Let’s face it. I’m off my rocker. Anyone who knows me can attest to that. I sing stupid songs to my dog. I make up lyrics of my own to songs which already have perfectly good lyrics. And in my finer (read, drunker) moments, I come up with little catch phrases.
“Kill me in the face” is one such phrase. Let me tell you how it originated.
About two years ago, I went to Mountain Bar in Chinatown to hear the Peasants (Andrei and Brett aka Butters) play their particular brand of electronic awesomeness.
I started with a scotch. And followed that scotch with another scotch. And another, and another. And wouldn’t you know, I ended up getting pretty drunk. No, pretty drunk doesn’t quite do it justice. I was shitcanned. Soon, I began to feel a little sick, so I decided to go and sit on the bench that was outside the bar. Pretty soon I was lying on the bench face down.
Probably about an hour later, my friends came to collect me.
“Can you get up?”
“Yeah, I can! Wait, no I can’t.” I laid back down.
“Hey, are you ok?” one of my friends asked me.
And instead of saying “No” or “Yes” (that would have been a lie) or “Maybe” (that too would have been a lie), for some reason I just started muttering “Kill me in the face. Kill me in the face.” over and over, much to the amusement of my friends.
So we all left the bar (once I stopped demanding to be killed in the face) and went to a couple of friends’ house. When we got there, I was freezing, so a friend of mine at the time gave me a nice comfortable sweatshirt to wear. I promptly passed out.
Around 5:00 a.m., a couple of my friends decided it was time to head home. My friend Butters offered to drive me home. Little did he know that a 15 minute trip would turn into a 45 minute cluster fuck.
At the time, I lived smacked dab in the LA Marathon red zone. Every year the traffic cops block off huge sections of LA so that all the bikers and people crazy enough to actually run 26 miles can do so without getting hit by cars. It boggles my mind that people run marathons (I’m looking at you, Ellen!) I can barely drive 26 miles without getting tired.
So Butters is driving around all over creation trying to figure out a way to get me home. No dice. Finally, understandably frustrated he pulls up to one of the road blocks and orders me to get out of the car to go talk to the police.
And I do. (If you know Butters (and most of you probably do) when he’s frustrated you don’t ask questions. You just do what he says.)
I stumbled out of the car, conjured up my best “I’m a lawyer… Respect my authoritah!” attitude, and walk up to the cops. I say to one of them, “Excuse me, but I live right up that street, and I really need to get home. Is there any way you could let us through?”
The cop is looking at me like I have two heads, and seems to be trying to stifle a laugh. “We can’t let you through. It’s almost 6:00 and the bikers are going to be coming through here pretty soon.”
“Well, we’ve been driving around trying to figure out a way to get through, but there’s no other way. Can’t you just let us through real quick?”
The cop is still looking at me all smirky-like. “Well, why don’t you walk home from here?”
“Because it’s really late, I’m tired, and I don’t really want to walk home by myself right now.”
“Ok, then, why don’t you go and get your license just to verify that you live in this neighborhood, and then we can let you through,” the cop says.
“Thank you so much!”, I sigh, relieved.
I turn around to go back to the car and see my friends in the car laughing their asses off. “What?” I say to them perplexed. “What’s so funny?”
They just kept laughing and started pointing at my chest… I think I hear Butters yell, “LOOK AT YOUR SHIRT!!!”
“Huh!?” I said and looked down at my shirt.
The sweatshirt I had been given me to wear was bright pink, and said in HUGE black letters: TOO DRUNK TO FUCK.
Needless to say, I got in the car, and, heeding Butters’ advice, took off the sweatshirt. I then grabbed my license, and walked back to the cops, who, at this point, could no longer contain their laughter. And then I recalled the cop’s suggestion. Why don’t I just walk home, indeed. I’m pretty sure that Robert “The Rapist” Raperson would have found out that I was not, in fact, too drunk to fuck.