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Tuesday, January 13, 2004

 

Six Days, Seven Nights, and a Predictable Joke Wherein I Enumerate How Many Tequila Shots Were Consumed





A BETTER MAN would refrain from taking the opportunity to gloat over the photographic evidence of a certain supernemesis's excursion to the bottom of a cheap bottle of tequila and the apparent end of an era of romantic love with a woman with all the sex appeal of the rake section at Home Depot. A better man wouldn't do a little dance as he slid a few more beads on the abacus of life away from the side marked "Ford" to the side marked "Bunsen." Or let slip how a certain movie star turned to him at a urinal in a bar remarkable only in that on this evening a certain movie star was pawing the local talent, a bar in a NAFTA-signatory nation south of here, and slur a whisper about how it's finally over. Or try to explain how a man who was once famously a master handler of a bullwhip could now accidentally lose control of a certain piece of anatomy and pass water over a certain supernemesis' shoes.

This better man might not describe how the movie star then cranked the flush handle of the urinal as he mistook it for one of those old-timey phones we now see somewhat anachronistically featured in "Little House on the Prairie" reruns, upended his shot glass and placed it on his ear, and screamed drunk-dial epithets into the grimy fixture? Or how once he was sure the supernemesis's shoes were thoroughly irrigated and the ex appraised via urinal-phone of precisely where her skinny ass stood in his life, it was time to limbo, a contest he handily won by crawling underneath the nearest stall and making another call (interrupted at regular intervals by wet, rattling heaves) on a stouter phone.

A better man would ask himself if it's appropriate to broadcast another's misery and heartbreak over the internet, pausing to reflect on his own depressive benders, his own boozy, fruitless quests for answers that ended in his own wet, rattling heaves and the flush-roar of dirty saloon commodes.

A better man might have taken time to do any of these things if he hadn't been busy trying to scare up a camera, a sombrero, and a black Sharpie.


[Thanks to reader Adam P. for the link.]



About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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