Why Drinking Is Bad For You
folder
Final Fantasy VII › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
4
Views:
834
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Final Fantasy VII › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
4
Views:
834
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Final Fantasy VII, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Why Drinking Is Bad For You
Why Drinking Is Bad For You
A Parody Fanfic by Kissy-Chan
Disclaimer: I don’t own ANYTHING FFVII, Southern Comfort, Budweiser, Jaegermeister, or a bong. I also don’t own a cemetery plot, a house, or a DeLorean,
I wrote these under the influence of caffeine pills and a profound lack of sleep. Consider this a group of cautionary tales, told to warn of the dangers of drinking and drug use. Having said that, pour yourself a finger or five of Southern Comfort, fire up the bong, and pull up a patch of floor and listen.
Part 1: How the Valewind Originated
See Cid order a Bud. See Cid drink said beer. See Cid belch thunderously. See Cid order another beer. Rinse. Repeat. Not the most intelligent thing in the world, to drink until you are blind, buuuut…our hero Cid is doing just that. And now, witness how too many beers can cloud one’s judgment.
One beer:
Our moron—ahem, I mean hero—orders a beer, and glances over to his right. A moderately pretty, bespectacled woman sits next to him, nursing a wine spritzer. “Hey, Darlin’. I’m Cid…what’s yer name?”
“Umm…Shera.”
Cid is beginning to feel a slight warm feeling in the pit of his belly. The alcohol is working! “Hey, Ummshera. Nice ta meetcha.”
Shera smiles at our hero. “Likewise.”
Now the casual conversation commences, and Cid asks Shera if she’d like to quit the bar and get a cup of coffee. She agrees. SCORE! Cid manages to get a date with a reasonably hot lady, and not a troglodyte. Ergo: One beer = Cid gets laid.
Four beers:
Now, let’s say Shera wasn’t there. Cid orders another beer. And another. And another. His motor functions are still…well, functioning, but his mouth is beginning to loosen up. He looks over to his left, and spots another really pretty girl, a blonde, and this one in a suit. He buys the blonde a drink. “Hiya! I’m Cid. Who’re you?”
The blond wants nothing to do with our hero, and gives him the cold shoulder. “Elena,” she says, noncommittally.
“So…ahhh…yer a Turk, huh? I’m a captain!”
Elena wants nothing to do with the guy next to her because he smells like an old ashtray. “How nice for you.”
“I have my own dirigible*, an’ I named it after myself!”
Elena frowns at our soon-to-be-on-his-ass hero. “You have a…what?”
Cid shrugs. “A dirigible. My airship…it’s a dirigible.”
“Are you drunk?”
“NO! It’s called a fuckin’ dirigible. A dirigible!”
Elena begins to slide her barstool away from Cid. “Really…well—oh my! Look at the time!” Elena glances at her naked wrist and makes a mad dash for the exit, and leaves Cid crying into his beer. Ergo: Four beers = just enough thought process to know when you’ve been snubbed, and no poontang, either.
Eight beers:
Hokay! After being snubbed by the pretty Turk, our hero decides to drown his sorrows in more beer…erm, not exactly the right thing to do at this point, but he believes that if you’re gonna do something, you’re gonna go whole hog. After eight beers, Cid’s motor skills are sorely lacking, and he’s having problems seeing straight. It’s a good thing that the bartender is stacked; otherwise our drunken hero would have nothing to focus his dimmed vision on. And what else does a horny drunk have to do when everyone else has turned him down? He hits on the pretty barmaid!
Cid leers at the bartender. “Heeeey, Sweetbuns! Gimme another fuckin’ beer!”
Tifa, the barmaid (like you didn’t see that coming) rolls her eyes and draws another pint. She knows that once bleary eye contact was made, the drunken idiot on the other side of the bar would leer at her body until she threw him out. She slides the pint to our resident drunken jackass, and watches him drop his head in his palm. He drools a little down his arm, and addresses her breasts.
“Sooo…what’re you and the twins doin’ after ya close the place down?”
Tifa ignores the fuckstick leering at her breasts. She’s used to it. It’s not her fault that she has big bazongas. Since she works in a bar, she figures they ensure bigger tips. Anyway, she is getting rather miffed at the jerk.
“With you? Nothing, Cid.”
He snickers and reaches out to grab her boobs. “Honk!” he says. Stupid man. Ergo: Eight beers = a very irate Level 99 barmaid and a broken jaw…and still no lovin’ for our ignoramus…erm, hero.
Fifteen beers:
Thank God for the Fullcure materia and Elixirs. After Cid’s shattered jaw mends itself, he gets down to business, and downs enough beer to take out a moose. Meh…if it weren’t for the barstool, our brain-dead hero would be on the floor. One hour before last call, a beautiful girl walks into the bar. Woo-hoo! Pay dirt! She sits at the bar and orders a Screaming Orgasm, and notices a very, very drunk Dragoon smirking at her.
She shakes her head. “What do you want?”
Cid grins vapidly “Heeeey, Aerith. I got me an airship.”
Aerith rolls her eyes. “I know, Cid.”
He downs his fifteenth pint. “Heh-heh-heh…wanna go fer a ride on the Highwind?”
Aerith blinks, and frowns distractedly. “Don’t you mean in the Highwind?”
Cid leers at Aerith, and shrugs. “Whatever, Baby Doll.”
Tifa rolls her eyes, and motions Aerith to come closer, and she whispers in her ear. After explaining what Cid meant, Aerith gasps and glances at Cid. Cid doesn’t mind, as she is pretty weak. Her punch won’t break his jaw. He wonders what she is going to do, when she powers up a Bolt 3. Before oblivion, Cid says to himself: Oh, yeah. She’s a mage…forgot about that, then Aerith renders him into a pile of hot ash. Ergo: Fifteen beers = a very incensed mage (who should be dead at this point, but we digress) and a powdered Dragoon. Suffice to say, he isn’t getting any lovin’ like that.
Twenty beers:
Well, Tifa casts Angel Whisper on Cid…not because she feels sorry for him, but because hot ash is a bitch to clean off hardwood floors. She prepares to close down the Seventh Heaven, when one more client saunters in. Because he’s feeling really dry (really dry, he wonders why his throat feels like ash), Cid downs a few more pints. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? The brunette in red sits down at the bar next to him and orders a Shirley Temple. Cid can’t see straight at this point, but he can tell that the beauty sitting next to him will be the one who goes home with him tonight. He slings an arm around the brunette’s shoulder, and wafts beer fumes in her direction.
“Hey, lady…yer purty! Lemme buy ya a drink, Gorgeous!”
Vincent taps his forefingers together, blushes, and looks at Tifa and Aerith. “What do I do?” he says.
“Accept graciously,” said Nanaki, who was, for some unknown reason, at the bar and lapping Jaegermeister from a large bowl, and trying not to burst out laughing.
Owari, for now! God, that was fairly weird. The weirdness will continue in our next episode, Fun With Hypers!
*DIRIGIBLE is pronounced duh-RIH-jeh-bull. Say it sober, and you still sound drunk.
A Parody Fanfic by Kissy-Chan
Disclaimer: I don’t own ANYTHING FFVII, Southern Comfort, Budweiser, Jaegermeister, or a bong. I also don’t own a cemetery plot, a house, or a DeLorean,
I wrote these under the influence of caffeine pills and a profound lack of sleep. Consider this a group of cautionary tales, told to warn of the dangers of drinking and drug use. Having said that, pour yourself a finger or five of Southern Comfort, fire up the bong, and pull up a patch of floor and listen.
Part 1: How the Valewind Originated
See Cid order a Bud. See Cid drink said beer. See Cid belch thunderously. See Cid order another beer. Rinse. Repeat. Not the most intelligent thing in the world, to drink until you are blind, buuuut…our hero Cid is doing just that. And now, witness how too many beers can cloud one’s judgment.
One beer:
Our moron—ahem, I mean hero—orders a beer, and glances over to his right. A moderately pretty, bespectacled woman sits next to him, nursing a wine spritzer. “Hey, Darlin’. I’m Cid…what’s yer name?”
“Umm…Shera.”
Cid is beginning to feel a slight warm feeling in the pit of his belly. The alcohol is working! “Hey, Ummshera. Nice ta meetcha.”
Shera smiles at our hero. “Likewise.”
Now the casual conversation commences, and Cid asks Shera if she’d like to quit the bar and get a cup of coffee. She agrees. SCORE! Cid manages to get a date with a reasonably hot lady, and not a troglodyte. Ergo: One beer = Cid gets laid.
Four beers:
Now, let’s say Shera wasn’t there. Cid orders another beer. And another. And another. His motor functions are still…well, functioning, but his mouth is beginning to loosen up. He looks over to his left, and spots another really pretty girl, a blonde, and this one in a suit. He buys the blonde a drink. “Hiya! I’m Cid. Who’re you?”
The blond wants nothing to do with our hero, and gives him the cold shoulder. “Elena,” she says, noncommittally.
“So…ahhh…yer a Turk, huh? I’m a captain!”
Elena wants nothing to do with the guy next to her because he smells like an old ashtray. “How nice for you.”
“I have my own dirigible*, an’ I named it after myself!”
Elena frowns at our soon-to-be-on-his-ass hero. “You have a…what?”
Cid shrugs. “A dirigible. My airship…it’s a dirigible.”
“Are you drunk?”
“NO! It’s called a fuckin’ dirigible. A dirigible!”
Elena begins to slide her barstool away from Cid. “Really…well—oh my! Look at the time!” Elena glances at her naked wrist and makes a mad dash for the exit, and leaves Cid crying into his beer. Ergo: Four beers = just enough thought process to know when you’ve been snubbed, and no poontang, either.
Eight beers:
Hokay! After being snubbed by the pretty Turk, our hero decides to drown his sorrows in more beer…erm, not exactly the right thing to do at this point, but he believes that if you’re gonna do something, you’re gonna go whole hog. After eight beers, Cid’s motor skills are sorely lacking, and he’s having problems seeing straight. It’s a good thing that the bartender is stacked; otherwise our drunken hero would have nothing to focus his dimmed vision on. And what else does a horny drunk have to do when everyone else has turned him down? He hits on the pretty barmaid!
Cid leers at the bartender. “Heeeey, Sweetbuns! Gimme another fuckin’ beer!”
Tifa, the barmaid (like you didn’t see that coming) rolls her eyes and draws another pint. She knows that once bleary eye contact was made, the drunken idiot on the other side of the bar would leer at her body until she threw him out. She slides the pint to our resident drunken jackass, and watches him drop his head in his palm. He drools a little down his arm, and addresses her breasts.
“Sooo…what’re you and the twins doin’ after ya close the place down?”
Tifa ignores the fuckstick leering at her breasts. She’s used to it. It’s not her fault that she has big bazongas. Since she works in a bar, she figures they ensure bigger tips. Anyway, she is getting rather miffed at the jerk.
“With you? Nothing, Cid.”
He snickers and reaches out to grab her boobs. “Honk!” he says. Stupid man. Ergo: Eight beers = a very irate Level 99 barmaid and a broken jaw…and still no lovin’ for our ignoramus…erm, hero.
Fifteen beers:
Thank God for the Fullcure materia and Elixirs. After Cid’s shattered jaw mends itself, he gets down to business, and downs enough beer to take out a moose. Meh…if it weren’t for the barstool, our brain-dead hero would be on the floor. One hour before last call, a beautiful girl walks into the bar. Woo-hoo! Pay dirt! She sits at the bar and orders a Screaming Orgasm, and notices a very, very drunk Dragoon smirking at her.
She shakes her head. “What do you want?”
Cid grins vapidly “Heeeey, Aerith. I got me an airship.”
Aerith rolls her eyes. “I know, Cid.”
He downs his fifteenth pint. “Heh-heh-heh…wanna go fer a ride on the Highwind?”
Aerith blinks, and frowns distractedly. “Don’t you mean in the Highwind?”
Cid leers at Aerith, and shrugs. “Whatever, Baby Doll.”
Tifa rolls her eyes, and motions Aerith to come closer, and she whispers in her ear. After explaining what Cid meant, Aerith gasps and glances at Cid. Cid doesn’t mind, as she is pretty weak. Her punch won’t break his jaw. He wonders what she is going to do, when she powers up a Bolt 3. Before oblivion, Cid says to himself: Oh, yeah. She’s a mage…forgot about that, then Aerith renders him into a pile of hot ash. Ergo: Fifteen beers = a very incensed mage (who should be dead at this point, but we digress) and a powdered Dragoon. Suffice to say, he isn’t getting any lovin’ like that.
Twenty beers:
Well, Tifa casts Angel Whisper on Cid…not because she feels sorry for him, but because hot ash is a bitch to clean off hardwood floors. She prepares to close down the Seventh Heaven, when one more client saunters in. Because he’s feeling really dry (really dry, he wonders why his throat feels like ash), Cid downs a few more pints. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? The brunette in red sits down at the bar next to him and orders a Shirley Temple. Cid can’t see straight at this point, but he can tell that the beauty sitting next to him will be the one who goes home with him tonight. He slings an arm around the brunette’s shoulder, and wafts beer fumes in her direction.
“Hey, lady…yer purty! Lemme buy ya a drink, Gorgeous!”
Vincent taps his forefingers together, blushes, and looks at Tifa and Aerith. “What do I do?” he says.
“Accept graciously,” said Nanaki, who was, for some unknown reason, at the bar and lapping Jaegermeister from a large bowl, and trying not to burst out laughing.
Owari, for now! God, that was fairly weird. The weirdness will continue in our next episode, Fun With Hypers!
*DIRIGIBLE is pronounced duh-RIH-jeh-bull. Say it sober, and you still sound drunk.