Saturday, July 26, 2008

- Down Time

OK, I know I bitch a lot, but one of the things I do like about EMS is that off-duty, we know how to have a good time. No where else really comes to mind when I try to think of where the amount of drinking I do is not only socially acceptable, it's encouraged! ( I guess it's actually not that good of thing, but shit, most of you guys are too drunk by this point to even remember that you originally logged on to check out porn and not my blog).

Going through rehab made me really take a look at the amount of alcohol I was consuming. But whilst I know I'm a drug addict, I really don't think I'm an alcoholic. Granted, those in the program (and all you bastard tee-totalers) might beg to differ, but I don't care, because by this point I'm too drunk to remember that I logged on to check out porn and not post a blog entry.

Look, there's some seriously rowdy language in here, so if you don't like that kind of thing, it's a good idea to go somewhere else.

So without further ado, I give you:

Down Time.

AC/DC is cranked, and the window on J-Lo's truck is rolled down halfway, pushing a fresh breeze into my face. We are rolling into New Orleans on 10, the sun is out, and a plane is taking off from the airport. Our hotel room is going to be right off Bourbon Street. He gives me a big ole smile. "This isn't going to end well," he says. "I know it."

Arrival and check-in is arduous. I realize our hotel is very highend - luckily it's J-Lo's sister's B-Day, and his mom is picking up the tab for the hotel rooms. I step out onto our balcony. Intelligently, J-Lo's mom had saved a bunch of the nicer beads from Mardi Gras. It is getting to be 5 o'clock, and as J-Lo and I crack our beers and toast. I watch as a nice looking young woman jiggles down the street and disappears into the cabaret across from us. Inspiration strikes me.

"Hey J, let's play a game."

"What? What game? We're drinking, I don't have time for this."

"No, c'mon, you'll dig it."

"Fuck. What is it, March?"

"We're going to have an exciting round of....'Walking, or Working.'"

"You're not nice."

"C'mon."

"I'm not going to degrade women like that, March. You're a chauvinist ass."

"Oh, when did you trade your testicles in for that purse? C'mon. C'MONNNNNNNNNN. Do it!"

"I hate you."

A moment passes by. Then J-Lo points to one. "Working."

The lady is decked out in skintight leather pants, a corset, heels, and a yellow boa. She disappears into the door of the cabaret next to the other cabaret. "Drink!"

I glug at my beer. "Oh, like that was a hard one, you jackass."

"Fine," he says, eyeing another woman speculatively. She's a cute redhead (Rrrrow! Me likey redheads!), but is conservatively attired in shorts and a blouse. "Working."

"What, her? No way. No wayyyyyyyyy."

"Working, I'm telling you."

"Dude, no. The one in the leather? Totally. There's no way this one is. Walking."

The girl enters the door to the first cabaret.

"No way."

"Drink!"

"No! This is a setup!"

J-Lo is suddenly enraged. "Drink, you dirty fucker! Do it! You, sir, are a bastard and a limp-dicked tittyfucker if you do not drink right now!"

I wither under his outburst. "Granted, you miserable pile of festering dogshit, I am actually a bastard, but I'll be DAMNED if I'm a tittyfucker. I concede, sir, and drink." I tilt back my beer, and empty it.

And with that, we finish our first beers. This is not going to end well.

We are down a 6 pack an hour later as we head downstairs and pass a group of formally attired older ladies. They are clustered together with champagne glasses. It looks like an advertisement for how much fun you can still have if you take Medication X to jack with your hormones because you don't get your monthly cycle anymore. "Working!" I yell in their direction as we walk out. They look less than amused.

We meet up with Chris and Kay, J-Lo's cousin and fiancee, and start out at a Fahy's, an Irish pub. The beer selection is incredible and the prices are awesome. The barmaid has truly righteous cleavage displayed, and a dog is chilling near the door. It is good times. We down several adult beverages and laugh and joke.

We walk down to Bourbon. Even though the sun is set, it only cools off about 2 degrees. Welcome to New Orleans.

We sneak into a bar advertising 3-for-1. There is karaoke going on and we watch as people make asses of themselves. We all vow we will not get on stage and make asses of ourselves.

Two hours later, after several shots and beers, the karaoke announcer, who I now am making wedding plans with in my head, calls for the three hottest girls in the club to come and shake their stuff. Two run up immediately, one of them running into Kay and spilling her beer. They jiggle up onto stage.

Kay looks down at her spilled beer, and back up at the stage. I think, maybe, at this point, if we has said "Fuck it", paid our tab and gone home to bed, we would've been OK. But hell, that wouldn't have been any fun. J-Lo, Chris, and I are pretty good. I don't claim to be a power drinker, but I am a stamina drinker, and the speed at which we've been putting them back has left feeling an inch past buzzed. I am determined not to give in, because Chris has just the teeniest slur, and Jeff is having slight balance problems. Not bad enough for drunk yet.

Kay, on the other hand, has been keeping pace with us, despite the fact that we all outweigh her by at least 90 pounds. Kay's good, but over the past twenty minutes, she's been declining. And she suddenly realizes that she is not going to take having her beer spilt by some clap-infested two bit skank. I know that because those were her last words as she pounded up the stairs to the stage. And now we are caught in the grasp of the black hole, and are heading irrecoverably towards the Event Horizon.

Dance off! Yells the karaoke goddess.

The first girl begins her dance, and is quickly obvious she's done this before, probably for money. J-Lo and I look at each other and immediately yell "WORKING!" as she struts her stuff. Being on the front row, I get a healthy view of her business. Purely from a medical standpoint, I'm just going to say, she was in danger of catching a cold. She finishes up, and the second dancer begins. I think she works at the same place as her friend, and apparently they follow the same fashion advice when it comes to panty wearing. I am happy to report, however, that the carpet did indeed match the drapes.

Kay has watched these two dance, and now it is her turn. She mouths "Silly bitches. Move!" and takes the stage.

I'm not really sure what happened next, but suffice to say that when Kay is drunk she has the ability to channel the top 5 erotic dancers in history, all at the same time.

When she gets done, they line the three girls up side by side. The applause for the first two girls is loud, but when they get to Kay, the house goes RABID. She is the clear and obvious winner. She steps down from the stage, grabs Chris' beer, and takes a fierce swig. Chris is goggling at her with raised eyebrows and a surprised expression on his face.

"What?!" yells Kay. "Bitch spilt muh beer! What was I sposed ta do?"

Awesome.

Well, almost awesome, because next, the Karaoke Hostess yells, "Guys, your turn!"

I'm having a good time until I realize that J-Lo, Chris, and Kay are all looking at me expectantly.

I stare back at them. "No."

"Yes!" They all say.

"No, no no. No."

"YES!" They say more forcibly.

As we have established, I'm not the most...attractive male specimen in the human race. While God didn't see fit to bless me with looks, smarts, or charm, he did not skimp when it came to the body hair, and my belly is the victim of an ongoing romance with cheezeburgers.

But goddamit, this is America. I swig my drink one last time, step up on stage, and eye the jacked, muscular competition. #1, who I will refer to as Bronx Bombshell, introduces himself, saying he is from New York. #2, Tall and Tanned, introduces himself as "Professor Love" and I have to change his name to Tall, Tanned, and Australian, because his accent makes the girls scream. #3, I will refer to as Kenmore on account of his washboard abs, states he is from Cali. And then, when Karaoke Goddess, love of my life, gets to me, her eyebrows knit in confusion. I do not belong up here. Maybe I'm the butler for one of these other guys or something, or maybe some poor disfigured sot who is Making his Wish that he come to Bourbon Street and see Larry Flint's Hustler Club before he dies of Terminal Ugly.

Regardless, when I don't step off the stage, she gently thrusts the microphone my way and manages not to vomit upon looking at my face. "Uh, I'm March, from Louisiana. Woo!"

There is scattered applause, and more laughter. The format is different for the Men. We will all dance simultaneously. The music begins, and suddenly, I am motivated. I dance like I never have danced before. I get a Lucky break when Bronx topples over a railing, but TT and A and Kenmore are dazzling the ladies with their flat stomachs, and I am flagging behind in the competition, fading into obscurity.

Unbeknowst to them, I too, can dazzle with my stomach. I tromp to the center of the stage, and lift my shirt. There are gasps of horror as everyone views my hairy and pale fish belly.

Until I bust out my secret weapon. In front of everyone at the bar, America, and God, I use my go to move - The Truffle Shuffle. I nearly black out, I Truffle Shuffle so hard.

When I come to again, it is voting time. Tall, Tanned, and Australian gets moderate cheering. Kenmore gets more rowdiness and catcalls. But when it comes to March?

The house comes down when the Hostess points to me. There is cheering everywhere. The Hostess gives me light peck on the cheek and whispers "Good job. Please, get the hell off the stage!" seductively into my ear.

I walk off the stage, victorious, and sip my beer.

A girl walks up to me. "That was hottt. Where ya'll from?" Her accent is so thick that I'm pretty sure I get a complimentary 3-pak of Skoal just for listening to it.

"Louisiana, hot stuff. What say you and me get a drank?"

She complies.

I could go on from here, and tell you about me getting kicked out of the Hustler Club (don't ask the strippers if they take rolls of coins) or ditching Miss Assippi (peein' your pants doesn't do much for the hotness, ladies), but instead I'm content to let the story fade into obscurity here, my steam successfully blown off and in the company of good friends. All in all, a good night, well played.

Oh yeah, when we got back to the hotel room balcony and started tossing beads, I got to see BOOBIES!!!!!!!!!!!


-
MM

6 comments:

Loving Annie said...

You're gonna hate me, MM, but you are an alcoholic.

It was a cute story, but...

Please, don't trade one addiction for another.

Please.

Every moment of your life/decision that you make is a choice - to either be self-destructive or to do something that will be beneficial for your life/future and enhance your self-respect and confidence and trust in your own decision making.

You've got to think long term. Of the heroes in your life that you respect the most, and look up to, and why. Of who of them - if you had kids - you'd want to be a role model for your kid.

Alcohol in moderation may be okay for some people some of the time.

But for an addict of any kind ? dangerous to go there - very slippery slope.

((hugs)) Sorry to be so serious about this.

I just don't want to see your life get fu***d up again in any way.

p.s. the 'working or walking' concept of people-watching cracked me up :)

Genuinely,
Loving Annie

Ambulance Driver said...

I don't think you're an alcoholic.

You're a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings.

Meanwhile, I lay in bed at home watching Most Dangerous Catch with my left leg propped up on pillows.

Fucker.

Solace223 said...

Good lord and your occupation is what again?? haha I hope I never need an ambulance. Particularly if my clothes need removing. ;) Sounds like a blast and I have never gotten so drunk that I've pissed myself. Actually, I don't think I've ever pissed myself period.

EE said...

I don't think you're an alcoholic either. You're with a bunch of friends at a bar, not getting wasted at home alone.

Props for the truffle shuffle man. I love it.

xtine said...

...I don't know what the truffle shuffle is?

(Yeah, I'm a little late to the show. You showed up in google reader's recommendations.)

If you'd tried to say "kinetic" that night, you'd have my verification word: kinesish.

Oh yeah. Yay boobies.

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