18 rum and cokes?

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December 2008 - I do not really drink that often but lately it seems when I do I tend to try and make up for lost time. My friend organized a Christmas party for the people with whom she works and kindly invited me to tag along. The scene was laid back and her peeps rather friendly. The food was free but we all paid for our own drinks. Each person or couple was assigned a number. I was number five (666 would have been more fitting). Towards the end of the evening (between 10:30 and 11:00 I think) I received my tab. It was an unsolicited bequest. As I glance at the bill I see a tally of seventeen rum and cokes. Seventeen? I arrived at this shindig around 5:00 or so and, admittedly, threw down four or five in the first hour. As I had not taken repast at that point I decided to slooooow down. Considering my inferior tolerance for the drink this was a wise decision. I am roughly 6'4, 195lbs so weight is a factor and I have been known to suck down a rum and coke or two but seventeen is a bit excessive. My estimate was around 12 or 13 at the most.

I mentioned this to the servers who assured me that the number was accurate. So I pointed out that if I had thrown down seventeen rum and cokes in a five hour period the likelihood of communicating intelligibly would be extremely slim. The truth is if that were the case I probably would have been sitting in the corner sucking my thumb in a puddle of my own urine. Luckily, I was not there yet. They persisted. The manager said it was so. In fact he showed me two empty bottles of rum to prove it. Absolutely irrefutable.

As it turns out I was the topic of discussion throughout the evening. Apparently, when I hit twelve they asked the manager if they should keep serving me. When asked about my demeanor they said I seemed fine. Game on. I guess I did not start getting 'louder' until rum and coke number sixteen. So at seventeen I was handed the bill. Muchas gracias.

As the discussion took on a slightly acrimonious undertone I was invited behind the bar where my tab was brought up on the touchscreen. There it was in black and white. If the computer says so it must be true. No way could a human input a drink in the wrong account. Not possible. Just more irrefutable evidence that completely castrated my defense.

Now I am not going to argue I was sober. Clearly, I was not. At this point I had not the energy to struggle any longer so I said something like, "F it! give me another one." So they actually handed me my eighteenth. Seriously? I just finished arguing over the bill, a bill they apparently gave me to cut me off and here they are offering me more juice. Are you shitting me?

A friend of my friend steps in, takes the drink from my hand, and says, a bit more diplomatically, WTF!!! She defended my position and then asked what the hell they were doing. I applauded her for this for she did what I know longer had the strength or mental stamina to accomplish.

But, alas, this revitalized me and the exchange continued, much to their chagrin. Reno 911 was invited to stop by and mediate. When they appeared I did my best to explain my position, pointing out that had I drank the amount they claimed I would probably not be having that conversation. They were having none of it. They said I had two choices: Pay the bill and take the tavern to civil court or not pay the bill and be taken to jail. I chose the former and completely backed off when the 5-o with the less pleasant disposition kindly offered to Taser me. Now I know I was in an excited state made all the more irrational by eighteen rum and cokes (thirteen real, five imaginary), but I can assure you that I had not earned the privilege of being Tasered (Don’t Tase me bro!).

Sooo I backed off and paid the bill ($80). One of our servers informed me in hushed tones that perhaps the alcohol was not of the pure and unadulterated variety. Super. So I probably drank as much water as I did rum. No wonder I felt hydrated.

I love the Christmas season. Nothing warms the cockles of my heart more than being able to spread my unique brand of joy by being 'that guy' at the party. I don’t even work there. Excellent.