Butterfly is a Horrible Person

There are several events in life that are functionally equipped to measure the maturity of a man and his discretion to moderate the carnal pleasantries that are presented to him. Wine and cheese parties are one such test. No one gets drunk at these parties, except me.

I’m never one to salute the abnegation of alcohol, but I do believe in drinking responsibly. The only problem is, when it comes to wine parties, I’m like Michael Jackson in a kindergarten. I can keep up appearances, but I cannot keep my hands off them (the wine, that is).

Call it a chronic regression and submission to the Singaporean syndrome – Every thing free must be exploited.

The other problem with these (as Huixx calls them) chi chi wine and cheese parties that have Tatler plastered all over it, is that I already had a panoramic prognosis on the evening,

1. I will have the youngest (and probably most used,) dick in the room.
2. No lady in the room will know who Gwen Stefani is.

Yet, on the contrary, I was happy to be wrong about my early perception of the event, although I’d have expected the napkins to be printed with some ‘Don’t Drink and Drive’ propaganda, given that this IS a drinking event. Well, I guess people are really more responsible with age, which is why there isn’t any cleavage and everyone wears a bra.

I was wrong because there were actually ‘young’ ladies at the place. Not the nubile nymphs you’d drop your pants for, but young enough for me to want to see them naked. I can’t really fill a checklist for complains, not when there were at least 30 different labels of wine to tease my tongue and a buffet that spared no expenses.

By 9.30pm, I was already 6 glasses above the legal limit to drive back. This might not seem impressive, but let me break it down for your comprehension. During wine appreciation, a full serving is an implausible occurrence that will shatter all standing decrees of wine etiquette. You get them in quarter servings, which will fill your sip, sufficient for the mandatory swirl and gargle that will position you somewhere beyond novice, but far from quenching your thirst.

So, getting 6 full glasses would be having to extensively (and shamelessly but tactfully) sample one wine after another. My favourite line (recycled many times over, you can trust me on that) is,

“Hmm, this one doesn’t have much body. Can I try that one? Oh.. and maybe that one too..”

It came to a point where I didn’t even know what I was taking about and I was throwing up things like ‘this one doesn’t have bite’ or ‘this one needs to age’. And I don’t even know wine to begin with. I know the simple rules of white and red. We drink white when we need to get high fast and we drink red only when we are in dark coloured clothes. ‘Stains’ is a horrible word.

I’m no oenophile and my only desire to have wine, is that it gets me drunk faster than beer. It’s a really simple decision to make. Wine is healthy, beer makes you fat. Fat people don’t deserve to be fucked. Punched yes, but sex is too vulgar a word for them. Sophisticated people drink wine and I want to fuck them. Bingo, life cannot possibly hit me with a more perspicuous cause.

By the time Reznor came to pick me for Zouk, he was already eyeing me with suspicion. He absolutely hates me being drunk because and I quote,

“I don’t want to get killed because of you.”

It’s also almost impossible for me to hide any tier of inebriation because they know me too well. It usually starts when I say things like,

“Shut the fuck up now and you can blow me in the toilet.”

I met TheOne and Maven and their reservoir of drinks, then repaid their magnanimity by traumatizing their female friends. Blame it on the intemperate indulgence of Long Island Tea (I'm guessing that’s what it was) or the procrastination in penning down the nights events the following day, but my memory is in pockets with fuller holes than a vagabond.

I’ll re-count,

I got introduced to some of TheOne’s friends. 3 girls and one of them was a punching bag just waiting to have me throw insults at her. I did the cordial handshake. I am still a gentleman afterall, once you peeled off the 18 layers of assholism.

Me: “Hi you are?”
Girl: “XXXX”

It was some Chinese name. I don’t know, maybe Xiao Long Nu or Yang Guo. Your guess is as good as mine.

Me: “I won’t remember your name, I’ll be honest.”
She: “It’s XXXX”
Me: “Nope, I won’t remember. I’ll just call you L”

Then I patted one of them on the head.

Girl2: “Why did you pat my head?!”
Me: “I only pat two things. The head and the boobs.”
Girl2: “I don’t have boobs” [she clutched her chest]
Me: “Yah, that’s why I’m patting the head.”

But if Friday night was an enlightening path for me as a comic sideshow, albeit the bevy of vulgarities, sarcasm and derogatory prefixes I subjected the undeserving to, then Saturday was the yardstick of mayhem.

It’s always amusing when I have to depend on people’s stories to reconstruct the night for me and I wasn’t even pissed drunk. I was still sober enough to shuffle and sashay out the club.

Well apparently, I kicked a Ladyboy, intentionally. I almost felt bad about it. I just wished I did it sober enough to have relished the full 5 seconds of her screaming at me and chasing me. Maybe if I punched her, she might have flashed some silicone at me. Different folks, different strokes, might have worked.

Dek said I yelled at some asses who were blocking my way down the steps. I vaguely remembered that and I believe I did that in the most cogent way possible,

Me: “Will you just move the fuck off!”

Worked like a charm. They might be running off to find an ashtray to throw at you, but it gets them out of the way. Remember, a reaction is always better than a consequence.

In full defense of my deviation from the mores of appropriated behaviour, I only have stupid people to blame. Without them, I am happy. Alcohol is always the convenient excuse, but there are only selected times when we can use it. Like, knocking a girl up, explaining why you were making out with your partner’s best friend, setting the car on fire, fucking Whales or the gardener, kicking the neighbour’s son, etc. If you use it, make it count.

Without stupid people, I would be the nice boy you want me to be. I’ll even subscribe to your moralist straight-jacket decorum and hurl words like ‘harlot’ and ‘wanton whore’ at any one wearing 4 inch heels and mini-skirts. I’d even agree with you that kissing in a club is blasphemous and that it leads to pregnancy.

I’ll also excuse myself because I had a week (3 days if I really want to be shamelessly advertising) till my birthday and the celebrations and impunity for social backlashes had already started. I won’t be around for my birthday, so I will save you beer money, for now.

LB and I are celebrating it overseas with a bed full of debauchery, induced prodigality and promised fornication. Okay, I’m glamourising the whole escape, but I assure you this is purely a catharsis. Singapore is getting too constipated for my liking.

I’m a horrible person, but I still expect you to buy me a present. No, seriously, I do.