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Published July 13, 2011 More Info »
Additional Credits
Additional Credits:
Lola Berlin
Photo Credit: John Bramley
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Published July 13, 2011

PRE--FACE:
 This post would feel more complete if it was slanted and you had to tilt your head to the side to read it. Also, I was NOT drunk when I wrote it. I promise. Despite that it may partly read like a treatment for The Hangover 3. That's just a horrible coincidence.  
...

Allow me to set the scene. Pretend you're at the circus and it's time for the closing act. Disconcerting chromatic scale type music plays in the background. There's a naked clown circling the perimeter of the stage on a unicycle whilst juggling blades or bottles or whatever they would juggle in a horror flick or a psychological thriller - baby dolls? human organs? I don't know. But let's make this extra weird because that's the effect I'm aiming for in the opening of this story. 

Spotlight on Ringmaster, draped in a cloak made out of lizard skins or alligator tongues or shark livers or something equally as bizarre. There's a drumroll, in this case improvised by elephants stomping out of step to imitate the beat. The anticipation builds. Wait for it. 

Ringmaster announces: 

"AND FOR THE FINAL AND MOST HILARIOUSLY ENTERTAINING ACT OF THE NIGHT……….INTRODUCING -- MISS DRUNKY McTEASE."

Curtains part and reveal - ME. Holding my seventeenth cocktail at 4:30 a.m., giggling like a stoned teenager and pretending I can salsa dance like a Puerto Rican national pro.

I'm a lot of fun, guys. Hop on the bandwagon -- we're going somewhere better than Vegas!  

It's around this time when I start dry humping my friends. Its kind of become my trademark. FRIEND NOTE: You know you're one of my hommies if I've dry humped you after midnight. Boy or Girl. I do it to everyone. BESIDES: Who doesn't like to be dry humped? But seriously, why doesn't anybody STOP ME. Not from dry humping because whatever. But from my drunken obnoxiousness in general. 

Fair enough. It's probably like trying to halt a moving train. If you step on the tracks you're gonna get run over because I'm loud and boisterous and determined to do whatever it is I'm doing when I'm liquored up, full steam ahead. In my drunken defense I was raised in Australia. The stereotypes about drunken Aussies not so false in my case. And now I live in a city where every second billboard and magazine ad encourages boozing as a form of networking. Welcome to West Hollywood! 

At least I'm a FUN drunk. Unless you piss me off. Then I might threaten to kill you. I don't mean it. It's the tequila talking. On the flip, I might also claim to love you. I probably don't mean that either, unless I DO love you…confirm for sure when I'm sober. The thing is, most Homo sapiens would pass out by this stage of drunkenness. NOT ME. I just keep going cause I'm the ENERGIZER BUNNY BA-BEEEEE! 

The following morning I usually wake up in a random location, occasionally beside a stranger or liberally speaking, "new friend." JUST SO YOU KNOW: There's never any sex involved because despite the dry humping I'm still a prude at heart. And yes, it's always slightly awkward and totally bizarre. 

I should've realized I had a problem when I woke up in a Danica Patrick race car driver costume beside Waldo (as in, Where's Waldo? Well, it was Halloween). Or when I woke up on a yellow school bus known as the "Burning Man Bus" to some hippy band (post Christmas party). I never did stay in touch with that guitarist guy despite his efforts.  My latest escapade, however, may have resulted in my murder and there was no annual holiday excuse, just a regular weekend house party. Vague flashbacks to an argument about a disturbing painting on a wall in what may been a psychopathic killer's house, to which I was lured at an unreasonable hour. DUMBASS. Drunken logic is distorted logic. Anyway…that incident cemented what I should've acknowledged all along. In order to remain alive I had four options:

1. Stay home and NEVER go out again.
2. Go out and be the only sober one amongst drunks. Yeah, right.  
3. Get laid (FINALLY) and kill off some of this energy.  
4. Recruit a WINGMAN. 

As much as I'm willing to become a recluse and a closet drunk to avoid murder, I'm not sure I wouldn't go extra wild the moment I was unleashed. Besides, I have a bit of a history with drunk emailing and texting whilst alone. Like even to strangers and sometimes I mix up numbers and target the wrong person. Shame. They should totally create a support group for that. MOVING ON…And since I'm not into promiscuity, and monogamy and loyalty are not token qualities in the City of Flakes -- I mean Angels, I decided I needed a WINGMAN. 

By wingman I mean someone who will look out for me and keep me in check -- the seventh definition in the urban dictionary (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=wingman). Someone who will say, "No! Don't Do That!" Someone who is bigger and strong enough to carry me home and too tall for me to punch in the mug because "I DON'T WANNA GO HOME!" Or possibly someone who is just as crazy and can keep up with my insanity. 

AND SO FOR THE FINAL FINAL ACT TONIGHT. INTRODUCING, my partner in CRIME, MY WINGMAN-- AUSTIN! 

Girly shriek! I know right?! His name is like the coolest city in Texas. I love Texas! Totally irrelevant to this post. And yeah, yeah I know. Texas tried to be its own country. The arrogance. But that takes balls, man. Anyway, Yay for Me! I HAVE A WINGMAN! Woo-hoo! But maybe not so Yay for Austin. We'll see.  P.S. Since Austin (a random L.A. Douchebag (intended as a term of endearment) that I found outside of L Bar on Sunset Blvd) is actively dating, I might need rotational wingmen. Currently accepting applications. Prerequisites include: Must be funny, naive enough for me to manipulate and most importantly: Has foresight to see beyond my bullshit! 


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