Designated Peril

Drunk people are obnoxious. This is particularly true when said drunkards are your friends. While drunk strangers can be easily ignored – or at the very least easily left behind – you are stuck with your drunk friends. You have a certain responsibility toward your drunk friends. You have little choice but to valiantly suffer the slings and arrows of their drunken ramblings, drunken rages, and sudden drunken needs to collapse upon your shoulder like giant loose sacks of drunken ground beef. And, through some unexplored mystery of the universe, when you are a sober designated driver you become the focus of all drunken misbehavior.

Last night, two other Cellar Dwellers and I convened at a local watering hole in the quaint locale of Chippewa, Pennsylvania. For those who do not know Chippewa is a Native American word meaning “suburban development”. Well, it quickly became apparent that some of us were in a drinkin’ adventurin’ mood. So, my two compadres – whose anonymity I shall protect by referring to them as Boe and Jen – and I struck upon the ambitious plot of drinking our way to Ohio. After reconvening at Boe’s house, we all piled into the Maroon Zoom – my happening automobile – and headed into the great unchartered Western lands toward that mysterious, quasi-legendary land of Ohio.

We made a few quick perfunctory stops in good ol’ PA. We were silent bar assassins, moving through the inky night, appearing only for the briefest moments in order to zero in on our kill. In this case ‘our kills’ were usually a quick shot or a beer. Then we were back out into the foreboding night. The siren call of drinking the same beer in Ohio that we could drink in Pennsylvania at roughly the same price was overwhelming.

So, onto Ohio we traveled. Of course by this time, in strict keeping with my position of DD, I had stopped drinking. Boe and Jen however were completely undeterred. They poured beers, Jack and Cokes, and various ill-advised shots down their gullets with detrimental abandon. As the noxious potables took their effects, my companions' moods became noticeably changed. They become looser, louder, and truer to their base selves. In short, they became assholes.

I hate to name names but one friend – Jen – became particularly insufferable. While Boe was content to shoot other drunks – or as he refers to them ‘his people’ – in sloppy games of pool, I was left to entertain Jen all by my lonesome. Jen – for lack of a better term – was smashed. He was sloppy. He was by turns goofy and belligerent. I tried to keep him occupied with the jukeboxes at various establishments. This worked ok for a while, but eventually both he and I ran out of quarters and dollar bills. Then I had to listen to his play by play of all the songs he chose and why.

At one point, I decided to call my girlfriend – who for blog purposes I shall refer to as The Wonderful One – since she lives a long way away and I miss her. Of course, Jen insisted upon taking the phone from me and began complaining loudly and incoherently about this particular jukebox in this particular bar. This went on a much longer than I would have anticipated. Thankfully, The Wonderful One seemed amused by Jen’s drunken ramblings. Although, she did note that Jen was way too intoxicated to work a jukebox – The Wonderful One is very particular about her music and does not trust it in the hands of the wasted.

Eventually, the hour grew late and we decided it was time to once again heed the call of the road taking us back to our native land. Now, when you’re a DD, the drive home is where the real fun begins. You see, for some reason – I think it may be encoded into the male DNA somewhere – as soon as drunk friends get into a buddies car, things get stupid. Almost immediately, Jen began slapping me – hard – on my right shoulder from the back seat. I tried to explain in the nicest terms at my disposal that I was driving and could kill all of us if he insisted upon distracting me. Jen kept on slapping. I still can’t lift my right arm above ninety degrees. Eventually, Jen got bored with me and began slapping Boe in the back of the head or something – I wasn’t looking, but every so often I heard Boe exclaim ‘Ow, you F---‘. Boe began rambling on about making pancakes – or something – it was pretty choppy. At some point, someone began throwing pretzels around the car. So, now pretzel shrapnel covers almost all the plush maroon interior of my auto.

I did manage to arrive safely back at Boe’s estate to deposit my buds to their slumber. After practically lifting Jen out of the back seat, everyone got inside in one piece. Jen did, however, have the sudden desire to race to the door. Once inside, Boe and Jen began cuddling on the couch. This is odd because they are both boys – Jen’s just code for Ben. Then Jen crawled to a separate couch and fell dead away. Boe was passed out precariously one-third on the couch, one-third on the coffee table, and one-third suspended in mid-air. I thought I might want to rearrange him, but decided I didn’t really care. I drove home to sleep in the peace and comfort of my own bed.

So, take this as a warning all you potential DD’s out there. It is a perilous job fraught with untold dangers, annoyances, and douche-baggery. It is not for the weak nor is it for the faint of heart. It is a job for real men, men who are at least 120% man. It is also not a job for someone without a vacuum to clean up pretzel bits from throughout his vehicle.

Shalom
James