Tag: humor

It Took Me About Three Hours

Reader tip! Don’t wrap an evening of drinking by spiking your champagne with Limoncello.

Buuuuuut, as long as 32-percent alcohol is coursing through your veins, you may as well send a few dozen text messages. You can send them all to different people by simply thinking of a new person you’d like to talk to. Don’t be all anal about whether you’ve actually entered their phone number or just the one you last dialed. Hit on the following key points:

Everything south of my waist is wet, and not in a hot way.

o never has anyone been drunk enough

Sara could fix my car, love. We are so very drunk.

Um. My terrariums are doing smashingly. Sara must plug in.

You must only be living jusy so, with the so trashed so well. It took me three hours or so. Cheers, rae.

Just so. Sara Brown is wasted. She won’t have anything theft, monsieur. How’s france treatin’ ya?

Around 2 a.m., compose incoherent messages on the postcards you’ve been acquiring since college. For example:

Dallas has the worst airport in the continental U.S. and you’re always on that thing with the guys who golf.

What?
OK.
I’m going to lay down.
My nose, even my nose hurts.

-It’s 2:32 a.m. I mean seriously, go to the bathroom.
-OK, I’m going to.
-OK.

Every once in awhile I am so afraid of ghosts, I can’t sleep. Which is bullshit, because ghosts don’t have muscles.

True enough.

When you wake up unsure of whether you may still be drunk, call a cab instead of driving to breakfast. Of course, the taxi driver will be drunk, but he will still take you to the place where they melt the cheese over the potatoes and give you plate after plate of andouille sausage.

Thanks, wasted cab driver. We needed that.

You Know Who You Are

Excellent dialogue from my friend’s four-year-old daughter, Isabel:

When playing with a toy harmonica, elbows akimbo–
“All right everybody! Let’s hear one for the briiiide!”

When coaxing the dog to chase you–
“C’mon, doggie! Chase me! C’mon doggie! You wanna piece of me, doggie? You wanna piece of me?!”

When encouraging the dog to obtain a cookie traped inside his hollow toy–
“Get it, doggie! Eat it! You know who you are! You know what you want! EAT IT!”

Open Letter

Dear Woman Who Just Left This Bathroom Stall,

What the holy hell happened in here? My brain is racing through the possibilities. Did you splay starfish-style against the walls of the stall and misfire from above? Did you decide to practice a little yoga while you had some down time?

Only moments ago, we made eye contact as you passed; I noted your cute shoes. And now here I stand, preparing to wipe one-half-gallon of your urine off my toilet seat.

How was this spatter pattern physically possible? Did you stand over the seat under the misimpression that you have a penis? Clearly you do not have a penis. Territorial drunk men with prostate issues have better aim than you.

If you continue to do this, leave filthy messes for complete strangers despite being in your late thirties, eventually someone will point it out. I hope they will point it out by slamming open the stall, grabbing you by the scruff of your neck, and pushing your nose up to the toilet seat, while shouting, “No! NO! Baaaad stranger! Baaaaaad!”

In the meantime, I’ll be here with half a roll of toilet paper wrapped around my hand, mopping up a grown woman’s pee-pee.

Sincerely,
Margaret Mason