Malt, baileys and hop by Yqofat
The Forensics, so guzzling down few bottles of my favorite drink to smother the heat sifting from my smouldering mind seemed a perfect idea (not that I need any reason to drink, but this seemed justified) this calm evening, so I gladly obliged.
But it ain’t a celebration if you doing it all alone, so I decided to call up an old buddy, dark skinned great guy(adigun), in his mid 20’s, humble and shit. It’s been a while since we dialogue, so getting together o’er what’s going on in camp s goin 2b fun.
Reminiscing about our terrific past weeks in camp will last one hour max…of which he should be draining the dregs of the second bottle(harp) by then. The beginning of the third bottle opens up the very much awaited delicious discussion of our escapades with different corps members, which we are allowed to exaggerate as much as we like, that’s the delicious part.
In this highlighted fashion the evening proceeded, by the fourth bottle He already excused himself twice to obey the first side effect of Lager consumption. A notification by his ever faithful bladder signifies he might be up for a third trip to the bush across the joint in the next…uh, 10mins?, as the girl-talk gradually got stale and boring (this happens when someone over-exaggerates, can’t say who, but I’m sure one of us did).
Then the serious tipsy talk commenced as he opened the fifth bottle, eyes glazing in their sockets. Now the beer was going terribly slow, I tried 2 gulp a bo2 of coke but ended up taking a sip, he wasn’t doing too good himself wit lager. We grazed over our past experiences with life and her ordeals, encouraging and advising each other the best way his drunk blunt mind n my sugary mind can.
Suddenly, we found ourselves, side by side, battling with our zippers across the road. After a brief struggle, the juice splatters in the gutter, then l started giggling hard…he joined in. We were wondering how and when we got here, it was so hilarious that I spilled some on my white shorts.
‘Ze last two drops alwez end up in we boxaz anywez, no madda ‘ow mush you shake a one-eyed shnake… ’ I slurred with a grin.
A slight trace of confusion passed briefly across his face but he just kept on giggling. He didn’t understand, I frowned. I wanted to repeat it but, what did I say again?.
In a moment, we were back in our chairs, him nursing the beer that refused to go down. I got a sweet mouth, but its pure sugar when aided with almost five bottles of coca cola and when I got a semi-drunk ear listening, so I did most of the talking. We were both enjoying our roles, but it got so sweet that I ended up giving him an itchy pile (he was on the receiving end).
‘…zon’t walk wif fvenzs you can nevva gain fwom…zose who call you to beer parlorrrs-’His cup halts inches from his lips as the weight of my slurred words slides home.
This awkward moment continues as my fuzzy brain struggles to register the shit that just shot out of my pie hole. His cup returns to the table, then he nods.
‘Okeyy…buh if you zon’t wan be fvenzs wif me again, shay show, and shtop beating around ze bukket!’’He gets to his feet and storms off, knocking over his half-filled cup.
Which show do they beat buckets?!
He obviously doesn’t like the show, I thought as I raise my cup in salute to his receding frame.