I’ve always found it funny that people, even otherwise thoughtful, decent people, can routinely blow by the one that is one too many. I’m not judging of course, we’ve all donned the proverbial lampshade and danced the “white-man overbite” while bellowing things better left unsaid. I’m just laughing, thankful that this time it wasn’t me.
Last night I attended an Expat party at Clarke Quay. Given the readership of this much belated blog, you may have went as well. If so, you likely witnessed the amazing escapades of “drunk girl”.
She was easy to spot, an Amazon blond rocking a call-girl starter kit – short skirt, tall heels, and glassy eyes framed with enough make-up to pass as a Boy George impersonator. She was performing all the traditional intoxicated antics: ranting about lost love, professing devotion to wide-eyed friends and co-workers, and two-fistedly chugging various concoctions that could easily power a diesel tractor.
But what makes this drunken stupor something to immortalize is that she actually took a full out horizontal digger – a multiple person pile up that ended in a hasty exit and some minor abrasions.
I saw it coming. She was mid sentence…loose lips struggling to form the letter “S”. But it was as if the slur took too much effort for her knees suddenly gave way and the leggy lady careened, collapsed, and ultimately crashed into a trio of tiny Asian socialites.
Sadly, the smallest of the group bore the brunt of the blow. She suffered a twisted ankle and the loss of what appeared to be an Apple-tini as the drink launched from her hand drenching her horrified companions. In the end the group lay buried beneath the now, semi conscience party girl.
Some rushed to help. Others callously reached for camera phones. As for me, I just shook my head, sipped my beer, and prayed she wasn’t an American.
I believe it was Hemmingway who said, “Two drinks are too many. Three drinks are too few.” He was a very wise man.