FUNNY SHIT THAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DO DRUGS

A LITTLE SOMETHING FOR YOUR SUNDAY. I recently got arrested for driving under the influence. Consequently, I've been on parentally-imposed house arrest because I'm too broke to pay my own car insurance (because mine is, well, rather high). But in an uncharacteristic batch of good news, the case was set aside due to insufficient evidence. So I thought I'd share my little DUI adventure now that I'm (mostly) in the clear from it.
Some of you may've heard this before in its other forms, but to all of you who haven't, here it is. Be Warned.

Notice to all Law Enforcement officials: This is not an admission of guilt. The following is simply an assemblage of the recollections various people have of a night's events, and their interpretation thereof.

It was Saturday evening, and I got a call from two friends inviting me to a party. Since I knew I'd have at least two solid drinking buddies, I figured it would be worthwhile, so I decided to go. This was a mistake.

Apparently it was Mike's girlfriend's birthday party, although when I got there it looked like some impromptu Overeaters Anonymous social. Well, at least there was booze and a recently-filled prescription for 2mg Xanax sitting in my pocket.

Let me just say this: I love Xanax. In conjunction with alcohol, it turns me into a delusional, ranting, semi-composed loudmouth who knows he's not going to have any recollection of the night's events the next day, thus freeing him from any semblance of social restraint or tact. I popped one, ground another up and put it into my drink.

After a few minutes, my friend Brian and I decided that our attention would be better spent elsewhere. Apparently I had already spiked two fatties' drinks with large doses of Xanax and was Danger-Close to succumbing to their torrid plans for me.

We had seen a party around the corner, so we decided to head by. I brought my drink with me, either because I thought we were just going to say hello or because I thought there might be some Xanax pasted along the bottom.

The people had decided to throw the party with their neighbors, and had themed each house as Japan and the US. Ever the patriot, I hit the US first, and was immediately greeted by a gay guest who offered me a "Blow by Blow" which apparently means a coke induced blowjob. Since he turned and laughed hysterically at a good-looking blonde I decided to spin it on its head and be charming, which I can be. I politely declined asking instead if he'd show me around the party and introduce me to his hot friends. I bent my arm out so he'd take it and winked at the blonde.

I paid little attention to what the fruit was saying, and vaguely remember my friend leaving me alone in the company of two samoan guys who'd play little part in the evening.

The punchline is that the aforementioned blonde and I wound up together in a bathroom and she let me do a line of blow off her tits before giving me head on the toilet (I'm not sure if this would constitute a blumpkin as I wasn't actually taking a crap).

These stories, however, would not be as funny if everything was hunky-dory and it was simply that I did coke and got head from a girl. No, it must contain at least one instance of the following:

-A Boyfriend.
-A flat tire.
-The Police.

Although, as the rest of the story will tell you, all three is perfectly acceptable.

Brian confirmed his candidacy for the Amazing Timing Awards when he showed up JUST as the boyfriend pinned me down with his two friends. They had me backed into something of a corner, and we seemed to be moving towards the door as though an altercation was inevitable. When I saw Brian stumbling down the street, drunk as a fucking priest, who threw up his hands and said, "BUS! WHAT UP, NIGGA!" I knew that the fight was, indeed, inevitable.

I looked at the boyfriend with a grimace on my face. "Fuck you! What are are you getting mad at me for? I didn't SUCK ANYBODY'S DICK."

He looked down at the ground and then back up at me, straight into my eyes. I quietly added, "On the toilet," thinking this was a good idea. He shoved me, and I shoved him back, and he flying-tackled me down the steps.

Luckily I was coherent enough to see this coming, and when he reeled back from my shove and charged at me, I kind of side-stepped him and he wound up taking the brunt of the fall. My hands, unfortunately, were on the underside of him, and scraped along the pavement (I'll see if I have any injury-fresh photos).

Since my hands were trapped, I reeled back, and fucked a good headbutt across his nose. He yelped and grabbed his nose, and I freed my hands. At this point, I was on him full on, so I pounded on his face while his friends jumped on my back and punched me in the face. They were both standing, and I was kneeling across this guy, so none of them really got in any good blows, but I can only assume this is when I got my black eye. Brian just walked up the street and casually got up behind one of the guys and started choking him out.

When I was finished with boyfriend, I spun around on the violent friend, and caught a good elbow to his temple. I'm about 6' 2", and the friend was only about 5' 9", so it wasn't terribly hard. Brian and I had trounced them.

I decided to sleep this off in my car, so he walked me to it and I closed my eyes for a while. I woke up hours later, laying backwards against the dashboard with my feet propped up against the passenger seat, crust covering my eyes, and retrieved my keys. I decided it was probably prudent to get the fuck out of dodge, so I drove back home. Fate, it seems, had other plans for me. As I was pulling onto the 10, I busted a flat on a very, very loose right turn.

I got out of the car and started attempting to flag people down. People mainly just honked and told me to get the fuck out of the way, this being the 10 freeway. Finally, a cabbie stopped and let me use his cell phone to call Triple A. I asked them to bring me a spare tire as mine was already on my other flat tire. Naturally, when the guy showed up he didn't have one, and to clinch it, his truck wasn't big enough to haul mine to the towyard, so we waited for dispatch to send a bigger truck. I did not let him off easy, nor did I let the second guy off easy, which is why when we got to Sears' Tires on Lincoln he left me there and tore off into the day.

The salesman came over at this point, and I told him what I needed and asked him to quote me a price. He quoted me something outrageous and I looked at him and cursed. Allow me to point out that I know nothing about tires - every car I've owned thus far has already had them. All I know is every week someone drops off a book of coupons and is says $89.99 for a set of four tires. I tell him this. He disagrees. I tell him to get fucked. My Xanax was swinging into full effect.

I decided I'd call around to see where there were cheaper tires but the salesman told me to get the fuck out of there. Three cars had pulled in behind me, so I decided I'd go out their other exit and busted a left. I vaguely remember a policewoman screaming at me from her car. The next thing I knew I was in the back of a cop car, and had just pulled my legs between my cuffed hands, because the cuffs were incredibly uncomfortable behind my back. Suffice it to say I was in bad graces with the Santa Monica Police Department by the time I was hauled in to get mugged by the guy in charge of the drunk tank. The guy didn't say anything, just put me in a half nelson. The other cop put me in an arm bar. I said something about my Grandmother doing a better one and he nearly popped my arm out of the socket.

They rolled my prints and threw me in the drunk tank. I didn't like my digs. It was all one piece, from the looks of it. The walls were white, there was a roll of toilet paper, a sink, and a toilet. The piece-de-resistance was assuredly the bed/seat, which was basically a 4 foot by two foot rectangle. That was it. I can't say I remember much about this part, except that I took to calling one guard "Shirley" and the Mexican one "Cheech." As a sign of their appreciation for the new nicknames, they decided to answer my pleas for clean water or a cup or something with "Shut up."

In protest, I laid out all my toilet paper on the bed and wet it down with spit and whatever loogies I could conjure up with my coarse, Xanax-and-alcohol-parched throat. I formed it in the sign of the cross and patted it up against the window of my cell. I had to apply a few more loogies to get it to stick. Shirley did not find this funny at all. He was wearing green SWAT-style fatigues and the hair from the crown of his head seemed to have immigrated to his upper lip. He didn't say anything, simply grabbed the toilet paper roll, tore the paper off down the middle, and tossed the cardboard piece into my face. I laughed. I was feeling very good.

I turned my eyes heavenward, and noticed that there was a ventilation duct in my cell. I calculated that if I could pry it open, my chances of escape were probably excellent. I stood on my bed/seat to examine the lock and noticed that the lock was, oddly enough, shaped like an M or a W. "Perfect," I thought, "I'll just tear that toilet paper roll into a key." I cannot remember how much time I spent on this arduous task, but I would conjecture now that it was probably to the tune of 45 minutes to an hour.

Finally, my key was ready, and it was time to escape. I stood on the bed/seat, and found that the duct was a bit further away than I had initially calculated. I steadied myself, alternating between bracing myself with an arm on the wall and a hand on the ceiling. I try to work my "key" in, and it shows a promising 15 degree turn in the lock. I work it more, taking care not to force it, but the lock is deeper than I thought. My arms are getting very tired. I am switching hands and have to put the key in my mouth every time I do. I work the key in a bit more, and I've got it in there really good. So I push my forearms against the ceiling and try to work the key around, actually gaining some of my stability from the cardboard's integrity. It rips. I let out a scream and go crashing into the wall; my coordination is lousy, but so is my pain reception. I am mainly furious that my key is broken. Escape is out of my reach. I am rapidly approaching sober. Shirley and Cheech have started ignoring me completely.

I curl up on the bed/seat, trying to find a comfortable position, when the guards come in and drag me by my shoulders out of the cell.

"Little fuckin' plan didn't work, huh Birdman of Alcatraz?"

"Easy, Cheech. I was only going out to get Shirley some flowers."

"Come ON!"

They clenched up their grips in my arms so I decided to let them just carry me. I let my body go limp so they'd have to drag/carry me and I guess they decided to be assholes. They let go and I just flopped. It's hard to go from ragdoll to rigid in the time it takes to hit the ground.

"Ow, fuck! What'd you do that for? I was gonna get you some, too, Cheech."

They called over another cop and gave me the bum's rush. One of them grabbed me by the belt on my lower back, the other two got me by the shoulders. I fought them on this point, tossing my arms around as uselessly as possible. The just laughed and kicked open the door and tossed me sailing into the evening.

I pounded on the door and yelled, "Hey, my fucking cigarettes!"

Cheech just gave me the finger from the doorway.

Suffice it to say, I did not feel well the next day.