In Sri Lanka the cops use suppositories in lieu of a breathalyzer
I’m in standing in front of BMICH all fk woozy cause I’ve been feeding baby birds for the last hour. The Police are asking me if I’m drunk and they’re mistaken. I’m actually hung-over. What they are really witnessing is the aftermath of a peanut allergy. While I certainly do smell of double malt cuttlefish, I have surely sweated out any alcohol during the course of my body trying to assasinate me. I assure the Po that I am most miserably sober and then they ask me if Peanut is a country. What the shit. So I’m going to the drunk tank. I have missed the party I really wanted to go to, and now I get to recuperate with Colombo’s Finest. I hope they have tea. Moustache gets in the car and tells me to drive as Razor follows on the bike. They are accusing me of drunk driving, and then asking me to drive them around. To tell the truth, I actually relish this stupid shit cause its bloggable.
I’m with friends, getting damnably late for T’s party when I take that fateful nibble of the dried bites. I’ve had this stuff before, but this bite is definitely peanut. I can feel the tell-tale tingle and I know that I have 15 minutes before it hits my bloodstream. Hard. I take my leave as rapidly as possible and do the only thing that works. Lie down, throw up everything still leaking poison, and wait for the toxins to claw and itch their way through my stomach, lungs, throat, and skin. I’m lucky in that peanuts don’t kill me, but they certainly try. I’ve consumed the legume enough times that I know the procedure. I just need to be alone. I get to the car and my breathing and vision are labored, so no state to drive. Lie down across the passenger seat and just wait it out. The handbrake is in my back, but I’ve got bigger problems.
I leave a puddle of DNA out the passenger door, which I feel bad about. It’s gross, but that’s the only way I can process the damnable nut. The four fingers of scotch and cuttlefish aren’t helping either. Once the direct toxin is out of my system I recover within an hour rather than a day, so I always force myself to throw up. Now the histamines are leaving my lungs and I can feel my windpipe opening. The corrupted blood, however, has reached my epidermis and I am so fucking itchy. It feels like my lungs are itchy inside and I cannot scratch them. It’s like 20 more minutes from here, but time goes agonizingly slow. If I’d eaten more my heart would spasm and I’d need to mainline epinephrine in my thigh. Entire system restart, with adrenaline, sorta like Pulp Fiction. Never been in that territory, however, and I leave my long-expired needle in the sock drawer.
After a while I can sit up straight and I feel really sober and empty. The histamines have eased up, though I would pass out if I had to walk 100 yards. My throat is half-closed and I barely get enough oxygen if I’m moving. My body is fucking stupid but I’ve learned to hack this one disability well enough that I’m really high functioning. I just start driving home. Take the route past BMICH (dumb) and whaddya know, Moustache and Razor pull me over at a checkpoint.
I got all my papers and I’m so sober it hurts. However, I smell like a Molotov Cocktail floating in Beira Lake. Pros and Cons, Pros and Cons. Razor immediately assumes that I’m drunk because I’m chewing gum. I try to explain that I’m chewing gum to get the taste of evil out of my mouth, but no dice. They make me get out of the car and just stand there looking at each other. They won’t let me go and standing makes me physically tired. I ask if they’ll just take me to the station and blow me. And they do. Moustache gets in the passenger and asks me to drive. This makes so little sense for a suspected drunk driver that it’s awe-inspiring. I wonder if there are accessory charges to DUI… So I drive to Fort. No problems except Moustache doesn’t know left from right.
I’m soberific so I just chat up the guys admin’ing the breathalyzer. Indrasena and Glasses. I should have gotten a group picture. They tell me to wash my mouth with water from an arrack bottle and spit it out the window. Classy. Them they give me the glass tube attached to a bag and I blow into it for 20 seconds. The glass gets incredibly hot in my hands. I ask them about the silica they use and why it heats up, but all they can tell me is that each unit costs Rs 2,000. I puff-and-pass and everyone looks really disappointed. The cash gives them a really injust interest in false positives, but they’re nice guys. Indrasena is chill, but Razor keeps telling me I was drinking and I’m like, ‘Heresay! Conjecture!’. He makes Moustache fill out a 2,000 word essay on why they wasted tax-payer money and ask me to sign it. I can’t read it, so I leave a disclaimer to that point. It’s not my testimony and they can read the silica line. Get my sheet and walk out of there. They were nice enough to let me take photos and I’ve attached a shot of my deposition below (View Larger Image).
Anyways, I’m typing this at 5 am and I feel like a fk zombie with alien spawn in my tummy. I’m mostly disappointed that I got sick and missed T’s party, which I was really looking forward to. Sorry machang. I bet there were girls there too. Unfortunately, I am a dumbass. Amma’s going to find out and give me a real slap-upside-the-head.