Tuesday, October 20, 2009

take me home

Drinking is an important part of my life – this may have some bearing on why money is not as prevalent as it could be. But with great drinking comes the great responsibility of getting home, and unless you enjoy being in jail or driving your car off walls, you should hop in a cab.

From here, you will need:

Mister Evil Breakfast’s Guide to Catching a Taxi Home Because You Have Had Too Much To Drink And It Would Be Socially Irresponsible Not To Mention Totally Illegal For You To Drive Home In The State You're In (MEBGCTHBYHHTMTDAIWBSINTMTIFYTDHITSYI)


I have learnt that there are only two things you should ask your cab driver:
1. What time are you on until? and
2. Have you had a busy night?

Nothing else matters. I’m pretty sure cab drivers are all-consumed by their jobs, so it’s common sense to only talk about driving cabs. Don’t mention sport or music or whether he likes blondes or brunettes – if your conversation veers away from driving a taxi, he will lose interest and possibly crash and you’ll both die. It’s not like you talk to your friends about anything except their jobs, right?

Whenever I converse with my cabbie (about cab driving), I find myself putting on a bad Scottish accent. I have no idea why. I am not Scottish. I think it has something to do with me being drunk. So when I jump in and say, “Och laddie, tekmeholm!” (Please Mr Taxi-man, take me home), he will turn around and say, “Where are you from?” to which the reply (as above) will be, “Have you had a busy night?”

The downside of “being Scottish” is that you have to keep up your ruse until you’ve reached your destination as you don't want the driver to think you're taking the piss. The #1 rule of accents is that as soon as you put one on, you will receive a phone call and you’ll have to answer it in your accent. So if I ever answer your call with a stupid voice, it means I’m drunk and in a taxi.


I approach taxis like I approach haircuts – do whatever you have to do, don’t ask me questions about it. I can’t see my hair, so I don’t really care how it looks; and I’m in a cab because I can’t get home myself. I’ll trust a hairdresser not to fuck up my ‘do, so I’ll trust a driver not to take me to Adelaide. Don’t ask me which road I want to take, I really don’t know the best way home - I am blind drunk and Scottish, and obviously not from around here.

Don’t forget to stop into 24-hour Drive-Thru McDonalds on the way - you need your cheeseburgers, and you should be nice and offer one to the driver as well.


Yes yes yes, a twenty-minute drive home has somehow cost this driver a whole tank’s worth of petrol. Just pay the man and shut up.

Even though you’ve given your driver a cheeseburger, it was considered a gift and he will not accept that as partial payment for the drive home, especially since you had to drive in the opposite direction to go to McDonalds and then spent another ten minutes in the Drive-Thru lane asking him, “Have you had a busy night?” in a Scottish accent.

Take the safe option and catch a cab home


Anonymous said...

Your ruse would be up if you ordered a regular cheeseburger: a true Scotsman would ask for the entire thing to be deep-fried before consumption.

Anonymous said...

Hey kennt!

Anonymous said...

Was the driver of that car perchance a Chocolate Wheaten? It would at least explain why he or she ended up in the lounge room.