The words "Fuck, is it even nine thirty yet?" have not even left my lips when I glance back to the left... and standing next to (slumping against, really) the running SUV, as what I assume was her boyfriend looks on, is a skinny little blonde puking her guts up. There's already a nice chunky yellow puddle about the size of a dinner plate at her feet, and as I watch she leans over and pulls the trigger again. I don't mean retching drunkly and spitting up a little bit either, this bitch was flat out horking. Solid projectile stream with full splatter.
I stopped there, between them. I looked to my right; dudeman's still pissing away. I looked to my left; susie's still splatting away, and a voice comes out of the SUV, "You okay?" I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check the time, just to make sure I hadn't somehow lost an hour or six between work and here. Nine twenty in the PM.
Now, I'm not saying I don't sympathize. I could sit here and tell you I've never gotten so drunk that I whipped it out and popped a squirt in public; I could tell you I've never gotten so drunk that I powerspewed. But I'd be fuckin' lying, so I won't. But nine-twenty? On a Thursday fucking night? God's balls, have some self-respect. At least pretend that you have half a ruttin' ounce of something that even vaguely resembles self-respect. God damn.