Friends Don't Let (Female) Friends Drink

Booze and chicks don’t mix.

I know you may read that and immediately disagree. And in some ways, even I disagree with it. Let’s be honest—almost every straight guy who has talked to a girl for five solid minutes has inevitably thought, “Man I could go for a drink right now.” But, at my wise old age of 29, I’m coming to find that combining these two natural elements can lead to a chemical explosion the likes of which are typically only seen in backwoods distilleries.

Maybe the statement should be refined, though. Lots of booze and chicks that can’t hold their liquor don’t mix. Unfortunately, the vast majority of female drinkers are lightweights. Sure, she may be Little Mac, valiantly duking it out with a bottle bigger than her, darting back and forth as the fists of vodka flying at her face become bigger with each round. But before long, the punches are going to land. And the aftermath is going to be an ugly, tear-drenched mess.

Case-in-point: Saturday I attended NGF’s birthday celebration. Keeping in mind my life lesson about birthday parties, she celebrated by inviting us to pregame at her place and then catch a cab to Dolce for bottle service in the VIP section. For those of you keeping score at home: “booze appetizer + booze main course + a party full of girls = uh oh.”

The night started off well enough. Nate, my boy “Dupa” [the need for an A.K.A. will be understood soon enough], and I pounded away at cans of Miller Lite while the ladies all worked their way through bottles of vodka and wine. We played drinking games for a couple of hours to pass time until the taxi arrived. NGF—despite the protests of everyone else—insisted on playing while drinking from her “Birthday Girl” goblet that contained some random vodka concoction. At last year’s celebration, NGF was nearly booted for being too drunk only moments after she entered Buckhead. We were all weary of seeing a repeat performance. It was only 8:30 pm, and she was asking, “IS IT MY TURN?!?” moments after taking a turn, and endlessly quoting “Borat.” Nate had the look of a man who knew there was a rough road ahead.

The limocab dropped us off at Dolce around 9:45. The visit was my first, and quite likely my last. To say the place is pretentious is an understatement; asking $10 for a Long Island Iced Tea in Pittsburgh is downright pompous. I appreciate her friends setting up the party, and allowing me to be a part of it, but I highly suggest that they (and all of you) find a better use for hard-earned dollars than this overblown exaggeration of a nightclub.

We were soon joined by more of NGF’s friends, as well as T.C. and his wife. The birthday girl wobbled around joyfully hugging her friends and jumping into their laps. Her friends seemed nice, for the most part, though some of them never really spoke to either Dupa or me. We hardly cared, though, only taking notice of them when they would occasionally shake their bottoms to the watered down hip-hop that was being pumped out from speakers. I also eventually bumped into Breitling, which was no big surprise—he is among the few people I know who can actually afford to waste money on a place like Dolce.

The three or four bottles of vodka and rum that had been ordered for our table were dispensed of in fairly rapid fashion, as were my comprehension and vision. Hello, rolling blackouts. I don’t really remember leaving, or the trip back to NGF’s, though I do vaguely remember standing in her apartment as I sloppily devoured the leftover hors d'oeuvres that had been prepared for the pregame party. I hazily remember Dupa casually saying, “I’m gonna take my pants off”; but I don’t recall trying to tempt her engaged roommate into a makeout session, which NGF told me about on Sunday. (Apparently her roommate’s fiancé now wants me dead. *shrug* Personally, I think he should thank me. If I did test her drunken faithfulness, then she obviously passed, because nothing happened between us. Why be mad at a guy for giving you renewed confidence in your bride-to-be?)

Dupa undid his belt, pulled down his pants and underwear, and laid facedown on the living room floor. It was hilarious, innocent fun, and Nate and I laughed. NGF, not so much. Alcohol + estrogen = KABOOM. She flipped, screaming at all of us, even threatening to call the police about the situation. (Can you picture that conversation with the 9-1-1 operator? “Hello? I need the police! There’s a naked man on my floor and everyone's laughing! Yes, he’s breathing. No, no blood. Of course I know him—we’ve been drinking together all night! *click* Hello? Hello??”) I walked out of the apartment chuckling almost as hard at her irrational anger as the image of a blacked-out and naked-from-the-waist-down Dupa starfished on the living room floor.

Earlier this morning I was talking with Dupa on instant messenger, and the subject of Saturday night came up.

D.E.F.I. (10:32:14 AM): [NGF] said she threatened to call the cops on you...lol...
Dupa (10:34:52 AM): ha thats news to me, for being naked?
D.E.F.I. (10:34:58 AM): yeah
Dupa (10:35:07 AM): who she gonna call the sexy police? cuz thats what that was