Just Be Quiet

This particular male subject was impressively intoxicated. If he wasn’t such a jerk, and if we weren’t so busy dodging (mostly unintentional) swings and (mostly intentional) loogies when he broke the police officers’ grip, we might have all looked at each other with the “Wow. Strong work. Good job.” expression.

At one point, he looked at me and charmingly slurred (minus the expletives), “You look good, so iss alright. Lemme tell you, you’d never leave the kitchen or my room if you wuz my girlfriend. (hiccup)”

As I opened my mouth to reply, my big brother partner snapped back,¬†“Hey, enough! You do not speak to my partner that way. Ever. She’s here to help you. You’re going to sit there and respect that, and we’re not going to have any more problems. Are we clear?”

The patient looks at me and says earnestly, “Sweetheart, I’m sorry.”¬†Then he rolls his head back to my partner and lets out a long-winded, ever-loudening, slurred apology.

“Man, I’m sorry. I’m not meaning to cause no dizzrepeck. Not to you. Not to your lady fran’. Not to the ambalamps. Not to God. Not to the cops…well, maybe to the cops. But not to you. Or her. I’m sorry. I wuz jus’ compamentin’. Because she’s pretty. And you’re pretty. You’re BOTH pretty. I’m sorry. And I’m drunk. So iss h’okay. Maybe iss not okay. No. Iss no’ okay. I’m sorry. And–”

“Sir, don’t be sorry. Just be quiet.”


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