Regular readers may recall previous posts about manifestations of a disease that I like to call Brain vs. Mouth. This post is about its sister disease, which is essentially a three-way bitch-fight between Drunk Brain, Sober Brain and Mouth.
Before I continue, let me reiterate that all three parties employ a particular brand of logic that is perfectly sound in and of itself. It’s just that each brand of logic is incomprehensible to the other parties and to most rational human beings.
- Drunk Brain is… well… Drunk Brain is just drunk.
- Sober Brain is the closest that I can get to conventional wisdom.
- Mouth just does whatever the hell it wants. Picture all possible actions — ranging from the reasonable to the bat-shit mad — on a big spinning wheel. Mouth spins the wheel and does whatever the hand lands on.
So, keeping these facts in mind, let me take you back to a crisp fall November night, where this story begins with a couple bottles of wine and a bag of pretzels…
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was Friday night, and it was meant to be a classic girls’ night out. My last man-shopping bender resulted in the loss of my pants, but that wasn’t on the agenda this time. All we wanted to do was have some wine together, get a little silly and dance it out to crappy French music somewhere that didn’t charge us an entry fee.
My companions for the evening were two lovely ladies, hereafter known as Ms. Hair and Ms. Holland, the former having consistently fantastic hair and the latter being the embodiment of all things awesome about being Dutch.
Ms. Hair was the star of the evening and managed to have a sizable following of eager young bucks who waited on her hand and foot and who provided us, her swashbuckling companions, with constant refills of Grey Goose.
I was perfectly fine with this arrangement, as the vodka was seeping into my brain.
It was after an undetermined number of these free drinks that I encountered a young man who looked like a French Shia Laboeuf. This was also about the time that Drunk Brain joined the party.
My conversation with Shia LaBoeuf went something like this (I must warn you, this is a rough reconstruction, as I was pretty much drunk off my face at this point):
Shia : Hi, what’s your name?
Drunk Brain : HAHAHAHAHAHA He looks like Shia Laboeuf! Shia Laboeuf sounds like Shia LaBUTT. HAHAHAHAHA.
Sober Brain : Shut up, Drunk Brain. Let the girl work. This guy isn’t a total train wreck, and she deserves to have some fun tonight.
Man-shopper’s Mouth : My name is Helene. And your name is Shia.
Shia : What?
Drunk Brain : TEEHEEHEHEHE Man-shopper is sooooo smooth.
Sober Brain : Oh god. I can’t watch.
Man-shopper’s Mouth : I’m American!
Shia : No you’re not, you’re Asian.
Drunk Brain : Touché!
Sober Brain : Next! Next! For the love of god, Man-shopper, NEXT! You’ve met moss that is smarter than this guy…
Man-shopper’s Mouth : Why, yes I am. What do you think of Asians, sir?
Shia : I love Asians. They are so… Asian.
Drunk Brain : Hmmm… I’m not sure, but why do I get this feeling that Shia is a little thick? Oooo wait a minute, what do we have here? Bouncy seat cushions! Bouncy bouncy bouncy bouncy bounce bounce, I’m Tigger!
Sober Brain : < absent >
Man-shopper’s Mouth : ME TOO! I LOVE ASIANS!
Shia : I know right! Asians are so beautiful. So exotic.
Drunk Brain : Okay, I’m drunk, but I’m not stupid. I’m definitely getting a vibe of douche-toolery here, but how do we make him shut his stupid mouth?? Sober Brain, help a sister out here!
Sober Brain : < absent >
Man-shopper’s Mouth : Ummmmmm….
Shia : Blah blah blah blah Asian blah blah blah love blah blah blah you are beautiful blah blah blah what’s your number blah
Drunk Brain : I’ve got a brilliant idea! He can’t say anything stupid if he can’t talk! Just make out with him to shut him up! Come on, Mouth, you and I both know that I have the best ideas.
Sober Brain : What the hell? I step out for a coffee break and shit hits the fan… Stop! Wait! WHAT IS HAPPENING?!
Man-shopper’s Mouth : < censored >
Drunk Brain : Hmmm… Sober Brain, were you saying something? Oh, maybe you’re right, kissing this guy is not the greatest idea. Poor guy. He has no idea that he’s not getting a phone number out of this.
Sober Brain : Thank god, you’re listening. Now, Mouth, repeat after me: “I’ve changed my mind. I’m drunk, and I’m actually not interested. Please leave me alone. Also, my boyfriend is in the military and he will wipe the floor with you.”
Man-shopper’s Mouth : Oh, my roommate wants to go home. Right now. We communicate telepathically. Bye!
Shia : WTF?
Drunk Brain : Nicely done, Mouth. You are a genius. He TOTALLY bought that. You and I make such a great team.
Sober Brain : I don’t know why I even bother.
Of course, after implementing that brilliant exit strategy, I proceeded to stay at the club, wander around and dance indiscriminately to every horrible song that the DJ put on. At some point, I’m pretty sure that I broke out my running man moves. Maybe a little robot action. I really don’t know. It was kind of a shitshow.
At some point, I ran into Shia again.
And I vaguely remember saying, “NEXT!” and running away.
The next morning, after a 5am sandwich, a liter of orange juice, about three buckets of ibuprofen, and one of the most epic hangovers of my life, I vowed never to drink again…
… It was a vow that I broke shortly thereafter.