Taxicab Depressions

Well, my friend, you certainly got your drink on for Halloween, huh? As one of my regular passengers and a reader of Taxicab Depressions, you like laughing at me and my stories about the vodka zombies I drive around, because you are the guy that always maintains some semblance of sobriety and doesn’t go too far overboard when you go out. You are the guy that makes sure all your buddies get home safe, and I would bet that you are always the guy that does the talking if the cops show up at a party. You are a good shepherd, and they are lucky to have you as a friend. Usually, it is your lovely girlfriend that is the wasted one in my car, not you… but not so, at least not for this Halloween, huh?

You know how you always laugh and tell your beautiful babe that SHE is so fucked up that she is going to end up on my blog? Well, welcome to the ranks of the zombies, Clayton. We have reviewed your audition and we like what we see, so congratulations, you have made the cast of Taxicab Depressions. The fact that you and your hunnee elected to be zombies as your Halloween costumes is really, really fitting, don’t you think? I don’t know about you, but I’m still laughing about it three days later…

I’m not sure what you remember from Halloween night, but it went like this… when you called me to pick you up at the bar, you didn’t sound wasted at all on the phone, but holy shit, dude, you looked like hell when I got there… lurching around with smeared zombie makeup all over your face. If you were not my regular passenger, I would have driven right past you. Your girl had a good buzz on, too, but nothing like you… you were just a wreck. When you stumbled into the back of my car, she asked how you got so fucked up when she had just as many beers as you did, and you slurred out that it must have been the four shots of tequila that guy bought you…

Really, dude…? This is my shocked face… =O

Then, the bombshell… 40 seconds in the car, and you announced that you thought you were going to puke. Kudos to you and much respect for caring enough about me and my car to let me know that you might explode in a giant fountain of tequila and Oktoberfest beer vomit at any moment. I asked if you needed the The Bucket Of Shame, but you said to just stop for a second. So I pulled over next to the big parking garage by the bank, you got out and tried to make yourself vomit in the hedges, but no joy. You started to get back in, but I told you to get in the front, so if the urge to puke overcame you again, you could yack out the passenger window rather than all over my carpet.

So we headed home, and it turns out that a little motion was all that you really needed… we hadn’t even gone another block when you stuck your head out the window and hurled all over the street and all down the side of my car. The people standing outside the country-western bar must have thought you were a funny sight, a zombie with smeared makeup all over his face vomiting out the window of a taxi as we drove past them at 20 MPH. I handed you some paper towels to wipe your mouth, and you apologized to me sincerely and profusely, but no worries, my friend… puking in the car costs 100 bucks, but puking out the window is not a problem. I just pulled up next to a poorly-aimed lawn sprinkler after I dropped you off, did my paperwork, and let the sprinkler wash the tequila vomit off my car. In two minutes I was good as new and back to work, ready to wrangle the next group of zombies, no muss, no fuss.

To your credit, you were the nicest, most polite, and most considerate staggering puking vodka zombie I have ever driven. That in itself makes you blogworthy. Bonus points for having excellent aim and not getting any vomit in my car. I would hold you up as an example for all zombies everywhere to emulate.

Seriously, I love you and your babe, Clayton… you are a great customer, not to mention an outstanding tipper, and I deeply appreciate your patronage. Call me anytime you need a ride home, brother… even in that hellish condition, I will get you and your babe home every time.

But don’t think I won’t razz you about it…