I recall the past fondly when my girlfriend Debi and I would partake in "Happy Hour" every Wednesday, after work. We looked forward to Wednesdays, where we did our weekly bitching and moaning about working for Satan and her husband. For those of you curious, our boss Satan came in the form of a blonde female, who squeezed her melted ice cream cone frame into size 5 Bongo jeans, (which added extra stress to the job, in fear that one of the buttons of said jeans would collapse under the pressure and shoot straight for our eyeballs at 150 miles per hour) and she had 10 personalities...all of them where pretty bitchy, especially the one personality that caused her to turn her head completely around and vomit bile on our desk. I hated that one.
Anyways, back to my story....Wednesday night. Happy Hour. Our usual order? Puu Puu Platter which had a variety of small fried delicacies, perfect for one handed bitching and chewing. Our drinks? Purple Haze, which was INDEED purple, but really, that's all I could tell you about the drink. All we knew was deliciously fabulous, it came in a HUGE glass and it gave us a pretty good buzzerooski after just one. Initially, we had always PLANNED on staying there for happy hour, have our Puu Puu, our Hazes, shoot the shit, sober up and go home. But I can safely say, that only happened ONCE. The rest of the time we would go straight from Happy Hour to.. "OMG, I love this SONG! let's dance!!," Then, before we knew it, we had stayed long enough for the restuarant to switch to their real money maker (Club Mooses'), which occured around 7:00 pm. In retrospect, I should have realized by several distinct signs that we had went from casual drinking to completely bombed.
Clue Numero UNO: Our previously quiet shit talking of "girls" who had fallen off the fashion wagon (ie: those attired in belly shirts with an ACTUAL belly to go with it..) turns into your run -of-the-mill harassment which included a fun Lionel Ritchie song with a little twist to it, sung loudly in the direction of the fashion offenders with singer's friend laughing hysterically in the background. ("Once! Twiche! Three Times... she's SLUTTTTYYYY..) complete with slurs, sneers and pointing. We were quite charming as you can imagine.
Clue Numero Deux: (I know I went from Spanish to French there.. just tryin' to keep you on your toes) We got your A-Typical Drunk Brass Balls. As you can imagine, one of the girls we harrassed would get a tad bit offended by our impromptu serenading of her personal character and eventually confront us. At this point, the smallest of the two (me.. at a towering 4'8") would turn into an instant gangsta rappa, complete with puffing of the chest, standing eye to chest with the girl and asking the her the question of the hour: "Wha? You wanna say somethin' bitch?" How I never actually got into a fight is beyond me, but I'm thinking these girls didn't want to be known as a midget beater. Again, the charm was just oozing out of us at this point.
Clue Numero Tres': The catcalling would eventually turn towards poor unsuspecting men who we deemed were good looking enough to be showered with compliments such as: "Daaammnnn.. check out the ass on that one!" "You're so good looking, you HAVE TO be gay right? Or have a small penis? Which is it?" AND our best pickup line ever??
"Is your name CHU?? Cuz' CHU are FINE!!" (mind you this line was delivered with a Rosie Perez like tone, complete with neck roll and mentally undressing poor unsuspecting male with our eyes.)
Clue Numero Quattro: I pull a "Madonna" and start becoming British. I hold up an empty glass, slam my hand against the table and shout to the waiter in my best snooty British accent: "DAHLING, get me another Mai Tai!" When all along I've been drinking a Purple Haze. The mixing of alchohol begins and the fun continues.
Clue Numero Lima: (that's Five for you non-Tagalog talking friends..) At this point, the "beer goggles" or in this case "The Mai Tai, Purple Haze" HAZE go into effect. We suddenly realize how many gorgeous guys are surrounding us. Even guys we had previously deemed "stubby" "old" "balding" or "mushy" are starting to look more and more like Colin Farrell with each and every drink.
At this point, we DID start realizing we're rightously bombed, especially when we began talking about how we were so "lucky" to have happened to be at the bar along with so many gorgeous men. Then we realize that we were "lucky" last Wednesday too and the Wednesday before that. Either we were so damn charming that gorgeous guys from all over San Diego flocked to where we were OR, quite possibly, we were DRUNK. Even in our bombed state, we usually figured out that it was the latter. So we did the our usual swearing of "never doing THAT again," knowing full well in our hearts that an encore was more than likely to happen during next Wednesday's Happy Hour, walk over to the next door coffee shop, have some coffee and cake, laugh at how witty we were that night and go home.
Ahhhhh. The good ol' days.