Friday, December 08, 2006


Last night, the Best Friend invited me to a product launch party for Stoli vodka at 230 5th, a posh lounge/club on 5th Avenue known for it’s amazing rooftop view of Manhattan. Working in advertising carries some nice perks for her, most commonly, invites to media events, parties, mixers. Unfortunately for her, she isn’t much for drinking, so she supports my aspirations as a future alcoholic by bringing me along. For this particular event, I, being my generous self, convinced her to RSVP B as well.

The event was filled with models brandishing trays of blueberry and raspberry vodka cocktails and shrimp hor’deurves and poseurs ranging in age from their early-twenties to late-sixties looking bored. The eighties strip club-esque décor was complemented by two buck-naked women wearing nothing but body paint dancing on a platform.

Open bar consisting entirely of vodka + Me + B = Two very drunk siblings.

After my second dirty martini and third blueberry vodka mojito, I called it quits. B, on the other hand, decided that he wanted to exit this world on this particular night in a sea of vodka gimlets.

Once he thtarted to thlurrr his thpeech, I figured it was as good a time as any to bring up something that I had been curious about.

“So, that friend of yours, J, is it? He’s cute.”

“Eughaghflurp! Who you tawkin’ about?”

“The one from ---. What’s his deal?”

“Ughraaaaang! You’re piffin me off!”


“Becauth! He’s a fuckin’ tool!”

“How so?”

“He just is! He’th a fuckin’ dork an shih!”

“Dorky is good. The ones who aren’t dorky are a problem.”

“He just wanth to get laid!”

“He told you that?”

“YEAH! He said, ‘Ooh, I love New York! I just want to geth laid’!”

Figuring there was no use pursuing the topic further, I gave up. “Alright forget it.”

Having work the next morning, I headed home soon after, leaving B to his own devices. The venue was only a block away from his apartment, so I figured he’d be okay. As soon as I left, my cell phone rang.

“Yo, what wath the name of that drink again?”

“The gimlet? It’s a gimlet, GIM-LET.”

“Awright, awright.”

Once I got on the train, my phone rang again.

“Yo, what wath the name of that drink again?”

“GIM-LET! Oh Lord, go home you drunkard!”

“Awright, awright.”

Come to think of it, I should have fucked with him and said something like, "gim-tit" or "dick-let" so he made a fool of himself with the bartender. Oh well, hindsight is 20/20.



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