The Bacardi Party

I don't have a lousy experience every time I step out of the house, as this little anecdote will prove. I'm going back to June of 2oo2 for this story, but I swear I have had a few good times since then.

As an employee of one of the highest volume liquor stores in North America, I was privy to liquor industry launch parties, meaning when a company would introduce a new product, they would launch it by renting a venue, inviting liquor store and restaurant employees, hiring scantily-clad women to serve up free booze, and best of all, hiring even more scantily-clad women to serve up even more free booze.

All of these events were fun, but the last one I went to before I left town was the best. Bacardi was unveiling a new rum, something called Cyclon, and had rented out a bar/concert venue called Headliners. Tickets were scarce, but my friend Boe (yeah, that's his name) managed to snag a few. Boe called me that afternoon while I was still at work and said his Uncle Bill would be our Designated Driver so we could get as shit-ass drunk as we wanted. I was very pleased by this turn of events.

When we arrived at the venue, we were greeted by a bevy of Bacardi Girls, so-called ambassadors for the Bacardi brand. Let me tell you, they put the "ass" in ambassador. They were wearing tight pleather bikini tops and short-shorts, strutting around with bottles of Cyclon and pouring shots down the guests' gullets. This company knew about hospitality.

I didn't particularly like Bacardi Cyclon, but that didn't keep me from drinking enough of it to make my liver fire-off a nasty letter to my brain. How could I turn down the Bacardi Girls? Looking back, I think they picked me out of the crowd to try to kill, but at the time I just enjoyed the attention. All of that drinking led to the highlight of the evening, when the Bacardi Girls started dancing on top of the bar, pouring more shots down the throats of drunk, horny service industry schlubs. Then came the moment that turned this modest shindig into an event that probably gave Caligula an afterlife hard-on. Five gallon buckets of the swillish booze du jour were brought out and the Bacardi Girls, one by one, removed the black shorts they were wearing (they were wearing panties underneath), dipped said shorts into the vats of rum, and wrung them out into the open mouths of the assembled revilers. I couldn't believe they were doing that. I couldn't believe I was a witness to such debauchery. I couldn't believe how salty that fucking rum tasted.

Boe, always the casual observer, sat at our table and took in the scene with wide-eyed wonder. As I staggered back to the table, he was shaking his head forlornly. At first I thought he was pissed at me, until he told me to look to my right. There he was, Uncle Bill, our designated driver, stumbling in our general direction, sloshed to his soul, wearing a pair of rum-soaked shorts on his head.

"Finish my drink," Boe said. "I'll have to drive home."

The party was almost over but we now had a dilemma. Boe hadn't drank nearly as much as our defrocked designated driver Uncle Bill, but he did have a few and needed a little time to get completely sober. Luckily, a sweet Bacardi Girl brought in all the way from South Carolina told us about the afterparty at a nearby bar. We went, Boe drank water, I switched to bourbon, Uncle Bill passed out, and the Bacardi Girls, free of their corporate shackles, took their tops off for a minute or two.

All was well with the world until I got home and realized I had to be at work in three and a half hours.