blowjob I got while on air at a local radio station. For now, I write this simply to pass the time. I’m here waiting for something to happen.
Wait, there’s a knock at the door. I’ll go see who it is.
Nope, it’s just the neighbor wanting to know if I remember borrowing his garden clippers. Do I remember? Nahh. I remember breaking them and throwing them in the trash, but I’m not gonna admit that to him. I’ll just let him think I gave them back and he’s forgotten. Time for a glass of wine. Might help settle my lying nerves. What have we learned today? Yep, don’t borrow your neighbors garden clippers. Buy your own you cheap bastard.
Hot Rod Out.