How Deep the Rabbit Hole Goes
I have no problem with people who do drugs. My problem is with people who use drugs on me. Last weekend I got slipped a mickey by a group of girls trying to exact revenge on the male race for crimes against Gyno-Americans. While under the influence, I lost conscious reasoning, couldn’t feel my legs, and woke up in the company of Laurence Fishburne, who told me I’d never used my eyes before.
On the bright side, I became partially omnipotent and learned that the address of Industry Check Cashing Corp., the company lots of people call my cell phone looking for, is 518 Commack Road, which is freaky because my birthday is May 18th…5/18
This might seem like a random bit of coincidence to you, but to a person hallucinating about monocle wearing puppies giving birth to slices of pizza, this is the kind of eeriness that turns a good night into a bad trip.
As the story goes, before venturing out that evening, the aforementioned group of militant females decided that they should teach all men about the wrongs done to women since our species started emigrating from the trees and moving into pricey one-bedroom caves. While being feminist seems like an admirable event for a night out on the town, the girls figured that the best way to teach men this lesson was to drop pills filled with horse tranquilizer into my beer.
Perhaps they figured I’d spread the word to the rest of my fellow friends, Romans and country men, but as soon as I finished my pint I found myself drunker than I was on my own prom night, when I waited for myself to pass out, then undressed and raped me. (Yeah, I’m the friend of your friend’s friend)
Before the room went into spin cycle, I jumped on the bar and angrily barked at the bartender, “One glass of Moonshine, Pauly. Straight up!” The bartender, knowing he’d been out of Moonshine since the late 1800s, and aware his name was not Pauly, offered me an open Amstel Light as a substitute. Before taking a swig, I high-fived everyone in the bar and then spit a mouthful of phlegm into the establishment’s spittoon.
“Now you know how women feel!” yelled Sporty Spice.
I contemplated this notion by making my patented thinking face, and stroking the beard of the gentleman and the bar next to me.
The bar was more colorful than it had been, and the once stationary walls now ebbed and flowed against the ceiling. I was filled with an urge to relate everything I saw to the concept of ‘life,’ and despite a mild balancing problem and some paranoia, I was grateful to the girls for showing me how women feel. I wanted to tell them I loved them…but instead, I told them that cheese is the anti-drug.
While my seemingly random comment would almost always be considered harmless drunken banter, that evening, at the other end of the bar, a woman named Michelle was celebrating her third month sober and had drank one too many Virgin Marys.
“Parents are the anti-drug you dolt!” Michelle yelled.
For no reason other than Michelle’s lack of a penis, the group of girls who drugged me clamored behind her and rallied that I give them equal opportunity in the work force and stop expecting dinner to be ready when I get home.
“My balls are awesome,” I replied, “…you gotta see ‘em”
Before the girls could stone me with a satchel of Susan B. Anthony dollars, the Mets lost and my friends turned away from the big-screen to notice the impending turmoil. To ease tensions (and simultaneously increase their possibility of getting laid), they sprung into action by buying drinks for the girls, who in defense of Michelle, refused to imbibe and started pounding their chests until their breasts ached.
Having turned what was a simple misunderstanding into a full-blown argument, I joined the fight by becoming mordacious with a bar stool, which I thought was a pirate, and tackling it to the ground. My friends promptly broke up the fight, but not before I sunk my teeth into my foe and took a bite-sized chunk out of his wooden leg.
The next morning I woke up in Spain, which was good, because I had been planning to go to Spain for a long time and never thought I’d get the chance. As for the rest of that night, from what I’m told, it played out like one of Alex P. Keaton’s prime-time shenanigans.
The militant girls realized they already had suffrage and apologized to me while I lay on the floor, apologizing to the barstool. Three of my friends got phone digits and Michelle fell off the wagon.
Like I said, I have no problems with people who use drugs…just with people who use drugs on me, while I’m trying to write a coherent column.
