Man, Chipmunks. You did my heart liver proud with your ‘drunk story’ entries, in the name of winning custom artwork from the lovely and talented Julie Maida.

I almost said I was too drunk to get this post up today.

But then I realized that was only funny to me. Especially because, thanks to you, this post wrote itself.

In fact, I’m a little mad at you, because I couldn’t even narrow it down to just one. So we’ve got a Winner and a Runner-up!

Thank you so much for keeping me in stitches this week, and please, keep yourself out of stitches (the other kind), you lushes. I love you.

Grand Prize Winner – $40 Julie Maida Custom Artwork

Peg-o-Leg’s Ramblings

Peg’s Entry:

This drunk person story has served as a cautionary tale for me for 25 years. I live in a small town where the social life for those of us in the business community revolves around fundraisers for local charities and civic organizations. It was at an after-hours for one such group (Rotary, Kiwanis, I can’t remember). The adult beverages were flowing and I noticed one woman, let’s call her Judy, had imbibed perhaps a bit too freely. She was attractively dressed in a shirt, short skirt, black pantyhose and boots.

Judy staggered into the bathroom and my attention was claimed elsewhere until she reappeared some time later. She came out of the ladies room crying, mascara running down her face. She sobbed, “somebody stole my skirt!”

Judy’s skirt was tucked up in the back of her pantyhose, leaving all the territory south of the waistband open to the interested view of the entire bar.

What lesson do we take away from this? When going out drinking, ALWAYS wear pants.

Runner-Up – $25 Julie Maida Custom Artwork

Fresh Veggies in the Desert / Gingerlea Photography

Fresh Veggies/Gingerlea emailed her entry to me (and yes, she has two blogs because she’s too much awesome for just one!):

If you have ever been to the French Quarter and understand the true depth of what it means to close down a bar in New Orleans, then you know what it feels like to plop down in the back of a cab and have a Cajun cabbie yell, “It’s twenty bucks EXTRA if she pukes!”

New Orleans is a great place to visit.   There’s food, fun and folly at every street corner.   Literally.    I had the displeasure of vacationing there with Ex-Husband #2.   Let’s just call him Rectal Payne.   He was a pretty fellow, so it was no shocker to have him lead me to one of the more spectacular gay bars in the city, only to have the bartender ask me what I was doing there.    I think this was a hint that they wanted me to leave, without Mr. Pretty.

Our adventures took us from the rainbow-covered bar to a horrible dump that was blasting karaoke.    It occurred to me that I remembered a terrible rendition of Melissa Etheridge song, and now realized that Rectal Payne simply took me from one gay bar to another. …I’m so naïve sometimes.

I believe this is the bar where I decided to take up smoking cigarettes.   If you have ever met me in sober life, you would know that I do not smoke.    I vaguely remember the bartender laughing at me while I was complaining about not being about to get that damn cigarette lit.     Apparently, I was struggling to light the filter.   Marlboro Woman, I am not.

The miracle of drunkenness happened much later.    I woke up on the floor under a table.   It was a carpeted floor, so I was pretty sure that I wasn’t in a bar anymore.   And, it didn’t smell that bad.   That was almost reassuring.    I was snuggled up to the base of the small table and facing a wall.   This is where I had a reality check.    Or, more like a “panties on – check.”  No pants or shoes, though.   That can’t be good.   Where the hell was I?

I tried to stay still under the table, just in case.  I could hear the loud whirr of an air-conditioner, but no other background noises.   I closed my eyes.   I decided that I was already in enough trouble, and who knows what happened to Rectal Payne. Since I wasn’t having any pain of my own, I decided I would return to my passed out state and worry about it later.

Fortunately, I awoke from my drunken stupor facing the other direction and realized that I was hugging the side table of my hotel room.    Apparently, I had been unable to maintain a horizontal position on the much more comfortable mattress.   As the story goes, I slithered from between the bed and the wall to spoon with the side table.

My sigh of relief was quickly replaced by a very quick run to the bathroom to evacuate the dozen raw oysters we had decided to have for a midnight snack.    Oh.my.gawd—bad idea. An even worse idea was Rectal Payne leaving his toothbrush out on the counter.    Yup.   I committed the sin of befouling his toothbrush.   No worries.    I was then spectacularly distracted by a spontaneous ceiling collapse in the shower.

I was just standing there trying to gather my thoughts when all of the tiles in the shower of the downtown New Orleans Ramada Inn just fell off of the ceiling. Rectal Payne jumped out of bed and screamed like a drag queen missing his favorite high heels.

The staff at the Ramada was more than accommodating and quickly gave us another room.    We just called the front desk and they switched us.    It was like that happened all of the time?   I was in no condition to ask questions, so I just packed up and moved on to the new room.

I told Rectal Payne months later that I had done my best to clean that toothbrush, but he never forgave me.    I always thought that was why we ended in divorce.    Oysters on his toothbrush.    I’m thinking now that it might have had more to do with that gay bar. But, I am certain that oysters are not an aphrodisiac.

Oh, well.   I have moved and found a new drinking buddy.    We make our own beer and try to keep our cups upright.

Congratulations you two! Julie and I will be in touch via email so you can start discussing your artwork!

Thanks again, everyone, for sharing your stories with such gusto! I owe you a drink.