French Umbrellas and Lesbian Toilet Juices

One Saturday evening, it started raining as I began my bar hopping pilgrimage. Feeling gregarious and fearing deflated hair, I jumped under the umbrella of a nearby stranger. With the recent shot of Fireball burning fervently in my throat, I started chatting up said stranger to ease him into this abrupt invasion of his personal space. He stared blankly at me, blinking, and told me he does not speak much English, only French. Perfect! I thought, as I had taken French in high school, and it had been years since I last employed this great talent of mine. I quickly fired off all the French I know at the poor, poor man. This is a very accurate translation of the very one-sided conversation we had under his umbrella:

"Hi! My name is Lucy. What is your name? How are you? Yes. Okay. Sorry. I speak a little French. Yes. I am sorry James Brown died. I like threesomes. I like hats. Sorry. Thank you! Okay! Friendly! Goodbye! Good evening!"

I still got it.

I was in my mid 20s, and I lived right down the street from one of the best lesbian bars in San Diego at the time. My friend called me asking to go out, and I didn't want to. I thought I was way too cool for that shit, but she dragged my ass out anyway. I was so effortlessly cool, I didn't even care about my outfit. My outfit of choice was ratty jeans and a light grey hooded sweatshirt.

When we got to the bar, she started to pump me with a good few beers and shots, and I started dancing. I thought I was the fucking coolest chick to have ever graced this bar, and with some alcohol in my system, I thought every woman in the bar wanted me. I excused myself from the dance floor to wobbily stand in line in the bathroom. The toilet was disgusting, but I expected no less--paper towels and toilet paper all over the floors and in the sink, and the toilet isn't flushed. I did not want to touch a thing. No way.

I unzipped my pants, and just as I hovered over the toilet seat, the tequila kicked in. I fell hard on the floor among the toilet paper, paper towels and as I settled, I felt that cool light grey sweatshirt absorbing unknown liquids from top to bottom. I was soaked in drunk mystery juices. I clawed my way off the ground and pulled my now wet pants up. I tried to extract as much 'toilet juice' by squeezing and wringing my right sleeve, then ran out of the bathroom like a bat out of hell. I grabbed my friend by the arm and screamed in her ear "We have to leave NOW!" I dragged her out of the bar, and halfway down the block I repeatedly fell and got back up again, much to my friend's amusement.

I woke up the next day to find that my friend had the entire wet walk on video.