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Drunken El Nino and the Kiddie Pool
Sometimes Austinist gets a little out of hand. Nothing serious, and we never intend to [complete lie], but it just seems to happen [second egregious lie]. We’ve been making an admirable effort to cut down on our Friday booze consumption, as it tends to lay waste to our finances and obliterate the potential usefulness of our Saturdays. Instead of mowing the lawn, calling our mom, or curing cancer, we’re spending our time crying in front of cable television because our brain has ceased to function and our kidneys are suffering from some sort of chemical fire. That, and we probably managed to seriously hurt ourselves on Friday night. Physically. As in, falling down a flight of stairs (possibly escaping an accidental fire) or diving from a moving cab (possibly escaping an accidental fare).
So, lately, we’ve been respectable on Friday evenings and operational on Saturday mornings. The lawn was getting mowed, hobbies were being hobbied, and moms were getting coherent phone calls at reasonable times of day. All was splendid.
Until last Friday night, when for reasons beyond our intellectual capacity to fathom, all good intentions were crammed into the shitter and all sorts of hell broke loose.
Immediately after our wondrous day job, we wandered over to Club Deville for a couple of post-work-week libations to help wind down. We intended to cap it at two drinks due to budgetary constraints, and we planned to book it to Houston later that night to visit family. Driving drunk is absolutely inexcusable, but something that the average person could be fingered guilty of as a result of a temporary lapse in sound judgment. Driving drunk TO HOUSTON is absolutely insane, and the two to three-hour drive is anything but a temporary lapse. [Austinist, for the record, does not condone ANY operation of ANYTHING more complicated than a cigarette lighter while under the influence. And even then, we recommend you consult a trusted friend first. Ahem.]
Somehow, the two drink maximum only held well until some more friends showed up and began convincing us that we should just stay, continue drinking, and leave the next morning. Our friends, being the evil people that they are, were very convincing in their argument. Their vile trickery went as follows:
[Us, almost pleading] “We’d really like to stay and get shit-housed with you guys, but we must be going. We promised our family that we would be there tonight, and we cannot swing the cash for any more intoxicants. Seriously, this is non-negotiable and ironclad.”
[Friends, waving nonchalantly] “Nah, fuck that, just stay here and have a few more with us!”
[Us, with obvious desperation] “We… we… cannot compete with such deep and insightful logic, we are compelled to acquiesce… Sweet Jesus… LET THE LIBATIONS POUR DOWN FROM THE HEAVENS UNTIL WE BELIEVE WE CAN SPEAK SWAHILI!!!!!”
Perhaps different words were used, but the intent and manipulation were definitely present. Our will was magically broken, and we continued to forge the River Booze through dead spots in conversation about first jobs and shitty haircuts, where the voids were filled with nonsensical shouts concerning “sex with robots? You KNOW I would!”
And then the fog set in, the same fog that appears to plague the judgment of Generals in times of rabid war. The fog which confuses our sense of purpose or decency, and plants the seeds of absolute idiocy into the ever-fertile soil of our motivations and movements, where the sprouts almost immediately appear with potentially disastrous chaos. We became the reason why bouncers exist. The reason why “drunk tanks” are a staple stable in every urban prisonscape. The fodder for prohibitionists.
And we were perfectly happy to jump whatever disaster train was barreling our way. Somewhere, in the back of our pickled mind, it was exactly what we wanted.
Staggering occurred between Deville and 6th street, a staggering that was aimed at finding food. Best Wurst, to be exact. Along the way, we happened upon the most ridiculous and careless thing we have ever seen on 6th street. Out in front of either Ester’s Follies or Velveeta Room, was a completely full kiddie pool. Just sitting there. Begging for attention.
People were just walking by it like it belonged there. It was the proverbial elephant in the goddamn room. Its tempting call was unavoidable. And we wanted to bother it, somehow. “Must… act… on… instinct…” We planned to make it up as we went.
Our whole crew approached the tap-water masterpiece as it sat right on the curb, and while passing, we decided to splash one of our drinking mates. No big deal, considering our first inclination was to either: jump in it ourselves; or send one of our friends in there, head-first. We have no idea why we thought this would be entertaining, or why we thought it anywhere near acceptable behavior. Because it is obviously atrocious and childish at its core. But HOW could we just walk by and leave all that wet water be! So, a little splash was something of a compromise between our id and super ego. We thought it gracious.
However, our friend did not care about the idiocy raging in our brain, or how it could have been much, much worse. They got wet, and they wanted to see blood spilt in return. So they took to putting us in some Jujitsu-type crab-hold, and started dragging us toward the rippling pool with the obvious intent of submerging us. Maybe an “accidental” death was their intention. Regardless of that, or the fact that we ourselves considered jumping in the pool, we refused to be victimized (my, what hypocrites we are when we’re slobbering drunk) and we started to put up a fight.
Here is where we will divulge more detail. We, to begin, are pretty hefty and male. Our (well within their right) attacker is tall, female, and even taller in her stiletto-like heals. The crowd that surrounded us was thick and flabbergasted by the raucous scuffle that ensued.
We were twisting and pulling, knocking into drunk or sober passersby, personal belongings flying from our pockets and purses, screaming and yelling like a two-year old tantrum. The crowd from inside the comedy club (whichever it was) hit the window and watched. People stopped and gawked to see who would end up in the pool. We are sure they were dumbfounded by the sheer might of the woman in stilettos and her masterful command of the martial arts as she inched us closer and closer to her satisfaction. We struggled to break free, tossing her this way and that, and just before we were guaranteed a good dunking…
Her heel twisted just enough for us to force ourselves out from her kung-fu grips, and as we burst forward and into a full-on Bruce Jenner sprint down 6th, we heard “oh man, that’s fucked up right there,” and as we turned we saw our friend and previous renegade-of-kiddie-pool-justice on the dirty sidewalk, right where we left her. My, she was REALLY pissed. Outraged even, but mostly cursing her immobility by way of cute footwear. Instinctively, forgetting that we were still in danger, we returned to the scene to pick her and the strewn belongings up from the pavement. We ignored the calls for shame from the people lining the sidewalks, those who were all “what the fuck was that crazy-assed shit all about?” We were back on our path for a Best Wurst.
Hey, there was a goddamn kiddie pool on SIXTH STREET on a FRIDAY NIGHT. It’s not like it was out in front of the Paramount on a Tuesday for chrissakes. What were they expecting would happen? People tossing quarters for wishes?
Not that we are without blame. It is obviously all our fault. That, and El Nino should shoulder some responsibility here, as we tend to blame it for all things we cannot explain.
The rest of the night involved the consumption of an extremely tasty Best Wurst (with sauerkraut, mustard, and their kick-ass curry ketchup), yet more drinking at Lovejoy’s, singing The Strokes tunes FAR TOO LOUD from the juke box at Mug Shots (we actually miss High Life Café and their badass Cinnamon Chai), and finally ending up at The Ritz for foosball and pool.
We are an awful foosball player, and we admit it. We are an awful pool player, and will NEVER admit it. At The Ritz, all our friends manned-up for foosball. We, not feeling up to the swivel-soccer challenge, walked up to a pool table that already had some guys playing at it. Somehow, through drunken sign-language, we managed to convince them to let us pay for a game. This “sign language” probably involved us handing one of them money, drooling a tad, and grunting a finger toward the table. Amongst and between drunkards, this relay is easily deciphered. We’re super smooth like that. The game of cutthroat between us three was an absolute debacle because we kept forgetting which balls were ours. That, and we were completely unable to focus on the balls that remained, so even if we remembered, we’d still just shoot on “whatever man”. Eventually, the two guys abandoned us and we headed to the bar for another completely unwarranted beer.
Not driving has its advantages, that is for certain. Kids, lose the keys early in the night if you know what’s good for you. From us to you: sage, sage advice.
At the bar, the bartender served us our Dos Equis and then asked for payment. Continuing our streak of absolutely obnoxious behavior, we simply started naming off the last names of friends we knew who were with us, hoping to hit an open tab. We like to refer to this as “tab fishing”. Our unlucky, open credit cards have been the recipient of many a friend’s hook in our day. The exchange that followed went something like this:
[Us, sipping and walking away after getting beer] “Mmmm, de-fuggin’-licious!”
[Bartender, irritated, stern-eyed] “Hey buddy, that’s (insert forgotten amount here) bucks, you got a tab open or something?”
[Us, excited that he asked, but unintentionally mumbling/slurring heavily] “Ubb, yeah, izzz surfgggggttt”
[Leaning in, cupping ear] “What’s that?”
[Stepping back a step, closing our eyes just a bit] “Sssfffftttttttthhal.”
[Ever louder, more frustrated] “Wha? I can’t fuckin’ hear you man!”
[Holding beer with both hands at waist, eyes closed, mouth wide open] “Rrraaaaaaaagggionssss.”
[Defeated, dismissive] “Oh whatever. Go.”
SUHWEEEET!
That’s my new trick, so don’t wear it out until I’ve gotten the opportunity to use it a-lot more often. MUCH better than tab fishing. Easier too.
Last call hit and we were swept out onto the filth-covered horse-shit-highway that is 6th. Somehow, possibly by vodka-powered teleport, we ended up at the original Kerby Lane. Drunken politics got talked and stories were told while we slept with our eyes open. At the ring of four in the anti-meridian, we were tucking our drunken selves into the couch cushions at our good friend’s house. The good friend who would be driving us to Houston the following day at the crack of noon, too dehydrated to piss for another two days.
My, my. Our parents could not be prouder of our 24-hour tardiness. We blamed it on the stupid kiddie pool. Oh, and El Nino, of course. Fuckin’ El Nino gets us every time. Such is life.
Comments [rss]
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KenJi
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Justin
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Justin
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truecraig
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edward
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Pffft, again.
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truecraig
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Red
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truecraig
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Ray-chul
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CJ
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truecraig
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mamalara
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penguinsaurus
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truecraig
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Jaco
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truecraig
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Bre
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Allen
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truecraig
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truecraig
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Suckage
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am
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Worst post ever
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pffft:;:'
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caleaelena
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A
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truecraig
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am
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sean
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A
