TGIT - TMI Thursday!!!

I was determined to begin with that most fun of all Blogger traditions - TMI Thursday. Woot! Now, all of you probably know too much info already, from the era following the infamous breakup with The Boy (you're welcome). So it was mindnumbingly hard thinking of something new. Nonetheless. Here's what happened the night I got picked up by the FBI. (PS: True story).

I thought really hard about the shortest way to say this without making myself look really bad: sad truth, there's no such way. M & I were lost on the roads of SF with no phones, no cabs, and no sense of direction other than to head in the direction of where there may be (a) cute guys, (b) cheese, (c) more cheese. So when, in the middle of a stripper area (nu-uh, don't ask), we found an Italian restaurant with cute guys offering us their phones, we're like, "Whee, Mannah! God lurves us!" So in we walk.

Now come the disclaimers. I haven't eaten in 36 hours; haven't touched alcohol in atleast 200 days. When the not-bad looking guys at the bar offer us free drinks, I forget all about my abstinence resolution and jump in on a mojito. The not-bad-but-not-good looking guys smirk, tell the bartender something in Italian, and these vaguely shady looking glasses are put out in front of us, with drinks literally dribbling over the brink of THE biggest glasses of alcohol you've ever seen.

This would be a trigger to run for most sane women. To M and me, it simply says, 'Woot! More alcohol! Goooood!' In it goes, all a-merry, and we're starting to find the honestly-rather-bad-looking guys' jokes more funny. Next thing you know, they're pulling out their Fed badges and telling us 'Shhh, we're cops, do you wanna visit our office and play?' So we're like ok haha, cute metaphor, but really? We work at Google, we review porn, you're gonna have to do more to shock us.

We get more festive, the guys get happier, and one sidles up to me, nudging at my hip and going 'Feel it.' And now I'm like uhkay, not drunk enough for this just yet, mister. He tugs at his pant, pats it fondly - I'm focusing on my drink - and goes 'Go on, don't be scared. First time you seein' one hon?' I look desperately towards M, but she's busy fending off the other guy, so I figure I'll pull the whole shy-eyes-down bit. Except - nudge nudge push push- this BULGE is on me and he's grinning and giggling and chanting 'See that? Feel that? That do anything for you love?' at me.

I decide enough's enough, I had enough of this on the buses back home, and turn towards him to give him a good telling to --- and that's when I see the GUN in his PANTS. Omifrikkinwha??? No dude. Not a metaphor. Is that a gun in your pants or are you just really happy to see me? Yeah. Turns out we really WERE picked up by the FBI. What's more, as Jay told us later when he picked us up, our drinks were SPIKED by the Feds. God bless America.