Are you planning on going to the beach for Labor Day? Cool. Plan on gettig rich at the Casino? You can drink at the tables now. Sea Lion caves? Cuteness. Four-wheeling? Even better. Anyway, we all know the real reason you go there. To booze it up. Hell, after the sun sets, that's all there is to do. I tend to feel sorry for the locals there because, well, look at them. But they sure can party. They don't call it Drincoln City for nothing. Keep one thing in mind, though...don't drink and drive. I'm not saying this because I support MADD or care if you kill yourself or any gay shit like that. It's because the cops are gunning for you, Flatlander. I should know.

So after about 20 too many vodkas and 3 threats from the bartender to stop playing "I drink alone" over and over, my friend Shellie and I hopped into the truck. We wanted to get back to our well-stocked motel room and finish the bedsheet fort we'd started. For the record, I wanted to walk, but she insisted on driving because she had everything but the kitchen sink in that truck. Unfortunately, cops were lurking nearby, keeping an eye on our non-local vehicle and anxiously awaiting our departure. They probably ran her plates while we were inside and found...oh God, way too much shit to list here. So we were prime for the picking. They lit us up and I yelled; "Hit it, Shellie!" Hey, we don't live there. "No, just shut up and I'll talk us out of it." Shellie's cute and a pro at manipulating men. But how alluring could she be after consuming a bottle of Crown? Well, her plan seemed better than mine, anyway. Maybe the cop won't notice she's driving with one eye closed so she can see straight. Drunk logic.

After watching her fail miserably at the Field Sobriety test (I only giggled a little, I swear), they decided to ignore her brownnosing and book her on a DUII. Our motel room was under 2 blocks away, so I figured I'd sleep it off and pick her up the next day. But whoa, whoa, whoa...they were telling ME to get out and assume the positon!

"How come?" I've never heard of this before. Shouldn't they stuff me in a taxi?

"You're going in too, Dear."

"Why? Our room's right there! Here's the key!"

"We can't have you roaming the streets drunk."

"ARE YOU SHITTING ME??!"

The 2 cops began searching us. One was youg and muscular. The other one was a scowling 300 pound whale with a Hitler moustache. Guess which one I got? "Aw man, how come I haved to get frisked by Shamu?" Intoxicaction always brings out my mature side. Shamu thanked me for that by zip-tying my wrists extra tight. Shellie was still clinging to the hope that, if she was sweet enough, they'd reconsider throwing the book at her. Even in my inebriated state, I harbored no such delusions. I didn't even get the good-looking cop.

They took us in and dumped us in neighboring cells. "How long do we have to stay?" I asked Studly. "Until you sober up." Oh, fuck. That was gonna take a while. And I was too mad to sleep.

"This is bullshit!" I'm great at making a bad situation worse. 

"Shut up in there."

"Fuck that! You wanted me here, now you can deal with me!"

"Jinx, chill." Shellie looked worried.

"What is this, Stockholm Syndrome? Look around you, it's a done deal. Quit kissing ass!" To Shamu: "We'd have offered you blow jobs if you weren't so fucking fat!"  Shellie looked ashen. Every gal should have a friend like me.

"Jinx, stop being a bitch!" Now we were starting to turn on each other.

"Why? What are they gonna do, put me in jail?"

"Sorry sir. She's drunk. Unlike me." She hastily added.

"Oh yeah, you're so not drunk you didn't notice me videotaping you going to the bathroom earlier."

"What?"

"You farted too."

"Oh my God! You'll show that to everybody!"

"That's the plan."

Shellie lunged at me through the bars. "I'll kill you!!" She was the one screaming now. Good thing they put us in separate cells. Wish I could go on, but the spins set in after that, and I was down for the count. Morning came and they released us with a "Thanks for playing" vibe. All we could do was trudge out hanging our heads, shoelaces in hand. The tourists who got popped.

As for Shellie, she has to keep returing to the coast to see her P.O. Which is very inconvenient because she lives in Portland, has a job, and can no longer drive herself. I should've realized she had enough problems already and my Linda Blair impersonation wasn't helping matters. Then again, I did want to walk instead...Eh, shit happens when you get wasted. So folks, unless you want this to be you, don't drink and drive at the coast. Shamu and Studly are waiting for you.

NOTE: I really wish I still had that video of Shartin' Shellie relieving herself in the cruddy bathroom. How funny would that be if I put it on YouTube and provided a link? But my phone "accidentaly" got smashed. So here's the number of a good DUII attorney instead.

Richard Morgan, DUII extraordinaire: 1-503-735-5785

Tell Shamu hi!