Here is just a tiny bit of advice…

People drink. Most of my friends drink. Some drink more than others. Some can handle their alcohol quite well, some know that at some point they need to throw some water or pop in the mix. A few do shots. The rest, they do not do the shots. (Unless it is an important birthday, in which case all I-don’t-do-shots rules go out the window of the short bus, and much hilarity ensues) The ones that do the shots on a regular basis, they get drunk. And I am not talking, ooh, I’m buzzed drunk, I’m talking wasted, fall out of my chair, can’t speak clearly, I look like a total moron drunk.

And that is what I encountered on Friday. Not once. But TWICE.

Friday was a gathering which required one acquaintance of mine (seriously, I’m considering dropping “friend” and changing it to “acquaintance”, and you should see why soon, and if you don’t, well, quit doing so many shots) and I be in attendance. Said person has a tendency to get, oh, a tiny bit out of control. (Understatement of the century.) And it is getting old.
Said person maintained herself, for the most part, during the important parts of the required gathering. I shall now refer to said person as CB. After we were dismissed from our required gathering, some of us made our way to the bar located on the premises. It was approximately 3 PM. Everyone stood outside (unseasonably warm and sunny that day) and chatted, sipping on their beer and/or vodka cranberries. I was not sipping on anything at this time. CB went back inside to retrieve another beer, and one for me. After about 20 minutes, another attendee returned to the bar to locate CB, as she had not returned. He did return, with my beer, and said “CB is at the bar. Doing a shot.”

I groaned. Did I mention I was CB’s driver, as her car just broke down? And she has no money to fix it. I’m not a genius or anything, but I’m thinking I know where her money goes. And it’s not to charity.

“What kind?” I ask, praying for Tequila Rose, or something made with schapps of some kind.

“A Cherry Bomb.” (See? See what I did there? Cherry? Bomb? CB? Perhaps I am a genius.)

This was frustrating to me on many levels.

One, we had discussed not staying at the location long after the gathering ended. Two, I have witnessed, firsthand, on enough occasions to know that if she has a cherry bomb, she will have another. And another. And several others. And that is why they are called bombs, because you get bombed, and there is absolutely no other point to drinking a bomb because they sure as shit don’t taste very good. If they did, they would not be shot (shooted? hmmm…), they would be drinks, with ice and a straw and a much larger glass and much more red bull to dilute the alcohol. But alas, they are not. They are shots. To get you bombed. Three, she said she “didn’t want to embarrass herself”, which meant more things: One, I babysit. Or two, we leave.

Ok, so leaving is good. Except no, she wanted another bomb. And another bomb. And then she was dancing. By herself. You know the joke about the first drunk girl with the lampshade on he head at the party? That was her. But I wasn’t laughing. I really wasn’t laughing when the man who stated he was from North Carolina asked what was wrong with her. Um, she forgot her medication, they let her out of the asylum on Fridays? Tick-tock. It’s past five now. One guy we know, who was there, was forced to endure her breasts in his face. Which wouldn’t be so bad for him, I guess, you know. if he was straight.

“Um, CB? You’re really not his type. And um, you know, we should go.”

“But jusht onemore shhhottt.”

This went on, until about seven, when I finally said “We are going NOW!” like I was all her mother or something, because OH MY GOD she was throwing things. At people. In the bar. Seriously. Who does that?

I was able to arrange for another guy to carry her, piggy back style, to my jeep. Where we then had to place her. Because she sure as hell couldn’t do it herself. I shut the door, got in, put on her seatbelt, and headed home. Only she wasn’t done. Never you mind that she couldn’t speak coherently and probably didn’t even know who I was at that time, she wanted to go to another bar. Then she opened the door to the jeep. On the highway. Thank fuck I had her seatbelt on her.

At that point, any bit of amusement in the situation was gone. Fucking gone. Oh no. I was DONE.

I drove to my house. I tried to help her out of the jeep. She fell out anyway. I got her off the ground, and into the house. Mr. was there.

“What are you doing? I thought you guys were going out afterwards?”

Fuck that. Look at her. I am so done. You need to call her boyfriend for me to come get her.”

“Why don’t you have her call?”

“Look at her! She’s wasted. I don’t want anything to do with this. She wants to go to the bar!!!!”

“Well, I need to get something to eat. Get her in the truck and I’ll take her home.”

So we went back outside. She climbed into the back of the fucking truck. And laid down. In the dirt. And tools. Fucking moron. Mr. finally got her out by threatening to have her boyfriend come get her. She complied, because she thought we were taking her to the bar. We got her in the truck and went to Arby’s. Mr. asked CB if she wanted anything. She said no. He got two sandwiches, one for me and one for him. CB proceeded to take my sandwich, get melted cheese all over my brand new gauchos, and ate half of it.

Luckily, while this was occuring, her boyfriend called. He was at a place right by us. We pulled in the lot, took her inside, said YOUR TURN TO BABYSIT, and left. But not before witnessing her jump on the back of not one, but two people.

Holy cow. I needed a drink after all that. (Brilliant!)

So we went to our normal place. Where I met up with someone else I know, but have never really hung out with, and her husband. They were there when we arrived. Never been to the place. I told them previously that it was a nice place to go, good music, good people, good times.

And we were talking, and they got some food, and we talked some more, and then ANOTHER girl I know came in. Wasted. With a capital DISGUSTING.

“T, you’re toast? Where have you been?”

“Out. I had some Jaegerbombs.”

Jesus H. Christ.

It was only 8:30. What the hell?

She would wander away and then come over and slur for a little bit, we would smile and nod, and she’d go dance in front of the, um, one man band? guitarist singer? performer? what do they call themselves? And then she’d come back, and we’d smile and nod some more, and I would wonder why in the bloody hell a bartender would serve someone who was so obviously intoxicated, because, Hello. I was a bartender, and OH HELL NO you do not serve someone one in such a fucked-up state. Ever. Buy hey, not my job anymore, I guess.

I got up and went to the bathroom, and was happily tinkling along, when I heard the door open. I quick locked the stall, (there is only one and I never lock it). I looked under the stall and saw the boots.

“T? Is that you? I’m almost done.”


I finished my business, flushed, unlocked the door, started to open the stall, and…heard…something. Did the toilet spring a leak? I heard water. Splashing? What was happening? The sink? I looked down and realized that no, the toilet did not spring a leak, and the sink was not running over.

T was taking a piss. On the floor. Outside the stall. And it was getting on my new boots.

Holy mother of fuck, I have never seen anything like that in my life. I flung open the door and yelled “What the hell are you doing?”

“I couldn’t wait.”

Dear God in Heaven, it was a horrible thing to witness. Her pants were down, and she was SQUATTING AGAINST THE WALL, I SHIT YOU NOT.

I couldn’t believe it. I could not fucking believe it. It was repulsive.

I made a beeline out of there, and told my new friend, “um, J? You may want to use the mens room if you half to go. Have your husband guard the door. Because seriously, that drunk girl? She just peed. On the floor. It got on my boots. I feel dirty. Holy shit.”

They sat there, mouths agape, in shock. It was unreal.

T came out, sloshed up to Mr. and said “ISSSSSSS OK. I CCLEANED ITUP.”

But no. It was not OK. That is never OK. EVER.

And the advice here, my drinking friends, is stay away from the fucking shots. They do you no good.


2 responses to “Here is just a tiny bit of advice…

  1. DAMN!! You’re friends party waaaay tooo hard for me!

    Shots have gotten me in trouble before, but never pee on the bathroom floor trouble. jeez…

  2. Gross, isn’t it? My husband said that he doesn’t even know guys that have done such a thing. Of course, they can pee outside standing up, but still. I am still squicked out by it when I think about it.

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