July 24, 2010

Fact is Better: The Drunk, The Fascist, And a Thank You to Obama

This is what happens when my friends come to my alcohol promotions, and I leave the unattended . . .

Me: “Ready to go?”
Me: “No. I can’t say that I did.”
The Politician: “There was a lot! IDRANKFORFIFTEENFDOLLA’!!!!!! I sat down. I said. I said, ‘What is your cheapest and weakest . . . no, I didn’t say weakest . . . I said, what is your cheapest domestic beer?’ And she said ‘PBR’ and I said ‘KEEPEMCOMING!’ THANKYOUOBAMAAAAAAAAAAA! And. AND! And, I have a twenty in my pocket, too.”
Me: *red flags begin going off in my head* “Seriously, man, tell me you didn’t sneak a beer in your pants.”
The Politician: “Girl, no. I gots twenty dolla’s left.” *big deep breath of the night air.* “I’m gonna need to pee on the turnpike.”
Some Passerby Smoking: *laughing at The Politician* “Dude, you’re probably gonna want to stop the car for that.”
The Politician: “SHE will stop the car for that. Are you good to drive? I mean, I can if you want. But, if you’re good to drive, I’m gonna get some ‘za.”
*we start to walk to the pizza place and I get cat-called*
The Politician: *looking shocked* “WASTHATFORME!? It was probably from one of the Asses I saw in there. DIDYOUSEEALLTHATASS?! YESHELLOGOODSIR, I’m gonna need . . .” *he turns to look at me for instruction and I mouth ‘pizza’* “. . . I’m gonna need a pizza. A slice of pizza. Of pepperoni pizza.”
*he eats his pizza, and get into my car to begin the road trip home*
The Politician: *sticks his head and fist out the window and hollers in a deep voice at the medical center we’re passing:* “TO ALL MY GANSTAS AT MAINE MEDICAL CENTEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!”
*suddenly he grows quiet*
The Politician: “I’ve got bad news.”
Me: “Oh, no. Do I need to pull over?”
The Politician: “No, but, you should know, I need to fart.”
Me: “So fart.”
The Politician: *thinks deeply about this* “Well, no. That would be bad. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure some poop would escape as well.”
Me: “Please don’t shart in my car.”
*we pass the B&M Baked Beans factory*
The Politician: *sticks his head and fist out the window and hollers in a deep voice at the factory we’re passing:* “TO ALL MY SHARTING HOMIES AT THE BAKED BEAN FACTORRRRRRRRRRRRY! Do you think I should drunk text my Dad?”
Me: “Yes.”
The Politician: “What about my stepmom?”
Me: “Sure.”
The Politician: “What about . . .” *he pauses as he thinks we pass the Barbara Bush Children’s Hospital – which is like two towns behind us at that point – to stick his head and fist out the window to holler:* “TO ALL MY DAWGS CURING CANCER IN KIDS AT THE BARBARA BUSH CHILREN’S HOSPITTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!!!!”
Me: “Okay, I think it’s time to stop.”
The Politician: “What, do you not support children’s cancer hospitals?”
*before I can even answer . . .*
The Politician: “Fascist.”

True story.

Further proof that fact is better than fiction.