Okay I had a good one last week so here's another for you guy.....
used to think that Red Bull was the most destructive invention of the past 50 years. I was wrong. Red Bull has been usurped by the portable alcohol breathalyzer. The same device that cops have been using for 10 years to conduct field sobriety tests is now offered by the Sharper Image for $99. It is the size and shape of a small cell phone with a clear round tube sticking up from the top, almost like an antenna. One blows into the tube, and a few seconds later a Blood Alcohol Content (BAC) reading is given. Though not as accurate as a blood test, they are accurate to within .01, which is good enough for my purposes.
I was living in Boca Raton, Florida, when I bought one to take out with me on a Saturday night. This is the story:
9:00pm: Arrive at the restaurant. I am the first one of the group there, even though our reservations are for 9pm. The restaurant is crowded full of the abysmal type of people that infest South Florida. Already depressed, I order a Grey Goose and club soda.
9:08: No one else has arrived. I order another Goose and club. I consider checking my BAC, but doubt that it would show anything thus far.
9:10: Two 30+ year-old Jewish women on my left keep eyeing me. Both have fake breasts. One has exceptionally large fake breasts. They are beckoning me from her shirt. She is not highly attractive. I begin drinking faster.
9:15: No one else has arrived. I order my third Goose and club. While I wait for it, I try out my portable breathalyzer. I blow a .02. This is the greatest invention ever made. I am giddy. I show the breathalyzer to the fake-breasted Jewish women next to me. We begin a conversation.
9:16: They both have thick Long Island accents. I summon the bartender over and change my order to a tall double Goose on the rocks, splash of club.
9:23: Four people at the bar have tried my breathalyzer, both of the fake-breasted women included. Everyone wants to know their BAC. I am the center of attention. I am happy.
9:25: The first member of my group arrives. I show him the breathalyzer. He is enthralled. He buys a round. The fake-breasted women loudly inform us they would like drinks. My friend buys them drinks. I order a double Goose on the rocks. No splash.
9:29: I blow again, a .04. I've been drinking for half an hour, and am on my forth drink. My wheels of intellect begin grinding through the vodka haze that is already forming…four drinks…a .04…that must mean that each drink only adds .01 to my BAC. I begin to think that I can drink a lot. I tell one of the fake-breasted women that she is very interesting.
9:38: Six of the eight are here. I lie to the hostesses, and they seat our incomplete party. Everyone is talking about my breathalyzer. I am the focus of adulation. I forgive everyone for sucking so bad. I think this night may go OK after all.
9:40: I blow again, a .05. This confuses me. I haven’t ordered another drink since I blew a .04. I have a vague memory from a long distant D.A.R.E. class about the rate of alcohol absorption being constant, regardless of speed of drinking. This memory quickly fades when two hot girls at the table next to me inquire about my portable breathalyzer.
9:42: Hot girl #2 is into me. She begins telling me a story about how she got pulled over once for DUI, and had to blow into something like this, and the cop let her off. She tells me that she always wanted to be a cop, but couldn’t pass the entrance exam to the police academy, even though she took it twice. I tell her that she must be really smart. She stops paying attention to me. Hot girl #2 is apparently smart enough to detect thinly veiled sarcasm.
10:04: The novelty of the portable breathalyzer has passed. The table has moved on. I am no longer the center of attention. I am not happy with my table.
10:06: The people at my table begin talking about energy healing. Everyone is mesmerized by a girl who took a class in it. I tell them that energy healing is a worthless and solipsistic pseudo-science. They think energy healing is a real science because the instructor of the girl’s class went to Harvard. One guy calls it a “legitimate, certifiable science,” while making air quotes with his fingers. I tell them that they are all (while imitating his air quotes) “legitimate, certifiable idiots” because they believe in horse-**** like energy healing. Two girls call me close-minded. I tell them that they are so open-minded that their brains leaked out. They all glare at me with disapproval. I hate everyone at my table.
10:08: I have completely tuned out their inane conversation. I am slamming down straight Goose as fast as the low-rent wanna-be Ethan Hawke waiter can bring it. I blow every three minutes, watching my BAC slowly creep up.
10:17: .08. I am no longer legally eligible to drive in the state of Florida. I announce this fact to no one in particular.
10:27: I decide that I am going to see how drunk I can get and still be functional. I know that .35 BAC kills most people. I think that .20 is a good goal.
10:28: I get up, saying nothing to the seven sophists at my table, and go back to the bar. I don’t leave money for my drinks.
10:29: The fake-breasted women are still at the bar. They want drinks. Upset that I’m only at .09 after a good hour and a half of aggressive drinking, I decide to do a round of shots. I let the women pick the shots, with the explicit instruction that it cannot be whiskey, cannot smell like whiskey, cannot even resemble whiskey.
10:30: The shots arrive. Tequila. Judging by the bill, very good tequila. It is smooth. We order another round.
11:14: I blow a .15. I have passed a milestone. Only .05 away from my goal. My pride swells. I show everyone my .15. The bar crowd is impressed. I am their idol. Someone buys me a shot.
11:28: I feel queasy. I realize that I didn’t even stick around the table for dinner. Not wanting to either go back to my table or eat at the bar, I walk across the street to a sushi restaurant.
11:29: There is a lingerie party at the sushi restaurant. Half of the people are in some form of pajamas or other bedtime clothing. Everyone here sucks as bad as the last place, except they are in their underwear.
11:30: I am confused. I only want sushi. I stand at the door, mesmerized by the shifting masses of near nakedness. A mildly attractive girl who apparently works at the restaurant wants me to put on lingerie. I tell her I don’t have any. I just want some sushi. She says I should at least take off my pants. I ask her if this will get me sushi. She says it will. I take off my pants.
11:30: I pause while unzipping my pants, wondering what type of underwear, if any, I have on. I consider not taking my pants off. I realize that getting food quickly is more crucial than my dignity.
11:31: I take off my pants. I have on pink and white striped Gap boxers. They are too tight. I make sure my package is tucked in. People watch me do this.
11:32: I order sushi by pointing at the pictures and grunting.
11:33: I show a guy at the sushi bar my breathalyzer. He is impressed. He shows it to everyone. People begin congregating around me. I am a star again.
11:41: I blow a .17. I tell everyone my goal. Someone orders me a shot.
11:42: I do the shot. Something that has a familiar taste, makes me feel warm inside. I ask what it is. “Cognac and Alize.” There is a God, and he hates me.
11:47: My sushi arrives. I slosh soy sauce over it and shovel it into my mouth as quickly as my hands will get it there.
11:49: My sushi is finished. No one is paying attention to my table manners, as everyone is crowded around the breathalyzer, waiting their turn to find out their BAC.
12:18: I blow a .20. I AM A GOD. The sushi bar erupts. Men are applauding me. Girls are pining for me. Everyone wants to talk to me. I forgive them their flaws, as they are all paying attention to me.
12:31: My deity status is lost. Someone blows a .22. This is a challenge to my manhood. I order a depth charge with a Bacardi 151 shot. And a beer back. The crowd is in awe.
12:33: I finish the depth charge, and the beer. I talk **** to my challenger, “Who runs this bar now, *****??” The crowd erupts. Momentum has swung back in my direction. I am Maximus. I am winning the crowd. I will rule the sushi bar.
12:36: I take a better look at my challenger. He is a tall, broad-shouldered, heavily muscular man. His natural facial expression is not one of happiness. He quietly watches me, then orders a shot, throws it back without noticeable effect, and smiles at me. I consider that talking **** to him was a bad idea. At this point I also realize that my stomach is very upset with me. I ignore it. I still have a public that needs to adore me.
12:54: I blow a .22. Only mild cheers this time. Everyone is waiting for the challenger to blow.
12:56: He blows a .24. He smiles condescendingly at me. I order two more shots.
12:59: I do the first shot. It doesn’t go down well. I decide to take a short break from drinking. The crowd is not impressed.
1:10: Reality sets in. I am going to vomit. A LOT. I try to discreetly make it outside.
1:11: I knock a girl over as I sprint through the door.
1:11: I trip over a bush, stumble into it, and begin throwing up. Out of my mouth. And nose. It is not pleasant.
1:14: I can’t figure out why my legs hurt so much. I look down at them in between heaves. I have no pants on. Thorns and branches are embedded in my shins.
1:18: The vomiting is over. I am now trying to stop the bleeding. A bright light hits my eyes. I am not happy. I tell the owner to “get that ****ing light out of my face.” The owner of the light identifies himself as an officer of the law. I apologize to the officer, and ask him what the problem is. A long pause ensues. The light is still in my eyes. “Son, where are your pants?” Remembering past encounters with the law, and realizing there is no one around to bail me out of the county lock-up, I summon every bit of adrenaline in my body to sober myself up. I apologize again, and explain to the officer that my pants are in the restaurant that is less than 50 feet away, and that I came outside to share my sushi with the bush. He doesn’t laugh. Another long pause. “You’re not driving tonight are you?”, “Oh, NO, NO, NO…no sir, I don’t even have a valid driver’s license.”
1:20: He tells me to go back inside, put on my pants, and call a cab.
1:21: I go back into the sushi restaurant. A few people stare at me in a peculiar manner. I look down, and then tuck my partially exposed sack back into my boxers. I don’t know what to do about my bleeding legs. I look around for my pants.
1:24: I can’t find my pants. My breathalyzer is in clear sight. I blow. A .23. Someone informs me that my challenger just blew a .26. They add that he hasn’t thrown up yet. I tell them to “kiss my ****ing ass.” My last clear memory.
8:15am: I wake up. I don’t know where I am. It is very hot. I am sweating horribly. It smells like rotting flesh.
8:16: I am in my car. With the windows up. The sun is beating down directly on me. It is at least 125 degrees in my car. I open the door and try to get out, but instead I fall onto the pavement. The scabs that cover my legs tear and reopen as I move. My penis falls out of my pink Gap boxers and lands, along with the rest of me, in a dirty puddle on the asphalt.
8:19: The fetid standing water finally propels me into full consciousness. I can’t find my pants. Or cell phone. Or wallet. But I do have my breathalyzer. I blow. A .09. I am still not eligible to drive in the state of Florida.
8:22: I drive home anyway.
Let me be clear about this night: it was in my top 5 drunkest nights ever. I was completely ****-housed. I threw up multiple times, some of them through my nose. JESUS CHRIST, I WOKE UP blowing a .09. That's ****ing ridiculous. That thing is awful. All you do is drink and then try and increase your BAC. That device is the devil dressed in a transistor.
My advice to you: avoid it at all costs.
for the entertaining story LMFAO
Oh dear gawd here's anopther...please just read it out....my sides hurt.....and I have no idea who this guy is....
used to think that I’d seen or experienced most everything.
7:00pm: Rich shows up to my place. I have not seen Rich in 7 years. He has put on at least 60 pounds of muscle. I am shocked at his size. He brings one of his friends, “Eddie.” They are both in an elite special operations unit that is shipping to the middle east in a few weeks. Eddie is Hispanic, tall, angry, and muscular. He looks around my apartment as if deciding what piece of furniture he wants to break first. I consider that perhaps this wasn’t a good idea.
7:01: “So , I hear you finally learned how to drink a little bit?” Rich smiles at me. They have 2 cases of beer with them. I think maybe this is not such a bad idea after all.
7:25: They tell me some of the best stories I have ever heard. Many are tales of clandestine and violent death brought upon unsuspecting international terrorists. I think that this was a good idea.
7:45: We finish our first case.
7:58: I tell them two of my best stories. They are in tears laughing. Eddie tells Rich that he was right, I am the funniest guy he’s ever met. I think that this was a great idea.
8:30: We have finished both cases and half a Mason Jar of moonshine. I am already 6 beers behind both of them, and feeling the alcohol. They look like they could do an iron man triathlon. I begin to think that maybe I am not in their league, drinking wise. This worries me. I remember that I am Tucker Max. I am no longer worried.
8:40: Eddie thinks my site is the greatest piece of literature in existence. He says that he aspires to be like me. He wants to hear more stories about me ridiculing fat people and hooking up with hot girls. I decide he is one of my best friends.
8:49: We walk to a pasta bar for dinner. The waitress is immediately displeased by our behavior, “We usually don’t get people as drunk as you coming in here.” I decide she is being a little snotty, “Do you know who these guys are? They routinely risk their lives so you are free to toss your fat all around Lincoln Park like some haughty tramp, and you question them? Woman, get us some food and liquor, and be quick about it.”
8:51: The manager asks us to leave.
8:58: We go to McDonald’s. The woman in front of us in line spends more than 5 seconds contemplating her order. This infuriates me, “WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?? MC-SEABASS?? IT’S THE GODDAMN MCDONALD’S MENU, IT’S BEEN THE SAME FOR TEN YEARS! IT’S ALL MC****! JUST ORDER!”
8:59: She quickly departs the restaurant. One might have described her departure as “fleeing in terror.”
9:00: I don’t know what I want. I just point at the Dollar Menu and say, “Give me all of that.”
9:05: I am displeased with what I get. I try to send back certain items, like the apple pie. The 14 year-old Mexican boy working the Friday late shift doesn’t understand. I get frustrated and just throw everything I don’t like on the floor.
9:07: We decide to play Rich’s favorite game: Window Pickle Races.
9:09: We have about 8 pickles on the window, each making ketchup and mustard streaked trips to the bottom. We argue about who owns each pickle. These become very intense and profanity laced arguments. Military guys use very creative curse words.
9:14: The last people finally flee in terror. The restaurant is empty. We taunt them, and cheer as they leave. They, and their small children, are cowards.
9:15: The manager comes out and asks us to leave. Eddie is confused, “We can’t get kicked out of McDonald’s? This is like the DMZ of drunk eating. THIS IS WHY WE CAME HERE!”
9:16: The manager is a frail Mexican woman. She is scared of us. She goes behind the counter, then tells us to leave again. She threatens police intervention. We go.
9:45: We arrive at the party. I find the friend who invited me, and introduce my friends.
9:46: W are apparently drunker than I calculated. My friend is appalled, “Dude, man…I told you not to show up this drunk.” Apparently he is confused. “Who the **** are you talking too?” This angers him, “Man—look around. This isn’t that type of party.”
9:47: I spend a good 45 seconds perusing the scene. It is a large townhome. There is a big bar, with a bartender. There is a table of hors de oeuvres. I see several sweater vests. A few anti-war buttons. A couple guys holding glasses of pinot grigio. I tell my friend, “You sir are incorrect. It most decidedly IS that type of party.”
9:48: We walk directly to the bar. I turn to my friends, “Gentlemen--this is going to be a show. You kill terrorists; I destroy egos. Get a drink and watch the artist at work.”
9:48: I order 3 Goose and clubs. They only have Absolut. This angers me, “WHAT KINDA LOW RENT **** IS THIS?” I argue with the bartender. I think he is hiding the Goose from us. I tell him that my friends kill people for a living, and that unless he produces Goose, he will become a “target of opportunity.”
9:50: An attractive girl comes up and asks what the problem is. I tell her that the rat-fink bartender is trying to make us drink cheap donkey piss. She laughs at this. I shamelessly flirt. She flirts back. I tell her that flirting is nice, but it’s not getting me drunk. She looks at me seductively, and tells me to follow her upstairs. “Can my friends come?” She smiles, “Of course.”
9:51: Eddie whispers in my ear, “Man, I thought your stories were at least a little bull****, but we haven’t even had a drink and we’re gonna run train. Rich was right; you are the ****ing MAN.”
9:52: She takes us to a bedroom. There a few other people there. They are smoking pot and drinking. There is a solitary bottle on the table with greenish liquid in it. The label has the word “Absinthe” on it.
9:53: The girl takes three glasses, pours sugar over ice, and then pours the green liquid over the ice. It turns clear. This fascinates us. She hands us the glasses, smiles, and says, “This is better than anything down there.”
9:54: I take a sip. Goddamn—This **** doesn’t **** around. My muscles flex involuntarily. I can feel my heart start beating irregularly. I like it. I drink more.
9:56: The girl starts kissing one of the pot smokers. Eddie whispers to me, “So much for the gangbang.” I frown at him, “How long have you known women? Dude—They’re all whores. Except our mothers. Just stick to me, I’ll find you some pink stink.”
9:59: One of the guys tells us about absinthe. He says he brought it back from Europe because it is illegal in the US. Apparently, it is very strong (160 proof) and has hallucinogenic properties. I tell him he smells like patchouli oil and bong water. Rich and Eddie laugh hysterically. Tucker has an audience.
10:18: Absinthe is the ****ing ****. I am on my second glass, and I’m ****ed-in-Half drunk. Rich and Eddie want to see full-on Drunk Insult ME. Loaded up with hallucinogenic alcohol, Tucker is happy to oblige.
10:20: We station ourselves in the kitchen. A fat girl walks in. It’s game time: “Well, say goodbye to all the leftovers.”
10:21: Apparently, this fatty seems to think she can hang. Saddam Hussein has made better tactical decisions:
Fatty “What did you say?”
Me “Are your ears fat too? Can you not hear me?”
Fatty [Look of astonishment, stares at my friends cracking up] “WHAT?”
Meor chocolate cake? Probably both, I’m guessing.”
Fatty [Turns and leaves in utter astonishment]
Me “Hey Sara Lee, I was only kidding! MORE CUSHION FOR THE PUSHIN, THAT’S WHAT I SAY! COME BACK HERE--MY FRIEND LIKES TO GO HOGGIN. GET ME AN ECLAIR WHILE YOU’RE OUT THERE!”
I have arrived.
10:23: Rich knows me from undergrad, and knows how to ride my hot streaks by provoking me, “Come on man, you can do better. There are plenty of people around here to make fun of.”
10:23: Express elevator to hell, going down. I give him my voice recorder and a simple order, “Don’t miss anything.”
10:26: I see a girl wearing two colored tank tops over each other. This is too easy:
Me “Hey 1985 Madonna, are you gonna get the person who did that?”
Girl “Did what?”
Me “Spilled 80’s all over you.”
Girl [Confused look]
Me "I know I’d be pissed if I looked like an extra from Desperately Seeking Susan.”
10:29: Eddie points out a girl wearing the standard anti-globalization outfit. Complete with a “No Blood for Oil” button. Rich whispers in my ear, “You gotta get her. Come on man. Do it--for us…for your country.”
10:29: I storm over. Rich says into the voice recorder, “Target acquired, firing missile.”
10:30: I introduce myself to her as Alger Hiss. She doesn’t get the joke. Time to be blunt:
Me "you hate the World Bank?”
Girl “Uhh, umm, well, I mean, yeah, I feel that...”
Me “You don’t hate the World Bank.”
Girl “I don’t?”
Me "No. You’re mad at your father. You just want daddy to hug you more.”
Me “You were a woman’s studies major weren’t you?”
Me “What was your major?”
Girl [Pauses] “Uhhh, Art History.”
Me [Pause—to give her a look of contempt] “Did your parents send you a bill for college? How are those Marxist Literary Critique classes working out for you? You work at Barnes and Noble don’t you?
Girl “NO--I wor--“
Me “Shouldn’t you be blocking an intersection right now? How many anti-sweatshop petitions have you signed—EVEN THOUGH YOU HAVE REEBOKS ON. Very-anti globalization to wear those with your Estee Lauder, animal tested make-up. Well, at least you’re consistent in your shameless hypocrisy.”
Girl “What a fascist piece of shi--
Me “Wait—You ever wake up in the middle of the night because a couple of cats are clawing each other to death outside your window? That’s what it’s like listening to you speak. Seriously--If I stuck my dick in your mouth would that shut you up?”
Girl [A mishmash of stammered half insults]
Me “HEY—Don’t blame me for the wound in your crotch.” [As I walk off] “By the way, you owe us a rib.”
10:31: I turn to Rich and Eddie: “She’ll never recover from that. She’ll never be the same. I’ve completely ruined a human being. Years of expensive therapy and costly drugs can’t reverse that kind of damage…yeah, I have an upper management role in Hell reserved for me.” Rich looks at me and says, “Damage assessment: Total.” I got the joke the next day.
11:16: The fat girl from the first kitchen encounter comes over. With reinforcements. Her backup: A small frail dork that looks like he just finished a Magic The Gathering tournament, a heinous Asian girl, and a greasy haired fat doofus in a camouflage vest. I ask you—Am I here right now? Is this my life?
11:17: The girl starts saying something about what a horrible person I am. I stare at her, but I am not listening. I am preparing myself. I am Rabbit. This is the final battle rap. I will win the hostile crowd:
[I interrupt the fat girl] Ward, I think you’re being a little hard on the Beaver, [as I point to each in turn] so is Eddie Haskell, Wally, and Miss Cleaver. Alright, let me deal with each of you in turn:
[To the fat guy with greasy hair in the camo vest] “Look out everyone! It's the Pillsbury Commando! Hey Chunk, when was the last time you washed your hair? Does it give you more hit points to have that grease helmet? Hey man, I hate to break the news, but +5 charisma only counts in Dungeons and Dragons.”
[To the ugly Asian girl] “Why you no rike me? You want me frip over? You no piss me off! ME FIND YOU IN POCKING ROT!! YOU NO TAKE MING ALIVE!!”
[To the small frail dork—I notice he has a lazy eye] “Dude—Look at me when I’m talking to you—BOTH EYES AT ONCE. Are you really this ugly or are you just playing? EVERYONE, BE CAREFUL, THIS GUY LURKS UNDER THE STAIRS AND TRIES TO LICK YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU PASS BY!”
[To the original fatty, pause for effect] “Why do you do this to yourself? WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF? Look, I’m gonna give you some advice—leave the party, take the geek squad, go to Denny’s, order about 10 Grand Slam Breakfasts, and eat your pain away. Won’t be the first time will it?”
11:19: I am finished. The kitchen is quiet, except for Eddie and Rich laughing. The four freaks are completely speechless. Everyone is staring at me. I blurt out, “WHAT? I’m pretty sure it’s what Jesus would’ve done.”
11:42: The absinthe is kicking into third gear. I am feeling euphoric. Manic even. This is the weirdest drunk I've ever had. I decide it is time to get my little pencil wet.
11:54: I see a hot girl. I walk over and talk to her. “Hi. I haven’t insulted you yet, have I?” She laughs. I am in.
11:58: I see the large diamond and accompanying gold band on her finger. Hot Girl is Married Girl.
12:06: I talk to Married Girl for a few minutes. I try to think of a good way to broach the marriage subject to find out if she wants to hook up with me. This is difficult, as my mind is a spinning miasma of absinthe.
12:07: I can’t think of anything new or good, so I decide to go with my standard married schtick, which has never worked for me, ever, not once:
“So you’re married?”
“Is it a good marriage?”
12:08: Married Girl looks at me, looks down, looks back at me, and almost breaks into tears. Married Girl begins pouring her heart out to me. I guess she didn’t drink any of the absinthe. I decide to be nice to her.
12:23: Married Girl gets to an emotional part and does actually start to cry. I suggest we go into another room so we can “talk in private.” Married Girl readily agrees and tells me that I am “so nice.”
12:45: Married Girl and I are hooking up. Holy **** this is working! Being nice is great! Who would have ever thought?!?
12:47: Married Girl breaks into tears again. I console her.
12:51: Married Girl and I are hooking up.
12:56: Married Girl breaks into tears. I console her. And undo her bra.
12:59: Married Girl and I are hooking up.
1:05: Married Girl breaks into tears. I just stare at her. I suggest to Married Girl that perhaps the best thing to do right now is to go with what feels natural, and not worry about other painful things in her life. As proof that I am doing this, I tell her that my friends are shipping to Iraq soon, but I’m still at a party hooking up with her. Married Girl agrees with this logic.
1:06: Married Girl and I are hooking up. Clothes are off.
1:12: Married Girl breaks into tears. Again. “I don’t know; I…I…I just can’t do this. I’m not like this.”
1:13: I get up and return to the party. Tears do not make hooking up fun. Being nice sucks.
1:15: I find my friends and tell Eddie there is a girl waiting for him in the bedroom next to the kitchen. “Really?,” “Oh yeah dude, she was asking me all about you. She’s already got her clothes off and everything.”
1:16: Rich and I laugh hysterically as Eddie goes into the room. We fully expect Eddie to come out any minute.
1:20: No Eddie.
Last edited by Shorgasm; 05-19-2003 at 03:44 PM.
Part two of last story.......sorry OSO has a 15000 character limit....
1:20: No Eddie.
1:25: No Eddie.
1:30: No Eddie. I want to go in and see what’s going on, “Hey--it’s my ***** after all. I ****ing primed that pump.” Rich convinces me to hold off, “This could be the last ***** he’s getting for awhile. Military women are ugly.”
1:43: The friend who told me about the party has been dispatched to throw me and my friends out, “Dude, everyone here is scared of you. Your friends are huge and you have successfully insulted everyone. That one ****ing girl you said owed you a rib or something—dude, she was crying to [the host]. Literally crying. You're like Attila the Hun. You laid waste to this party.”
1:46: Rich convinces me to that we should just leave Eddie, “Dude, he’s an operator. He can find his own way home. The kid made his bones in Bosnia, I think he can find his way around Chicago.”
2:04: Rich wants *****. I take him to a club. I hate clubs.
2:05: Almost as soon as we walk in, some skinny douche-bag starts spinning glow sticks right in my face. This enrages me. I shove him down and kick him in the spine.
2:05: Rich bear hugs me and carries me to a VIP booth before anyone figures out what happened.
2:30: Rich is trying to eat the face of some skank. She looks like something he scraped off his shoe.
2:36: I am not feeling good. Mr. Absinthe is about to send me a bill for his services.
2:44: I get to the toilet. I can feel the vomit coming.
2:45: My intestines, without subtlety, tell me that I have a higher priority. I nearly pass out on the toilet from my own version of Shock and Awe.
2:47: As I am crapping out my soul, Mr. Absinthe teams with Ms. Poetic Justice to eject everything in my stomach right out of my face.
2:48: I lean to my left to prevent vomit from getting on my clothes. My shift on the toilet seat moves my ass and causes me to **** watery diarrhea all over the toilet seat and floor.
2:49: I look over at the ****, catch a whiff of it, and start vomiting again. On top of the ****.
2:53: I stand up, clean myself, and survey the damage. It looks like a tapioca abortion.
2:58: I come out of the bathroom and inform the line that “I am Shiva, Destroyer of Worlds.”
3:04: Back at the VIP table. Rich has nearly undressed The Skank and is investigating all of her orifices. His hand will never smell the same.
3:12: The Skank’s friend comes up. She is staggeringly drunk. She makes fun of her friend and tells me I am hot. Maybe clubs aren’t so bad.
3:14: The Friend tells me I am way too sober. I agree. We go shot for shot with vodka.
3:40: After about 6 shots, she tells me, “I think I am getting really drunk. I always do stupid things when I’m drunk.” Strike up the band, we have a winner.
3:50: Rich takes The Skank to the bathroom to ****. The friend says to me, “About time. I’m surprised she didn’t just go down on him at the table. That’s what she did last weekend.”
4:12: The Friend does not mince words, “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to **** in a club bathroom. I have standards…well…some standards.” I can’t make this **** up.
4:15: The Friend hands me her keys. I ask her, “You want me to drive your car?” She says, “Well, you’re more sober than I am.” This statement makes me laugh. I am so drunk I am not sure I could read.
4:50: She lives far away. I don’t know where I am.
4:55: We cannot find parking. She has me drop her off at her building and tells me to come up when I find a place. I decide that she is a *****. I think that she will “accidentally” get my dick in her ass when we are ****ing doggy style.
5:10: I still cannot find ANYWHERE to park. This is infuriating me.
5:20: I parallel park the car into a space that is too small. I try to force it in. The car gets stuck. I slam on the gas, the wheels spin until they catch the curb, jumping the car onto the sidewalk and crashing it into a storefront.
5:21: I get out of the car. I am INSIDE of a donut shop. With the car. Shattered glass crunches under my feet as I investigate the damage. There are broken, scattered tables all across the store. The car has only a few scratches. I am in shock and completely unsure about what to do. I have never driven a car into a store before.
5:22: Thankfully the donut shop is closed and empty of people. I still don’t know what to do. I start laughing to myself. I look behind the counter, but the donuts are all put away.
5:23: I decide that while I find this funny, the car owner, the donut shop owner, and the police would not find it funny. The letters “DUI” leap to mind. The phrase, “felony hit and run” also appears. I wipe my fingerprints from the entire car and then take off running.
5:25: I get my cell phone and desperately call Rich. I tell his voice mail that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should he tell The Skank what my name is, who I am, or anything about me. It is Tucker Luck that on the one night when I need to stay anonymous I have someone in special forces to run my operational security.
5:50: I am still running. I lost count of the number of blocks I had traveled somewhere around 30.
6:30: I finally get home. I am completely ****ing exhausted. I must have run at least 5 miles, probably more. My feet are bleeding, but I am safe. I pass out
I just read this on a boring conference call.....DAMN im glad i didnt have to come off mute......The question "what's so funny?" would have been unavoidable.......Great story!!!!!!
That is fukkin' hilarious!!!!!!!!!! LMAO
If you wrote this yourself, then you have a great future as a writer. You could be the new Charkes Bukowski, according to realbeer.com "the best of the beat poets and one of the greatest literary treasures in America."
If you ripped this off, shame on you, but don't worry, some of the best authors were inspired by their colleagues. It's ok as long as you don't get caught.
Did you know that there's a great thing on the 'net called a search engine? Google tells me that you are also publishing under the pseudonym "Tucker Max" at http://tuckermax.com/Stories/sushi_pants.html
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