It all starts out with a text message from Little Miss Logic (aka Bakla):
Bakla: The Way to San Jose. Cocktail mixing event. Poquito Mas @ Filinvest. 7pm. You game? I’ll put you on the guest list. Bring others.
Uneditedmara: Game.
It all seemed like a dream come true, free food and free booze! Thisisit! And then I remembered I already kinda sorta maybe made plans with Clinically Insane to catch the 9pm Spanish Film Fest. Damnit.
Uneditedmara: Got this from Bakla: Free food. Free drinks. 7pm. Alabang. You in?
Clinically Insane: Okay.
Wow. It really IS that easy when you’re bored and you don’t have a social life. As I was getting ready primping myself for an unprecedented night out, Clinically Insane sent me a text message:
Clinically Insane: [since we couldn't go to the Spanish Film Fest] after the cocktail event, there’s a drinking thing later on at my friend’s place. And weed.
Uneditedmara: Game. (Sorry Spanish Film Fest, you have replays. Weed don’t.)
So off we gamed. Slutting it up from Quezon City to Alabang. I even got The Lolo to lend me his precious car as I was not looking forward to spending a single dime on this weekend. My food and booze were already covered and damned be all if I had to pay an exorbitant rate of cab fare, to and from Alabang. Fuck that shit.
The Hilt (the event organizer) is a company that personalizes events according to your interests. “Each affair is expertly designed to match the personality profiles and interests of The Hilt members! All you have to do is get on The Hilt List of members, log on to our website and choose the Hilt Happenings that tickle your oyster!” Sign up now coz they’ve waived the membership fee! WHEE FOR NO CASH SPENT! They’ve organized a lot of events already, I just hadn’t the chance to attend since most of them were too far (Billiards with Alex Pagulayan) or they had a fee (Black and White Photography for P1,500). But cocktail mixing was right up my alley. It was booze and it was fuh-ree. *beams*
I donned on the “gladiator” dress that I bought but never wore for fear it would be too .. er .. inappropriate and sped my way to Poquito Mas. Jackpot event. Patch Caballero (bartender for the night) taught a few pointers on the fine art of bartending. A few tips and tricks here and there and free-flowing liquor. I banged my head on the table remembering that I had a car and couldn’t free-flow any liquor into my system. Stupid Mara. No matter. I’m a trooper and I made the best of what I could (and could not) drink. At least I wasn’t Clinically Insane who could not drink any kind of liquor at all. She’s taking antibiotics for some hoorish illness. *sticks tongue out at Clinically Insane*
Off we guzzled Tequila Sunrises, Long Island Iced Teas (which, Patch said, actually had no iced tea in it), Panama Reds, Margaritas, Tequila Sours, something that had flames in it, and Hot Sauce. Yes, hot sauce. Like Tabasco. Why? Just because we can.
After misconstruing everything Patch said as sexual innuendo, meeting the Hilt people, and having another shot of hot sauce with Pao, Clinically Insane and I bounced off to the next par-tay on the schedule.
It was smaller, more intimate, and less fancy. No mixing of liquor, liquer, or mixers here. It was strictly BEER. I rolled up my imaginary sleeves and got down to the drinking bidnezz. Present were Man of the House, Woman of the House, Pussy Boy, Long Leggedness, and Dane Cook Fanboi. Everyone there, except the Woman of the House were playing Pusoy Dos. Whoever lost, drank a glass of beer which amounted to a little less than the whole bottle. When Clinically Insane and I came, Pussy Boy was in a bad losing streak and he looked like he was at Death’s door already. I sat in on a couple of rounds and relieved him of losses. He became cockier and less drunk when he realized that me holding his .. cards was lucky. It did not help that Dane Cook Fanboi kept calling Pussy Boy, what else, Pussy Boy and slapping a dirty rag at his face. This might end in another broken jaw/black eye fight that Dane Cook Fanboi is notrious for. The card game went on for a good two hours and all of which, I only had to drink 2 or 3 times. GO ME!
Though I cannot say that I can outdrink an Irishman, no one can say I don’t try my best. This night was cetainly a testament to my efforts. As the night came close to an end, I realized that I has done nothing but drink and compete (mixing cocktails, mixing cards) all night. I might have dressed like a woman in heat, but I took on the town like a man with a pair of steel balls. And with that, I, the speed demon that I am, floored my way back into civilization because my daddy was already yelling at me over the phone for having stayed out so late which was not a proper thing for a lady to do and why does he have to put up with my irresponsibleness when all the other dad’s girls have succesful careers and NO CHILD and if only I had listened to him then I wouldn’thavetobeinthismessandembarasshiminfront ofhisfriendsforfearofbeingcalledagrandgatheralready.
Good times, mehn. Good times.
[Pictures (oh, dear God) and Clinically Insane's account of teh awesome saHOORday]
