Mistakes were made

Ladies and gentleman, last night something happened to your blogeuses. Something bad.

Perhaps we were insufficiently nourished yesterday. It is even possible that we each had a semi-long-term-cumulative-deficit-of-calories situation, seeing that one of us recently underwent a medical procedure that required nearly two days of fasting, and the other one has a metabolism that perpetually runs four-minute miles. Additionally, one of us had gotten a fair amount of sun that afternoon. The other had taken a half a Klonopin. We’d each gone to our respective gyms. Maybe we were a little dehydrated!

All I know is that by way of some mysterious and awful metabolic alchemy, Left Hook and I got epically drunk off not very many drinks.

And we only meant to have one quick drink at Youpers! Sometimes bartenders who are your friends are not really your friends. Two hours later, we burst forth, weaving and screaming, with a party in Bed-Stuy to get to.

I probably don’t need to tell you that it all fell apart, fantastically. It was the taco Left Hook ate! It was the car ride! It was the cigarette I smoked! Thank goodness Mr. Pistol and Mr. Shaky were there to shepherd us to the party, because otherwise we would’ve ended up in the gutter, naked and toothless and possibly dead. Instead we spent many hours in our friend Johnny N.’s bed, twisting and weeping. Luckily Johnny N. was super-sweet about it.

So was Mr. Pistol. At first.

Funny story!

Mr. Pistol had just made three brand-new Drinking Rules for himself:

1. No whiskey
2. No Sparks
3. No big beers

And guess what? Some very sound reasoning went into those rules. Because when Mr. Pistol broke all three of them last night… Dang! Welcome to the jungle, bitches.

At first it was all cozy doting goodness. Mr. Pistol was rubbing Lefty’s back–he would’ve rubbed mine too, but I was violently opposed to being touched–and he was all, “Lefty, your hair is so soft!”

“Dude is totally trying to make out with you,” I said.

“Seriously, have you ever felt how soft Lefty’s hair is? It is the softest hair ever.”

Lefty laughed, even through her throes. Then she asked if somebody would please take her to the hospital.

And so it went, until all at once and apropos of nothing, Mr. Pistol turned on us. [Ahem: four cliched phrases in one sentence.–Ed.] He was yelling! He was jostling us! “This is bullshit,” he kept saying. And also, “Get the fuck up!” It was hard to open my eyes, but when I did, I could see the Bad Vein in his forehead. Do you know what that vein signifies? Mr. Pistol’s Dark Side. I’ve only seen it a few other times.

I put my hands over my ears. I complained bitterly to Left Hook and to Mr. Shaky and to Mr. Pistol himself. Still, it went on: the yelling, the jostling.

“He’s just frustrated,” Lefty said.

“He just wants you to feel better,” Shaky said.

“I want a divorce,” I said, and Mr. Pistol said that was fine with him, because did I realize that this was bullshit, and Lefty and I were complete assholes?

“I want to go to the hospital,” Lefty said, for the hundredth time.

“Let’s skip the hospital,” I said. “Let’s skip right to being dead.”

“THIS IS BULLSHIT,” Mr. Pistol said.

“Leave us alone!” I wailed. Finally, he did, and we passed out in peace. I woke up at one point and discovered that my boob had popped out of my dress. Jeez. I was miles from home, my marriage was on the rocks, and I couldn’t even keep myself decent. Plus, worst headache ever. It was what you might call a low point.

Finally we got sea legs enough to call a car. When we went out to meet it, the driver was shaking maracas to Spanish radio.

“Is this real?” I said.

“I cannot have a car with maracas,” Lefty said.

Luckily he stopped, because he had to drive.

We all made it home, thanks to Mr. Shaky, who told the driver where to go, and explained that the ladies were the-Spanish-word-for-nauseated so could he please take it easy?

I’m happy to tell you that everything worked out in the end. Lefty stopped puking. Mr. Pistol and I decided to stay married after all. Mr. P re-affirmed his Drinking Rules. We all had iced coffee and a snack at St. Helen’s this afternoon, and agreed that we’re probably never going to drink again.

If I have learned anything from this experience, it is that Lefty and I need to hire an intern, stat. Do you realize we didn’t have a single glass of water all night last night? I’m actually starting to think that might’ve been our downfall. This is precisely the type of detail we can expect our intern to stay apprised of.

by Pistol Whip | 8 July 2007 | MFABFF, assholes, drunk | Comments