November 17th 1:55pm - Headphone Party

Noise ordinances agitate me. However, I'm twenty-three, not ninety-four. I'm unmarried and don't have thirteen children bounding around wreaking wreckage by choking on marbles and eating crayons.
Palolem's Silent Noise thwarted the midnight noise curfew by implementing a silent disco, or headphone party.
Last weekend myself and nine others strengthened our destructive synergy with beer, Old Monk rum and Bagpiper whiskey. The females expounded our sexual prowess by donning droopy clothing. The males resembled middle-class-bums in shorts and t-shirts. By entrance time, we had attained beer goggles, or imaginary optical aids through which average-looking members of the opposite sex morph into supermodels. Playboy Bunnies rimmed us and Grecian gods ringed us.
We ordered drinks at the circular bamboo bar and whooped the shrieks of the bombed and blitzed. Brighton, a female Brit, absorbed four sips of her cocktail before stumbling to the bathroom and then upstairs. Her conversation capabilities resembled that of a drugged kitten.
She joined us on orange seat cushions, head lolling and limbs as insurgent as Che Guevara. We slung her silly putty arms around the shoulders of her boyfriend and Tarzan and they trucked her back to our guesthouse. Our consensus: her drink was slipped a date-rape drug. Manchester was with her while it must have happened. He endured jokes for a week about drugging her.
We pitched downstairs to the debaucherous dance floor, headphones strapped to our ears and arms monkey-flailing.
Two titan screens flanked the three DJs. Tarzan's girlfriend Jane and I used our ninja tactics and dodged past non-existent security to strategically position ourselves behind the screen. We performed a Sound of Music routine, our black silhouettes projected onto the shit-housed masses dancing to different songs.
The headphones boasted three stations to choose from: pure house music, electrotech, and filthy funk. A midget colored dot on the headphones illustrated which station we listened to. One listening to the green station rabbit-bounced while another on the red swayed, and yellow dirty-danced with anything moving in the vicinity mirroring anyone of the counter-sex.
Upon removing the headphones, thousands of voices mumbling, singing, or shouting to conflicting songs enticed the eardrums.
The next morning the ten of us convened and recounted varying degrees of rat-assed inebriation.
After many of us had retreated to the guesthouse with crossed eyes and sloshed babbles, Leeds asked Manchester to escort three girls back on his way home.
"Don't you worry, I won't molest you tonight. I have a girlfriend," he informed them, as serious as Hitler.
When Manchester returned to the beach hut he shared with Leeds, he raped his pockets for the room key but was as successful as my ballerina vocation while a pumpkin-shaped eight-year-old. He beat the door of the beach hut of the drugged girl and her boyfriend until they answered.
"It's okay with me if you have sex. I promise I won't watch. Have sex. I won't watch," he repeated like a three-year-old girl desiring a walking, talking, life-sized Barbie doll.
When Leeds returned, their room was locked and Manchester was as absent as my intoxicated what's-appropriate sensor. Leeds slept outside on a wooden beach lounge chair and awoke the next morning with a bite on his neck that looked like a blue whale had given him a hickey.
Manchester awoke with their room key around his neck.

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