Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Legend of Lotus Vodka Bar Crawl

My good friend Tatum of award-winning Lotus Vodka fame put together an ambitious bar crawl to promote the excellence of the spirit she represents. We corralled a London style double-decker bus to support grandeur and such.

Tantalizing Tatum, the mastermind behind the inspired debacle, was in awe of the spectacle presented front and center. Considering the stops, without her leadership we would've been lost.The Carmel Queen never fails, her focus firmly squared on outshining expectations. Taking charge of a situation with raised odds of ugliness is an art few capture well. Tatum was not afraid to regulate the proceedings with trusty whistle blows.

Her ultimate mission ended up succeeding, which was to bring the collective aboard a London double-decker bus with a mobile bar, prizes, trinkets and 7 bar stops with Lotus being the prime supplier throughout. We were not disappointed.

The double-decker even had remarkably classy carpeting.

T-shirts arrived and began surfacing on backs. Lucky for us Tatum made sure to come equipped with all necessary resources.

Cliff was working by default, and he had no problem enhancing our experience with Jell-O shots on a platter.

Cliff felt intrigue was around the corner. In going with that curious prediction, Bobby Farlow made sure that Willie Chesnut came along to represent Lotus Vodka strong.

After discussing world peace and being disarmed by her compassionate insights, I knew I could learn a lot from her. Cliff had a hand with giving Willie a successful debut at Del’s Saloon, where havoc is wreaked on many a hero.

I kicked it to Willie Chesnut on a few binges at Del's, her coolness compounded by an unbelievable association with Bobby's adventures in Saxony.

The range of her power has not been established; a mind you would not believe, no tricks up her sleeve. Sometimes women are the master race. The last time we met I savagely Bashed Lacey on accident.

With growing frequency in facing greatness, the romantic Del’s Saloon is a common ground of rendezvous. Tony Stark has been to Del’s, and he has nothing on Lotus Vodka served by lovely Lucca, never looking better in Lotus Vodka garb. Blue or White?

The motif makes a mind wander. My stroll in the bar got going with a couple rough Lotus crans. Wayne and I decided to play pool on our home turf, exploit our toughness in a fine display of sport. We officially ransacked Del's at 1:20pm.

Their supply of Lotus Vodka got hit hard. A tricky defeat at pool led me back onto the bus, where I finally met our Lotus Vodka bartender Monica.

She managed to concoct random mixes of joy, amounting to preposterous damage being done on a scale seldom used. I encouraged her to push for infamy since I'm not the average.

I enjoyed her cruel creations at the bar of ill-repute. The shots kept coming with the fury of bad omens. Soon later, Natalie had established her skill at victimizing us one by one, along with her cold-blooded assassin sister Sara.

Natalie began lurking for prey early in the day, with full rounds loaded and cocked.

Their trail of tears led guns to my head at Del’s. I might be Bashmaster General, but I wasn’t able to resist the thrill of death by Lotus.

We all go a little mad sometimes.

An international crisis was ready to spill over. I’m glad that Bobby Farlow rolls around with bodyguards for protection. Of course, Bobby could easily take out both bodyguards. Jokingly we call them "Bobbyguards."

The Inner Circle has a lot of comedians, but extra muscle goes a long way when mysterious journeys lack an ultimate answer. Relentless Cliff was on an unparalleled tear with Jodie, another employee freshening Lotus Vodka.

She marveled at Cliff’s strength utilization methods, a brute force that comes into play for cheers, one that was ably flaunted on Kacey as well as Sebastian Santiago.

Everything was going according to plan and Tatum was at ease with the natural progression of the event. It turned out to be an unreal 14 hour party. I mostly hung out at South with Ronda, who was busy dressing down the fly girl Lorie.

The post-up move was smooth and proved fruitful. Ronda had climbed onto the double-decker well prepared with her cooler of Sparks Plus and the diabolical Wayne Maxwell.

Of course, a quest this epic meant the strategic additions of Amaury Guerrero, a Murphy-Darling sister and the incomparable Raj Vasher, whose excessive bout of boisterousness got him quickly ejected and 86’d from South.

There should be a wake whenever he leaves a place. Back on the bus we were joined by Roxie, a late boost cherished at any hour.

She just began writing a screenplay about a deaf lesbian chainsaw murderer. Roxie was an enthusiast enraptured by the views of a Santa Monica colored by intoxicating visuals. We were riding that wave, everybody there, even the randoms and the witches.

It wasn't all peace and serenity, for some party fouls deserve prompt smothering. One rule is never run smack at a girl around gentlemen. Thank God Mr. Santiago doubles as a bouncer.

He usually maintains a low profile, the deadliest weapon at my side whenever mobile upon the treacherous locale.

The Cajun roots might have something to do with it, and he can sure spin a good "Rougarou" yarn. A true cosmopolitan, his knowledge of Eastern philosophy is something we can all aspire to understand. On our way to Barney's Beanery, with a glimmer of a smile, he said, "We're here for decent pours and whores, and all of us are whores." He also appreciates being loaded while having your hair blow in the wind so high. Nobody could argue with that, especially the gypsies.

Later I met a honey named Sabrina who was getting stalked by an alleged ex-boyfriend, an angry soul who threw a brick through her window last week. She was drinking a Lotus Bomber. To pile on some more spotless debauchery, Tatum made sure to enlist a bacherlorette party for our breathless double-decker pleasure. They were fueled by Lotus Red Bulls.

Little did I know someone wanted to steal my deals. When day turned into night something was amiss. My usually sharp senses began to betray me, my agile motor skills began to tweak, started on a weird streak of foolish moves, even though I was wide eye awake from Lotus Blue (the caffeinated vodka).

My body was shutting down, the Yetis were out to get me. Delusional thoughts began racing through my head, like maybe somebody was trying to intentionally derail my presidential hopes. Someone must’ve been sent to carry out blatant serpent wickedness, deliver a dire message, be it Obama, McCain or the Illuminati. I eluded safety from confusion, then nothing.

It’s pretty amazing the kind of mental metamorphosis you undergo after getting roofied and hit by a car, which sadly isn’t documented by gritty photography. There’s nothing like the sensation of noticing total loss of control, your muscles and body become alien, your mind struggling to try and keep up but it eventually slips away completely. It's evil. Next thing you know you’re in your bed, blood everywhere. You don’t even remotely know where the bleeding came from, hands wrapped sloppily in gauze, dazed, your bloodied sheets devastatingly ruined. You nearly fall out bed bad because your balance is shot, you look at your legs and they’re destroyed. You glance back at your bed and it’s like you stepped out of an incredibly violent horror movie. Swollen knees, your shins and calves are riddled with the beginnings of nasty bruising, open cuts splattered. Your arms are barely useful in helping you up from unknowingly getting smashed by speeding metal on the street. You wonder the extent of injury, so out of fear you decide to shower. You wash off the blood with the sting of shampoo and soap, your true tone catching light of day. Pain is somewhat numbed by lingering alcohol, although the crippling drug is still in your stream thriving. Pulse is erratic and there's shadows around you, so you know you're hosed. The next day you’re in the hospital, praying to anyone above listening that you didn’t break bones, that you didn't sustain a concussion or worse.

You will live, yet the doctor theorizes that the mayhem caused was feasibly by car. Then you insist on taking a drug test, which of course comes up positive with a heavy dose of Rohypnol. The doctor tells you that you’re lucky, that the effect on anyone with a smaller frame may have been deadly. No pink fluffy dinosaurs involved, just dread and hostility towards malice. A shame I wasn't afforded the luxury of changing my mind.

Regardless, I want another Lotus Vodka Bar Crawl, and the consortium concurs. What doesn’t kill you makes you smarter. Disgusting descriptions of myself make women want me more.

1 comment:

Amanda Lee! said...

Wow, you got roofied?! Bru-tal! I feel so bad for you!

I was lovin' the stuff before that, though. I think I am going to start calling bartenders "assassins" instead of "startenders." Especially a few in particular!