Well. Are you ready for this shit?
St. Patrick's Day just so happened to be the same day as my supervisor's farewell, so half of the staff plodded over to the dodgiest pub in existence for some 'goodbye, best of luck, what a fantastic excuse to get shitfaced' drinks.
At this point, things were going well.
I wore green, because it was, you know, appropriate. Then I sat down with Co-Worker and a couple of pints.
Things still going well, yes?
Then everyone was suddenly drunk. And I don't just mean drunk, I mean HOLY SHIT DRUNK. Hideously. Horrendously. Spewtastic. Drunk. And everyone was acting like they were the best of friends. And then my supervisor said he liked my top. And then the guy who sits next to me at work danced with me to Madonna's 'Like a Prayer' and put his arm around my waist. And then Co-Worker, who is a pretty little thing, ran up to me and told me that she had been semi-attacked by a sleazy guy while his girlfriend was less than three metres away. And then.
And then.
Co-Worker said she would like to go home. We had pre-arranged that she'd sleep on our couch, you see. We walked outside, and she wobbled a bit before COLLAPSING ON THE FLOOR. And I was like, 'dude'.
A bouncer helped me carry her down to a bench, where she rested her head on my lap for a while before SPEWING ALL OVER HER SKIRT. AND MY SHOES. Then she started convulsing while vomit bubbled out of her mouth. And the bouncer told me to check her pulse. And I'm thinking, 'God, this is a bit serious. She's only had as much as me.' But fortunately she wasn't dead - just so drunk she was completely unaware that she was lying in her own puke.
I waved frantically for taxis, but do you think a taxi driver will stop for the crazy-waving girl with spew feet, jumping up and down next to the unconscious girl with a spew skirt? No. This is very unlikely. And then I did something that made me feel very bad, but I felt very stuck and my feet smelt like vomit.
I called my flatmates. At an ungodly hour. And this is what I said.
"Hello it's me I'm outside the pub and Co-Worker's unconscious and lying in a pool of her own spew and no taxis will stop for me because she looks dead and she's got spew on her and I've got spew on me and can you help me please I would be grateful forever."
And because they are awesome, they helped me. And while I was waiting, a man sat next to me, said, "Is she alright?" and followed it up with, "You've got nice tits."
I said, "Thanks, mate. That's the way to pick up the ladies." And then he left.
Drove home, blah blah blah, slept it off, sent her on her way the next morning, blah, etc., blah.
How was your St. Patrick's Day? I didn't even drink any Guinness.
St. Patrick's Day just so happened to be the same day as my supervisor's farewell, so half of the staff plodded over to the dodgiest pub in existence for some 'goodbye, best of luck, what a fantastic excuse to get shitfaced' drinks.
At this point, things were going well.
I wore green, because it was, you know, appropriate. Then I sat down with Co-Worker and a couple of pints.
Things still going well, yes?
Then everyone was suddenly drunk. And I don't just mean drunk, I mean HOLY SHIT DRUNK. Hideously. Horrendously. Spewtastic. Drunk. And everyone was acting like they were the best of friends. And then my supervisor said he liked my top. And then the guy who sits next to me at work danced with me to Madonna's 'Like a Prayer' and put his arm around my waist. And then Co-Worker, who is a pretty little thing, ran up to me and told me that she had been semi-attacked by a sleazy guy while his girlfriend was less than three metres away. And then.
And then.
Co-Worker said she would like to go home. We had pre-arranged that she'd sleep on our couch, you see. We walked outside, and she wobbled a bit before COLLAPSING ON THE FLOOR. And I was like, 'dude'.
A bouncer helped me carry her down to a bench, where she rested her head on my lap for a while before SPEWING ALL OVER HER SKIRT. AND MY SHOES. Then she started convulsing while vomit bubbled out of her mouth. And the bouncer told me to check her pulse. And I'm thinking, 'God, this is a bit serious. She's only had as much as me.' But fortunately she wasn't dead - just so drunk she was completely unaware that she was lying in her own puke.
I waved frantically for taxis, but do you think a taxi driver will stop for the crazy-waving girl with spew feet, jumping up and down next to the unconscious girl with a spew skirt? No. This is very unlikely. And then I did something that made me feel very bad, but I felt very stuck and my feet smelt like vomit.
I called my flatmates. At an ungodly hour. And this is what I said.
"Hello it's me I'm outside the pub and Co-Worker's unconscious and lying in a pool of her own spew and no taxis will stop for me because she looks dead and she's got spew on her and I've got spew on me and can you help me please I would be grateful forever."
And because they are awesome, they helped me. And while I was waiting, a man sat next to me, said, "Is she alright?" and followed it up with, "You've got nice tits."
I said, "Thanks, mate. That's the way to pick up the ladies." And then he left.
Drove home, blah blah blah, slept it off, sent her on her way the next morning, blah, etc., blah.
How was your St. Patrick's Day? I didn't even drink any Guinness.
posted by GBE at 6:02 pm
3 Comments:
men! god love 'em. It's a miracle they've lasted this long in the evolutionary process!
I thought you lot could make drinking into an Olympic sport?
Nice to know there are light weight Australians too!
Personaly, I too reguarly find myself the "least pissed" one at work nights out and sit there thinking "this is sad".
Oh, M., I don't know. There's nothing that turns me on quite as much as being hassled by a primitive ape-man while I've got a girl's vomit-soaked head in my lap. It's hard to believe that people like that exist.
Brett, I wasn't the least pissed, but I sobered up bloody quickly after she collapsed in a heap. We'd still win at the drinking olympics, though.
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