I don't normally give these a title but here it is: Drew and the Case of the Crocodilian Calamity
The fluorescent lights of the office beat down mercilessly on Monday morning, revealing every line-less botox'ed forehead, every under-eye dark circle begging for makeup, and every unfortunate life choice etched onto our weary faces. (Mother's Day weekends, right??)
But none bore the brunt of Monday's judgment quite like our dear, Drewsy. He shuffled in, a ghostly shade of green, looking like he'd wrestled a badger and the badger had won.
Now, Drew is usually a picture of caffeinated confidence. Give him a sip of coffee and you'd never know he's still half asleep. He's the guy who can talk you into believing that staplers are the future of fashion. But today, his charisma was MIA, replaced by a noticeable wobble and the distinct aroma of regret.
Naturally, the office vultures (well, me -- hello, I'm the Buff gossip columnist!) circled. "Rough weekend, Drew?" chirped Collin, his eyes gleaming with the predatory delight only a lightweight drinker can truly understand.
Drew, bless his cotton socks, attempted a weak smile. "Yeah, you could say that," he croaked, his voice sounding like gravel gargling with sadness. "Ended up getting some… bad food."
And that's where the story took a turn for the bizarre.
"Bad food?" Collin pressed, clearly sensing a juicy tale brewing like a pot of Buff coffee. "At your Mother's Day dinner? Is everybody sick? What did you eat?"
Cue Drew launching into a yarn so outlandish, so utterly improbable, it could only have been conceived by a man fueled by questionable tequila and a desperate desire to avoid admitting he'd had one too many margaritas -- AFTER Mother's Day dinner... at a bar.
"Crocodile," he declared, with the gravitas of a seasoned explorer recounting his latest jungle adventure. "I bought crocodile meat from a street vendor after the bar. Bad crocodile meat. Definitely bad."
Silence descended upon the brew crew. Quiet so deafening you could hear a stomach gurgle.
Crocodile? From a street vendor? After a night at (we won't name the bar)?
Now, we know Drew. He's a good guy, a hard worker and usually has his head screwed on straight. But crocodile? This was a bridge too far, even for our group's already high tolerance for eccentricity.
"Crocodile?" Collin finally managed, his eyebrows reaching for the ceiling -- which, that in and of itself, is a feat considering the botox paralysis of the forehead. "Drew, are you sure you weren't just… you know… feeling a little adventurous at (bar name here) and misremembering a particularly potent plate of nachos?"
Drew, however, was sticking to his story like glue. He elaborated on the alleged vendor, a shadowy figure lurking on a darkened sidewalk, peddling exotic meats of dubious origin. He described the texture of the crocodile – apparently, "a bit like chicken, but chewier... and possibly still alive." He even claimed he saw the vendor chasing away a rabid chihuahua with a suspiciously large spatula.
The skepticism in the room was palpable. The only one buying it was Brazilian Leo who, when he first saw a turtle in a pet store, believed it ate pizza, a la the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles because Collin told him with a straight face. (Again, the paralysis thing.)
The truth, of course, was far more prosaic. A little birdie (OK, it was Gabe) whispered that Drew had indeed enjoyed a spirited evening at (bar name here -- I'm not naming them, it wasn't their fault -- culminating in a karaoke rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody." The subsequent "food poisoning" was, in all likelihood, a direct result of too much tequila and a desperate attempt to cover his tracks.
But here's the thing: we love Drew. And while his crocodile story is almost certainly a fabrication, it's a glorious, hilarious fabrication that has brightened our otherwise dreary Monday... after a weekend where our nagging mother's did their best to remind us how much we owe them.
So, here's to you, Drewsy. May your crocodile vendor forever evade the health inspectors and may your future attempts to disguise your overindulgence be equally entertaining. (I've got a gossip column to write!) And next time, maybe just blame it on the nachos. It's slightly more believable. Just slightly.