Velociworld

Punch Drunk

Mentioning the Chatham Artillery Punch stirred some memories, and I am unabashed about sharing a few. I've spoken of my somersault off the deck, but here is a great story:

Someone, and I won't say who, brought his girlfriend, name of Crazy Alice, to one of my mother's Christmas parties. Now my mother dissected her parties, in that her social circle, the church, came from 7 to 9 or so, then she let us youngsters take over. This debacle was during the 7 to 9 event.

Crazy Alice cornered our current priest, Father S, in the kitchen. Befucked of the Artillery Punch, Alice decided our meek, mild mannered, CPA trained, post-nasal-drip priest was Da Bomb. As you could see from the living room, where everyone was congregated (ha), into the kitchen, where Alice and the Right Reverend were, it was quite the spectacle when Alice launched her tongue into the priest's mouth. And he, having had a few sips o' the Punch, did not rebut the argument.

We stood aghast. Father S's wife stood aghast. Judges and bishops stood aghast. I remember muttering "Bring it on" under my breath, but not so's my mom could hear it. Let's face it. The entire congregation of the church watched this sordid thing unfold. The black girls handling the buffet were covering their eyes, ashamed of this honky scene. The Father was in his collar, after all. Things chilled out when someone yelled "Hey Alice! Throwdown in the bedroom!" Okay. I made that part up. It was more of a collective hanging of the heads, nervous shuffling of the feet. I probably drew attention away with a well-timed fart, or a regurgitation of a chicken drummie. I forget, as I was befucked, too.

Consider this an anecdote, or a warning. The Punch will slay you if you are not of strong character. I've seen the mighty humbled, the insouciant obliterated. No one gets out alive after the Punch, so let us hold cameras, and rumour, in abeyance, if possible.