“Irish Car Bombs?”
While my friends looked at me hesitantly they were in no condition to comprehend let alone disagree with my intense desire to consume alcohol. While I turned to order I was unaware that a Chris Angel show was taking place behind my back. Poof. It was real life magic here in Maui. In an instant, 8 people had pulled the most impressive disappearing acts ever seen by my slit retinas. I wasn’t all that bothered, I mean-I was parched after all; I figured I could handle 8 drinks, right? Honestly I was more concerned about the bill than the idea of consuming all that poison, so I turned back to the bartender to see if he had started mixing.
Shit. Mixing had ensued. Guess I’d have to drink it alone. An eternal optimist I thought inevitably this would turn out to be a loose-win situation. Lose, Money. Win, Drunk. Boo, wallet. Yay, Beer!
Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see my friend Osh-Kosh staring blankly into my eyes. Again I repeated those three little words:
“Irish Car Bombs?”
She continued to stare into my eyes with zero reaction to my inquiry. I decided to stutter,
“Irish Car Bombs?”
Osh-Kosh intensely stared into my eyes. Osh-Kosh is one of the brightest and shiniest bulbs in the tanning bed, a capable young woman, so the staring and lack of reaction honestly startled me,
“Are you okay Osh-Kosh?” I asked.
Now this was a statement Osh-Kosh knew well. “YES” she practically yelled back at me, “I JUST NEED WATER. CAN YOU ORDER ME WATER?”
Oblivious to how inebriated Osh-Kosh really was I yelled back in her face amidst fist pumping “HELL NO H2O! HELL NO H2O!” I was ready to party and had little time for poopers.
“Seriously, I NEED water!!!!” she snapped.
Crap. She was serious. I stopped yelling but the jumping and fist pumping ensued as I turned to the bartender to add water to my drink list of Irish Car bombs and vodka tonic. He didn’t look too pleased and ignored my water order multiple times.
As I looked to Osh Kosh behind me to break the news that the water was not likely to come her way I turned to meet her blank glare, cocked head and a handful of boob in her right hand that was now jiggling with the tap of her hand.
“Uh-“ I was baffled, what the hell is she doing with all that staring and all that boob? “Osh Kosh… what are you doing?” I asked, bewildered.
“My boobs….” She started, “they’re fuckin flat tonight. They look like fucking pancakes.” Boob jiggle, followed by three consecutive boob jiggles.
Now Osh Kosh is a tiny hot Lolita with a pair of the most glorious natural racks known to humanity, and they are nothing close to pancakes. I don’t know what to say. I’m at a lost. I’m starting to evaluate whether she’s one of those annoying beauties that fish for compliments. I had a classmate like that in boarding school who I constantly contemplated strangling in instances like this one. She looked like she walked straight out of a Victoria Secret magazine, and this was in high school, when most teens still had braces and didn’t know what to do with their hair let alone their face. This bitch was perfect from day one. No pores, sultry waved hair, beautiful skin tone, and an absolutely perfect curvaceous body. Too bad the poor bitch had the self-esteem of a pound dog. She was a bonafide fisherwoman throughout high school always fishing for any compliment she could conjure, and I just got straight annoyed with her shenanigans and finally starting agreeing with her that she looked fat and ugly in just about everything she wore. Poor girl believed me and went on a cereal and veggie only diet, and started covering up her victorious breasts with little boy tees from Savers and was practically invisible to guys radar by senior year. What a loss.
Is Osh Kosh fishing? I couldn’t really be sure.
I stare in disbelief, looking at our outrageous and populated surroundings.
Looks like I’m about to find out.
She looks down at her “pancakes” and continues to jiggle at an increasing pace, “Pancakes Keo. Pancakes.” She looks up at me in all seriousness and asks politely while simultaneously jiggling her boob with each word and almost chocking up on her words as if she might just cry, “Would you like me to make you pancakes Keo?”
I began blinking rapidly as I usually do when I’m a bit confused, “Ugh- no thanks, I’m actually not that hungry for pancakes” I respond, giggling patronizingly to myself at the amusement of intoxication. Hah, drunken people are a hoot.
Suddenly I see Osh Kosh’s eyes widen and she darts towards the bar.
Our order is ready and she gulps her water and lime in 2 swigs.
Irish car bombs check, beer, check. Vodka tonic????
ALL RIGHT. Where the hell is my vodka tonic? There is just no way, no way, no way, that I am even slightly capable of ingesting this putrid drink without my vodka tonic. Suddenly I see pancakes bouncing up in the corner of my eye, it’s Osh Kosh and she’s spitting up and gagging in my peripheral. What’s with her now?
“How’s that water?” I ask.
She looks like she might just hurl out the words but somehow she mutters, “I must be really sick because even this water takes like its alcohol.”
“Give it here!” I order.
I take a sip and giggle to myself as I give it back to her, “Tastes like water to me.”
She gulps the rest of my vodka tonic in two sips and sprints out of the bar, probably to puke pancake mix and Aunt Gemima Syrup. It’s the last I see of Osh Kosh that night and my vodka tonic, but somehow I survive.
Osh Kosh’s pancake tirade can’t help but take me back a few years when I had gone out to dinner with another very hot tamale of a friend I have, her boo and my love interest of the season. The four of us had gone out to dinner and drinks and had walked over to a small grungy beach bar known for it’s even grungier cat litter they so rashly threw at the entrance of the bar and tried to play off as sand. I was never a fan.
It was a slow night in there, which was perfect for us because the four of us were getting wasted FAST. At the time, I couldn’t tell you who the worse drunk of the four was. My friend Cholula is named so because she’s HOT sauce, in both looks and attitude. A little 5’1’ mama with banging legs, great boobs and a hilarious reaction to alcohol, she’s one of those people that were born for confrontation. It’s not that she likes it, or even seeks it out really. But rather, confrontation seeks her ALL of the time- and I’ve never known her to back down, Not Ever.
I was back from college for a break and in probably the worst phase of my drunken co-ed rage that could last weeks at a time, coupled with an insatiable thirst for adventure and a filter-less mouth and we have a calculation for disaster. My love interest at the time was back home from college too and let’s just say the last time he was back he got tazed in the eye, broke his arm, and crashed his car. Cholula’s lovah was no better. The first time I had met the strapping lad; Cholula’s insisted that we do a chug contest. He ingested his full beer in one fluid gulp. It was the most impressive maneuver I had ever seen in all my liquid consumption years. I still don’t really understand it. I liked him instantly. Anyhow, a drunken foursome mess stumbled into the kitty litter infested bar that night.
While me and my boo were talking toward the side of the bar, Cholula and her lovah were trying to order drinks at the bar. My drunken intuitions and Cholula’s cobra neck snapping in my peripheral signaled a problem. I turned to see Cholula lips pursed; one eyebrow raised staring at the bartender. I missed something pivotal, and now I knew it because in a split second Cholula turned Puerto Rican on me. As I continued to stare in I realized that Cholula and the bartender were fighting about her lovah. Uh Oh. I started to pay attention. Cholula had just snapped a witty comment I could tell and started leaning her hotness over the bar. The disgusting blonde, sloppy 30-something bartender was obviously enraged and needed to snap back quickly, her eyes darted from side to side, as if she was searching for a comeback comment in the corners of the room, but she couldn’t muster up anything quick enough so she blurted out the first thing she could think- a compliment. “Well… you can just get outa here with those fake boobs of yours.”
Cholula was practically on fire when she grabbed her double D’s in both hands rubbed them together all the while leaning over the bar, smirked and yelled back,
“Oh baby, these are ALL REAL!!!” and started laughing demeaning.
The bartender was defeated and she knew it. Again she darted her eyes left to right looking for the next comeback hidden in the kitty litter walls,
“THAT’S IT!!!!” she yelled, she couldn’t take anymore of this, “YOU’RE OUTA HERE!!!” Her umpire impersonation was impressive but her comebacks were not. I honestly started to feel bad for her because the bar was shutting down anyway and it was obvious that her insecurities about the skin folds she was trying to pass off as boobs was more obvious than her orangutan tities hanging out of her halter-top. I walked calmly to Cholula at the bar to get her from the bar lest she leap over it and start pounding this poor bartender with no boobs and worse no wit. As I made my way over, slightly giggling to myself about how hilarious it was that she had tried so hard to make a hit at my friend but really just complimented her instead, the bartender turned to me with her rage and practically shrieked with pure uncontrollable anger and frustration, “YOU TOO!!! YOU CAN GET THE FUCK OUT” She continued to the bouncer, “GET THEM THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!! AHHHHHHHHKKKK.”
She was like a fem-bot malfunctioning.
Oh hells no. Bitch just misstep. For a split second I blacked out, and then I heard the words, “FUCK YOU AND YOU’RE FLAP JACK TITTIES!” stream out of my mouth at an uncontrollable pace. Oh shit.
A bouncer had pounced on me faster than a Filipino at a garage sale.
And at that point I was calm and started walking out of that bar. On the way out Cholula couldn’t help but yell out her hysteria,
“Ahahahahaha. Flap Jack titties. Now that’s good!”
Honestly though, her “boobs” had the consistency of a pancake, there was nothing left to be said.
Hot bitches and their boobs I tell you.
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