Respect
Last night I went to a Christmas party at the home of a friend of a friend, and a festive time was had by all. After much tasty wine and canapes, sordid anecdotes from people who have much more interesting lives than me, and gales of admiration for the host's frankly gigantic Christmas tree, we all tottered off around 10.30pm.
How much have I had to drink tonight, I wondered as I burbled home along the Graham Farmer Freeway. I've had a fair bit, but I feel perfectly clear-headed and alert, so it can't have been that much. Let's see, I had three glasses of that nice champagne. And a glass of the shiraz that I thought smelled like freshly baked bread. And was it two half glasses of the cabernet? Hmmm. Actually it's a good thing it's a Wednesday night rather than a weekend, otherwise I'd be worried about running into a Random Breath Testing station.
Naturally as I crested the next hill I saw flashing blue and red lights up ahead. I was so sure that it couldn't be an RBT that I assumed there'd been an accident. But as I came closer I saw the line of traffic cones arranged to make a bay for cars to pull in and have their drivers tested. The bay was empty. Even as I registered this, one fat policeman peeled away from his colleagues and sauntered across the bay to fetch a new batch of cars.
Aw crap, I thought.
I let my car drift up slightly in speed, without making any sudden moves, and closed in on of the car in front of me, so that the natural break in the traffic appeared to be right behind me. And this little psychological trick worked: my MX-5 was the last one to scooch through, just barely, before Constable Tubby waved his orange glo-stick to direct the car following mine into the breathalyser lane.
No doubt some readers will get pissy at me for drinking and then driving, perhaps imagining that I was blindly swerving across the freeway singing 'One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer' at the top of my lungs while taking liberal swigs from a bottle of pilfered cognac. However this was not the case. Was I over the limit? Possibly. Was I in a fit state to drive my car? Absolutely. I was surprised, given the amount I'd had to drink, but there are a lot of factors that determine how a body processes alcohol, and I guess they were aligned correctly for me last night.
Which is a long-winded way of saying if you don't approve, bite me. If God had wanted me busted, he would have made that fat copper move faster.
How much have I had to drink tonight, I wondered as I burbled home along the Graham Farmer Freeway. I've had a fair bit, but I feel perfectly clear-headed and alert, so it can't have been that much. Let's see, I had three glasses of that nice champagne. And a glass of the shiraz that I thought smelled like freshly baked bread. And was it two half glasses of the cabernet? Hmmm. Actually it's a good thing it's a Wednesday night rather than a weekend, otherwise I'd be worried about running into a Random Breath Testing station.
Naturally as I crested the next hill I saw flashing blue and red lights up ahead. I was so sure that it couldn't be an RBT that I assumed there'd been an accident. But as I came closer I saw the line of traffic cones arranged to make a bay for cars to pull in and have their drivers tested. The bay was empty. Even as I registered this, one fat policeman peeled away from his colleagues and sauntered across the bay to fetch a new batch of cars.
Aw crap, I thought.
I let my car drift up slightly in speed, without making any sudden moves, and closed in on of the car in front of me, so that the natural break in the traffic appeared to be right behind me. And this little psychological trick worked: my MX-5 was the last one to scooch through, just barely, before Constable Tubby waved his orange glo-stick to direct the car following mine into the breathalyser lane.
No doubt some readers will get pissy at me for drinking and then driving, perhaps imagining that I was blindly swerving across the freeway singing 'One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer' at the top of my lungs while taking liberal swigs from a bottle of pilfered cognac. However this was not the case. Was I over the limit? Possibly. Was I in a fit state to drive my car? Absolutely. I was surprised, given the amount I'd had to drink, but there are a lot of factors that determine how a body processes alcohol, and I guess they were aligned correctly for me last night.
Which is a long-winded way of saying if you don't approve, bite me. If God had wanted me busted, he would have made that fat copper move faster.
posted by Blandwagon at 1:34 PM
5 Comments:
I totally respect you for saving the pilfered cognac until you got home.
At the next festival of bad cinema you must sing One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer.
Nice trick vis-a-vis the gap: must remember it.
And I'm sure the cognac was legally or otherwise honourably acquired.
http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=Z2mf8DtWWd8
Truly a masterful piece of propaganda, Anonymous. Quite the triumph of base emotion over rationality.
Lots of people drink and drive and get away with it, Blandwagon. How refreshingly bogan of you to want to turn it into a virtue to be praised. I do think you were being a bit unfair to anonymous though. Your piece was also a triumph of base emotion over rationality, especially the last paragraph. But unlike the video, I think it suffers for it.
Love your work, would hate to see it snuffed out before its time, but that is just my uncool mother-heart talking.
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