Drunklust Wandering

During the monthly staff meeting:

M.M.: OK, that's about it. Anyone have anything to add? [K.T.], do you have anything to say?
K.T.: [Channeling E.B.] F*** it, I'm out.
[Laughter]
M.M.: [J.T.], do you have anything?
J.T.: F*** it, [K.T.]'s out.

***

It's not that I despise R.B., it's just that I despise drunken R.B., he of the ability to f*** anyone. Yet, somehow, we made the mistake of drinking with good ol' R.B. again. What were we thinking? More salient question, why weren't we thinking?

Thankfully, this time he did not attempt to f*** anyone that crossed his path. Sadly, he convinced us that a bar he wanted to go to was "just a block down the street." For ten blocks. The first several blocks took us in a giant loop until, fifteen minutes later, we realized we'd traveled one block from our starting point.

We kept hearing him repeat the same refrain. It got to the point where I had to refrain from leaving him behind. At one point, we stumbled upon a rather drunk, but still functioning, blonde. She informed us that the club was "that way," pointed off in some general direction, and kept walking. I sort of hoped that R.B. and she would kiss, so we could watch them miss and both pratfall.

R.B. had long since lost the ability to walk in a straight line, so at one point, E.C. and I start laughing as a branch attacks him out of nowhere.

R.B.: [K.T.], are you guys laughing at me?
K.T.: No, no, [E.C.] is just tying his shoes.

When R.B. turns, E.C. taps me on the shoulder and points down. No shoelaces whatsoever.

At some point, R.B. starts hearing a song that the rest of us are oblivious to. Walking alongside E.B., R.B. starts clapping his hands, and swaying purposefully (as opposed to the random falling he's taken to attempting while stumbling along the sidewalk). Apparently, this song is in 11/3 time, has a great many instruments, and pauses for as long as thirty seconds.

We eventually stop at a gas station, while E.B. asks for directions. R.B. takes it (and himself) upon himself to relive himself upon the side of a storage facility. Genuine class, that R.B. When it becomes obvious that we're just passing car dealership after car dealership, we realize that R.B. is a fool, and we are the fool's handmaidens for following him this far. We turn and go to another bar, wherein R.B. falls asleep, arms crossed, chin to chest, blanked out. E.C. has a nice picture of this, and soon everyone in the I.A.D. will have a picture of this.