Breathaliar - scribbles and lies
Jan. 4th, 2005
11:26 pm - Breathaliar
Went out with my boss and fellow (new) managers after work tonight to the Britannia Arms on De Anza, you know, kick back some pints and all that. We had a couple of rounds and because I didn't have much lunch or any dinner today, I could tell it was starting to affect me a little before the other guys. So N- says, "You better give me your keys for a bit, I think you're already getting drunk" and I said fuck that, I'm nowhere near drunk, it's just a warm glow.
Fortunately, they have a tester at the Arms, by the front door. COMPUTERIZED TALKING BREATH ANALYZER, it says on it. So I went over to it and put in a quarter and I leaned down and said "How are you doing?" at the sensor. And it said, "Your. Blood. Alcohol. Level. Is. Point. Oh. Four." Ha! "Level. Acceptable," the machine finished up.
So I went back to the table: "Point oh four. Acceptable!" I said. In your face! Then, before N- could raise any further comment, I bought another round. And R- bought one after that.
So then I was feeling a little warm and this time R- said, "You really should give someone your keys. It's definitely starting to affect you." And I said, fuck that noise, the machine will prove me right once again. So I went over and put a quarter in it and leaned down and said, "I am still totally fine to drive," into the sensor and it said, "Your. Blood. Alcohol. Level. Is. Point. Oh. Seven." Well, that was higher than I thought it would be, but still legal to drive. But then the machine continued: "You. Look. A. Little. Drunk. To. Me."
What? Bullshit! "No way," I said to the machine. "I'm totally fine!"
"Touch. Your. Nose. With. Each. Hand. While. Walking. Backwards," it suggested. Well, that was pretty easy to do: step, step, step, step. "See?" I said to the stupid machine.
It relented: "I. Guess. You're. Still. Okay."
I went back to the table. "It says I'm still okay," I announced, just as another round arrived. We put that down and another one and at that point I was definitely feelin' something. I felt real good, actually, but then J- gets all on my case again about giving someone the keys. So I went back to the machine and put a quarter in it and leaned down and said, "I can do this all night," and the machine said, "Your. Blood. Alcohol. Level. Is. Point. One. Five." That's impossible! I've only had... hm... Well, okay, it's been six rounds rounds or so but it's been over like the last two hours and I went and pissed once.
So I told the machine all of this, and it said, "Six. Rounds. In. Two. Hours? What. Kind. Of. Light. Weight. Pussy. Are. You?" Oh, very nice. Wiseass machine. Now it's *on*. Machine gettin' all in my face? No way. This machine is just screwing with me. It must be lying. That's it. "You fucking liar," I said to the machine. "I may be buzzed but no way is it that high."
The machine said, "You. Are. Drunk. And. I. Can. Prove. It."
"Go for it," I dared the little junk-box.
"I'll. Bet. You. Fifty. Bucks. You. Can't. Cross. The. Street. And. Back. Without. Getting. Hit. By. A. Car," it said, and just a little hint of a sneer entered its otherwise sterile voice.
Well, christ, I wasn't even going to need to go down to the crosswalk to win this bet; I could run back and forth across the street easy. Traffic was light. "You're on," I said.
"Show. Me. The. Money. First. Bitch," it said-- like I'm some sort of cheater who would welch on a bet or something! I wanted to slap the little asshole. Man, was I ever going to make it eat humble pie.
So I went back to the table. "Can someone lend me fifty bucks? I have a bet with the breath machine that I can cross the street and back. Easy money, boys. Next round's on me!"
After several long seconds, N- said, "Wait... You're making bar bets... with a coin-operated appliance? Jesus, Dan, how fucking drunk ARE you?"
And... well, when he put it that way, I couldn't really argue with him. So I gave 'em my keys.
For consideration: people already talk too much; why do we insist on making machines do it, too?