This will most likely be a recurring subject because I have a lot of this-one-time-when-I-was-drunk stories, and given my penchant for drinking whiskey, I tend to make new ones rather frequently. Some are funny, some are embarrassing, and a few are pathetic, but I like to tell them all.
This one time when I was drunk, I was hanging out with my friend Brittany and my other friend Brian. We had gone to a club that had a karaoke lounge and three different dance floors, and the reason we chose that particular club is because they had advertised a wet T-shirt contest on a local radio station.
I had been singing karaoke all night, and I was eager to see some ice-hardened nipples poking through wet cotton. Naturally, I had already had more to drink than was good for me. However, I have this thing where if someone buys me a drink, I respect their generosity by drinking it; it’s just polite. So the fact that Brittany continued buying rounds was only getting me drunker.
A lot of the details of the night are fuzzy, but I can fuzzily remember approaching the bartender. I was drunk, so I recall that she was really gorgeous: She had short blond hair and a shapely face, and she also had some boobs, which were exponentially more attractive because they were partially exposed by her low-cut top. (I’m going to leave that memory alone and not consider that she probably had jacked-up teeth and acne.) I asked her when they were planning to start the wet T-shirt contest. When she informed me that the establishment was unable to find enough young women who were inclined to exhibit their goods, I must have been quite vocal about my disappointment, because she referred me to the manager.
The manager was a middle-aged woman with long, curly brown hair. She was a little heavy, but she looked very important in her women’s business suit. I eloquently slurred to her my disappointment that the wet T-shirt contest had been cancelled. She described to me–as the bartender had–their predicament. It must have been a great explanation, but I don’t remember her exact words. What I do remember, however, is that I told her she was a great manager, and I gave her a hug. Then I showed her my handprint tattoo and explained to her that it was supposed to be Jesus’s handprint. (When I got it, I intentionally asked the artists to shrink it so my diminutive chest wouldn’t look any smaller.) She said it was a nice baby Jesus handprint and laughed. I guess I was good-natured enough about the cancellation of the competition because she didn’t see fit to kick me out.
Brian told me about it days later and said that I had been hitting on the manager pretty heavily, and that I took my shirt off for her, and that’s when most of the details that I can remember came back to me. It was definitely a good time.