Making Flippy Floppy

You just never know what you'll see during a trip to the inner bowels of Hagadonia. Last Sunday, Q and I had the Karaoke itch, as happens from time to time, so we polished off a bottle of cherry vodka and marched down to the Shore Lounge. CDA Karaoke Queen Tequila Leah was in full effect, and the place wasn't quite packed, but there were a lot of people floating around. We joined some friends at a table and I ordered an enormously tall mug of Kokanee for a mere $5, quite a bargain for a Resort establishment. We were just settling into a rather screechy rendition of (I think) a Fleetwood Mac hit when suddenly a full cocktail flew across the room and smashed to bits somewhere near the stage. We looked over to see a not-so-petite brunette girl with her claws firmly entrenched in the blonde hairdo of another girl. They fell, knocking over several tables full of drinks in the process, and began speaking to each other in tongues that young ladies aren't supposed to know. Some dude shouted the obvious: "Catfight!" as hunks of blonde teased hair landed hither and yon (see pic). For some reason, drunk guys began piling up on top of these girls, either to get them to stop fighting, or out of some kind of fetish, I'm not sure. The house lights came up as the brunette stood up and spit something out of her mouth. "My fucking finger!" the blonde screeched from the floor as the brunette quickly gathered herself, pat down her hair, grabbed her purse and got the hell out of dodge, pronto. We realized that the object we saw the brunette eject so daintily from her mouth and sent flying in front of our faces was a small portion of the blonde's fingertip! The funny thing is, no one chased the brunette at all, she just took off and was probably home having her bedtime toast and tea before the slow-as-molasses Resort Security guy even decided to meander in from his eternal coffee break. He ushered the fingertip-less blonde crying and bleeding out into the lobby as CDA's finest in blue showed up to shine flashlights in our drunken faces, as if somehow we were indirectly responsible for the whole smash-up. She was still out there blubbering to the cops when we left over an hour later. The house lights eventually dimmed again and karaoke continued on. Somehow the whole catfight scene put everyone in the lounge in a bit of a crazy mood for the rest of the night. When one of their party hit the stage and began moaning George Michael's "I Want Your Sex", the previously sedate businessman-types sitting behind us hit the dancefloor and began prancing around like she-cats in heat, full-grown men acting like disco divas. We laughed and blamed it on too much booze, but when they returned to their table they began hitting on everyone at our table and offering to buy us drinks. Naturally, we politely accepted their offer before telling them to piss off. Much of the rest of the night is a blur, and the next morning when I got up painfully early for work, I discovered that I had left the oven pre-heating all-night and on the counter sat a now-soggy tray of frozen french fries that never made it in to said oven. I had started to cure a munchie attack then promptly forgot, going directly to bed instead. Bad, bad, bad...