You may be wondering where I’ve been over the past little while. Or maybe not. How knows? My latent, yet much warranted, narcissism would like to think I’d been missed. Since I used my one phone call to cancel the appointment for my full spa treatment (Ramon will not receive payment for another missed appointment, darlings), I’ve been stuck behind bars for a while. Given that I was swept up in the St. Paddy’s day dragnet, it’s taken some time to process all of us in the drunk tank.
I’ve got to tell you, girlfriends, do not believe what they tell you in the TV and movies. Oz, Caged Heat, Bare Behind Bars, Lusty Chains, Escape to Alcatrans… they all lied to me. This was not the vacation getaway I was expecting. Those films didn’t say anything about a bunch of sweaty, tubby, drunken, ginger Irishmen. Or their curly, orange back hair. It was like a full body, orange, Irish afro. It was like they’d slaughtered Ronald McDonald and all of his kin and made coverings for themselves by sewing together all those hideous little clown scalps. Let me tell you, there aren’t enough lasers in the world, dearies. The power needed to do the electrolysis would overload the grid and plunge the entire emerald isle into total blackness. At least it’s obvious that they’ve stockpiled their wax, so they’d still have candle light. It must be some survival of the fittest thing. Without that hair suit to protect them, their pasty white skin would burst into flames at the first touch o’ sun. And then, each time they got hosed down for fighting, the wet, orange, matted hair made them look like they’d spent too much time in a malfunctioning fake baker. Unless you’re on Jersey Shore, honey, that look is so ‘00s.
But anyway, I finally understand why green is the color of St. Paddy’s day. The sights and smells of the native Irish left me nauseous. I was green through and through, and it wasn’t from envy, darlings. Seriously, all those ‘Kiss me I’m Irish’ T-shirts need to come with a warning label. I’m super serial. Warning: The Surgeon General has determined that kissing the Irish can cause chronic halitosis, mental illness, nose pimples, bulimia, shrinkage, loss of libido, brain damage, severe loss of appetite and suicidal tendencies. It was SO not fabulous, and I think I broke three nails and I’m going to have to start all over again with my new cleansing and exfoliating regimen and, oh, these split ends, but on the fabulous side I did lose three pounds.
But how, you may ask, did I allow myself to get stuck in the drunk tank with a bunch of drabulous brawlers? Well, St. Paddy’s day started pretty much the way it always does. I donned my green leather and headed over to Crackatoa’s Cock-Tails for their annual St. Paddy’s day bash. They always have open pole night on St. Paddy’s day, so anyone who wants to can get up on stage, give the pole a twirl and shake their booty for the crowd. After about two green Cosmopolitans and a Velvet Hammer, this asiany midgety person hopped up on stage wearing a shiny green suit, and he reminded me instantly of a leprechaun version of the asiany fellow in Good Morning Vietnam who was so proud of his shiny green suit. As the shiny green suit came off, it was readily apparent that he wasn’t a little person at all but that he was just missing his legs just above the knee, and he was missing his left hand.
After the show, Julio kept nudging me, saying the little asian fellow was giving me the eye. I said, “Naw. Their eyes always look like that. Anyway. As if.” But after a while, he came over to introduce himself. Upon a closer look, it turned out he wasn’t just missing both legs and a hand, but one of his eyes was glass and half his left ear was gone. He said his name was Lucky. (Of course, pronounced in his native tongue, it was Ruckee, but being culturally sensitive as I am, I was able to understand). “Ew,” I said. “Yucky is more like it. I’m not that drunk yet.” Of course, after three more Velvet Hammers, I was exactly that drunk, and he wound up sitting on my lap in the front seat of my mini-cooper as I was driving for home. He couldn’t reach the pedals on account of his disability, so I let him steer. Before we knew it, we were being pulled over by the cops. It wasn’t our fault, really. They were profiling. The cops were stopping absolutely everyone who was driving through the elementary school playground. It’s profiling, and it’s wrong.
The cop said I was being stopped for suspected DUI. “DUI,” I slurred. “You’re pulling me over for being a dirty, ugly Irishman? You insult me, sir.” The officer was not amused. Turns out, he was both Irish and stone cold sober. I know, who would have guessed either of those? Lucky just started singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and offered to take the officer to his pot o’ gold. The officer just gave him a breathalyzer test. Lucky passed, and the officer let him go, which leads me to wonder why he steered me into the swingset. Maybe it is true what they say about asian drivers.
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