The Amsterdam Incident: When Drunk Logic Meets a Canal
There are levels to being lost. There’s “missed-a-turn” lost, and then there’s “Amsterdam-at-3-AM-after-twelve-Heinekens-and-a-space-cake” lost. This is a story about the latter.
Our hero, Dave, had one simple mission: get from the bar back to his hotel, a journey that Google Maps clocked at a breezy 12 minutes. But Dave had a better navigator: pure, uncut drunken confidence. He decided Google was for tourists and that he would use the stars and his “natural sense of direction” to guide him. The sky was cloudy and his natural sense of direction once led him into a women’s restroom at a funeral.
His first brilliant move was to declare that all canals flow toward his hotel. He began following one with the swagger of a modern-day Magellan, only to find himself in a dead-end alley facing a mural of Anne Frank DJing. Undeterred, he tried to ask a bicycle for directions. When it didn’t answer, he called it a "stuck-up piece of shit" and kicked its tire, stubbing his toe with such force that he briefly saw the face of God.
Defeated, he bought a kebab, not for sustenance, but to use as a compass. He believed the meat would naturally point north. It pointed at the ground. He ate his compass in three bites of shame.
Dave was eventually found at sunrise, asleep inside one of those giant wooden clog photo props, clutching a half-eaten stroopwafel and whispering, “The canals know.” He wasn’t just lost; he was a piece of performance art about the failure of the human spirit.
The Time a Guy Got Asked to Leave the Casino for Being Too Drunk
This guy wasn’t too drunk, he was casino-level drunk. There’s a difference. Too drunk is when you're pissing on a church fence and calling it baptism. Casino drunk is when you're slurring blackjack strategy at a Korean dealer and tipping her Hot Cheetos.
He had crushed five Jack and Cokes in under 90 minutes because he thought it was happy hour and was celebrating a $12 win on a digital craps machine. That’s not public intoxication. That’s momentum.
Around 1:47 AM, he apparently leaned too hard on the roulette table. It was less of a lean and more of a full-body swan dive. That’s when a security guard with the body of a retired powerlifter and the soul of a DMV clerk tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Sir, we need to speak with you.”
He tried to explain that he was in the middle of manifesting a jackpot and asked if he could puke now or later. No response. A second security guy arrived and used the word “voluntarily,” which he clearly took as a personal challenge. He then screamed “freedom of expression” as they dragged him out like a drunk toddler from a Chili’s birthday party.
According to witnesses, he left behind a $0.38 cash-out ticket. But he claimed he left with dignity. And that, dear reader, is technically priceless.
You know the story. She looks cute. She’s smiling and happy, getting a few drinks together. Take her home, and then, whoops!
Is it a coincidence that debauchery and the word debacle are very similar?