Saturday Night: A Place for Puking
Your shoes are shined, your duds are stylish, and your breath is minty. You have worked hard all week for this night. Nothing is going to stand in your way, this is going to be the most fantastic night of your life!!!! Well it will either be fantastic or it will become internet fodder for literally tens of people to read and gawk at! I present to you loyal readers out there a semi fictional account of a weekend that may or may not have occured and the hilarious events which theoretically ensued. Bon Appetit les Jergs!
L’orange Bleu is a French/Moroccan bistro with authentic style cuisine and atmosphere. While you eat belly dancers make their rounds from table to table embarassing sheepish middle aged white men by provoking them to dance scintillatingly. The waiters bring a lively addition to the meal by screaming what you ordered loudly across the table. The menu is robust and enticing, with a meal running about 65 dollars a person. Of course since this is Manhattan, enjoy a fabulously undeserving bottle of wine with the food for a mere 40 dollars.
Awkward salsa dancing was attempted by many with an end result of hilarity. I found if you move around in circles and spin your partner incessantly you can pretty much fake it. A community hookah was available with a good tasting smoke inside but you had to fight the sweaty open shirted guy and the mouth sore gang if you wanted a sample. If you get the snooty French bartender I do not reccomend their “special shot” which consits of rubbing alcohol soaked in a bannana laffy taffy candy.
So fast forward post restaurant when the party had dissolved and the cab needed to be hailed. Of course the always frustrating party of 5 requires two seperate cabs in order to get home however with a little ingenuity and some luck you can cram five in before they can kick you out. We finally got a cab and promised a princely sum of money if he can pack us in. He grudgingly agrees to, wary of the passed out drunk girl being drug to the car by her friends. Everything is chilly until about 5 minutes into the cab when all of a sudden things start smelling funny. I thought it was bread, however it was also described as bologna sandwiches by another. However, I knew it couldnt be puke because who the hell pukes INTO a cab when the window is down and your head is sticking out it…
So now the cab is filled with puke and it fucking reeks. The 3 of us are huddled by the open window fighting for air all the whilst the cabbie is asking us what is going on back there. We finally pull up to the apartment buiilding and we fly outward from the cab rapidly in search of oxygen. This is when bad went to complete disaster. The barfee threw open the cab door into a beautifully detailed M3 BMW sports car. The sound was spine tingling, as if 1 million fingernails were scratching a blackboard simultaneously. I turned around in absolute horror to see a full 2 inch long, 1 inch wide deep scratch in the luxorious paint of this OFF DUTY police officers car! The cabbie exclaims ” Oh shit…Oh shit” and turns white as a ghost. I carefully pulled the cab door off the car and told the cabbie that “It didnt happen” before turning my back to the situation and walking away. Unfortunately I bumped into Madam Pukesworth and recieved a nice suade coat full of hurl as well as my hand…
That pretty muched summed up the Saturday night festivities for one Mr. Tibs and his battlion of grunta squad cadets. Great time was had by all and honestly the barfing excitement made for a great post. Dancing, fine dining, and gorgeous ladies far overshadowed a 10 dollar dry cleaning bill and scuffed sports car.
Oh and Ms. Hurl, next time OUT the window!!!