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Michael considered fate at 20:07   |   Permalink   |   Post a Comment
Saturday was, well, mostly a blur. In true substance-abuse fashion, a birthday boy was found who considered Edward 40 Hands to be a perfect replacement for the too-tame pin the tail on the donkey, and thus it was made so. Procurement of Colt 45 (trivia fact: brewed by Pabst Brewing Company) commenced at 7pm with a quick trip to the marche.

After a sidetrip to the local grease-dive for a well-considered base of frenchfries the true event got underway. A total of three brave souls believed this 8% malt liquor to be a reasonable boisson for this drinking fiesta (studies have shown malt liquor to be favored by homeless and unemployed drinkers) and so without much further ado, the bottles were strapped to the participants.



With antsy anticipation the first few drinks were taken and, while it is a tasty beverage, the tension rose with each subsequent hoppy gulp. The birthday boy was by far the early leader, bursting from the gate with what little was left of his child-like enthusiasm for all things innane, pointless, and perhaps debillatating. The others sat by, thoughtfully sipping, while the bboy quaffed in large doses.

Other than my own one-time puke-burp right at the end of the first bottle due to excessive consumption speeds (at that point I realized there was pee-urge building and things were not looking good so I was pushing up the schedule a bit) I was fine...... other than being basically useless and unawares of my own name by the end of the night. Apparently my roommate got up in the middle of the night to find an unattended pot of boiling pasta and nobody was around, including me who, it was noted, was not passed out in bed. I'm convinced it was somebody else's midnight snake if only because another roommate witnessed me coming home thirty minutes after the pasta incident. I truly can't imagine leaving my apartment to go back out into the rain after managing to get home and begin a dinner making session (of which I remember none of).

Anyway, I remember almost finishing off the last of the second bottle before finally giving in and tearing them both off in a fit of intense rage as I stood in the cramped bathroom in what one would call no less than "child-like glee" at the thought of forcing large quantities of urine through my urethra. After that there was a number of experiences which left me feeling as though life had juggled me in the air, split into three pieces, and sent me spinning into the night. Eventually I took off from the birthday boy's house in one of those moments of premonition where the old indian knows he is dying and thus slinks off to do so alone.. at which point I think I just went home. I do have a vivid recollection of walking in the general direction of my house and I do have a roommate-witness who saw me coming home in what he described as a "lucid state".

Who knew two 40s could devastate one to such levels? I guess it should have been obvious. The true problem arises from the fact that there was pressure to finish by 9:30 in order to arrive at a pre-determined bar, a truly impossible feat which we nonetheless pushed for and let's think about it.. 2 colt 45s? That's roughly 6 and half 8% beers, or 10 and a half normal beers. TEN BEERS in TWO HOURS??! What were we thinking?

Anyhow, I survived. I felt surprisingly well after getting up on Sunday, ate six strips of bacon and three fried eggs just to be sure, and called it a weekend well done but I will nevertheless not be performing any circus-like acts in the vein of Edward 40 Hands anytime soon.


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