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Wednesday, September 26, 2007

My Cups Runneth Over

I like beer.

It could be said that I'm fairly indiscriminate with regard to my taste in beer, as I'm a bit like a heroin addict when it comes to the frothy amber-hued stuff – it doesn't really matter about the quality of the hit, as long as I get some.

Usually, if I'm drinking beer in someone's house, I drink Carlton Draught because, thanks to the trivia questions printed on the underside of the cap, I get to quench both my thirst for beer and my thirst for looking like a know-all smarty-pants. In fact I think it should be a rule that, when asking for a Carlton Draught at the bar of a licensed establishment, the barman should have to ask the customer a trivia question.

"Carlton Draught, please barman".
"That'll be three eighty and the names of both Darrens on Bewitched".

I digress.

A while ago I was at a party, and a bunch of us windswept cool kids were in the kitchen drinking the aforementioned tipple. Every time someone cracked open a fresh bottle (which was often, because all your friends are doing it, and it won't kill you), they'd pose the under-cap trivia question to the kitcheny throng, and whoever answered correctly got to keep the cap. Due to three contributing factors, namely:
a) my handbag being in another room;
b) my contemporary and fashionable outfit not having any pockets; and
c) me being a know-all smarty-pants,
I soon had a large number of beer-bottle caps stashed away in my bra. Unfortunately, there was plenty of room for them.

Fast forward a few hours and I'm at home in my bedroom, muttering happily to myself and trying to undress without falling over, probably having tipped the cab driver a fifty dollar note for a twelve dollar fare. As always, I'd been very, very careful not to wake my housemates – a difficult task in heels on creaky polished floorboards and flammable vapour oozing from every glamorous pore. Finally, after strenuous attempts to figure out the combination to my bra, I get it loose, having completely forgotten about the fifteen bottle-tops nestled snugly within its confines.


I'm not sure what woke my housemates first – the sound of bottle-tops bouncing in all directions on the floorboards, the sound of me desperately scrambling to catch them, or the sound of me suddenly laughing up my spleen.

I can also be classy.


Captain Smack said...

I have to say, that's pretty damned funny. Your boobs were like a slot machine that pays out in bottle tops.

I am now going to start wearing underwear filled with change, just so that whenever I take my clothes off in front of someone, they'll feel like they won something.

shellity said...

That is the most delicious visual image I've had in a long time. And I don't mean because you had your norks out.

I'm reminded of arriving home after mate Wilk's hens' night, having popped two bright pink, luminescent bangles inside my top to accentuate my boosies and try to get a laugh out of a bunch of girls at the warm-up lounge-room house party. Those same girls neglected to remind me that I then wore them to a restaurant, to a bar, and on the long walk back to my car, at night-time, by myself, in Manly. Oops.

gigglewick said...

I am ouch-ified - didn't the bottle tops HURT?

Jo said...

Cap'n - it's nice for you to compensate like that. Bless you.

Shellity - our doppelganger danglers just need enhancement sometimes. Not so our arses.

Gigglewick - see: thousands of beers consumed.