The Liver Weeps...

The other night was a friend’s birthday, we’ll call her Chanth. Yes, Chanth will do nicely.
Anyway, a few of us went over for a mellow dinner and high powered and horribly offensive B.S. session. Chanth’s roomie, we’ll call her Leen, had decided to make her a birthday shot, something called a Disco Ball. She had found it in some goddamned book, Miss Charming’s Book of CRAZY Cocktails. "Over 200 Outrageous Drink Recipes to Turn Any Night into a Party." In reality it is full of a bunch of bullshit drinks christened with names that have little or nothing to do with what they are for the most part. How a bunch of sugary, vomit-inducing liquors combined in a martini glass and called a Tom Cruise are in any way related to anything, to any facet of Tom Cruise is beyond me.
Anyhoo, I’ll save the book review for another time (don’t hold your breath). The Disco Ball was a shot of Goldschlager thrown back with a mouthful of Pop Rocks. I admit I was intrigued but Leen only shoplifted 2 airplane bottles of the ‘Schlag so it was just gonna be her and Chanth. The drinks didn’t go down smooth. Chanth only dropped about half of her shot (she’s not much of a drinker) and the Pop Rocks were killing her, all watery eyes and exploding mouth. It didn’t look fun.
Eventually they got the cursed drinks down and I believe a vow was made to never make a Disco Ball again. Happy Birthday, next year we drink Draino!
I was in the mood so I told Leen to go into the kitchen and make me a dare shot with the tequila she had and whatever she had lying around. I know she has a cruel streak and I was feeling like being punished. I sucked Chanth’s boyfriend (BF) into my self-destructive tendencies and called for 2. Leen disappeared, no doubt dredging up a bunch of shit she probably had every right to hate me for but had never acted on. Now was her opportunity to exact her revenge. She disappeared for a few minutes, malicious giggles fluttering from the kitchen. She came back and handed me a shot glass filled with a dark, milky brown substance. BF’s shot was a milky white substance. I knew that sniffing the contents would present aromas that would more than likely hold me up from just drinking the cur’sed concoction. I figured she wouldn’t actually try to kill me. I was pretty confident that she didn’t have any ipecac in the house, so all this really would be was gross at best, revolting at worst.
I threw it back and was viciously kicked by:
A) cheap tequila
B) lots and lots of...MSG
Jesus, it sucked.
BF shot his and things teetered on vomit for a tense few minutes. He wasn’t as much of a team player as I had thought and looked as though this type of game was not something he was planning on partaking in ever again.
It’s hard for me to find friends who will destroy themselves with me in juvenile and disgusting ways.
After his eyes stopped watering and the pinched, puckered look of disgust and loathing left his face we were clued in by Leen as to what it was we had just swallowed.
I had tequila and a bullion cube–Maagi to be specific, for old times sake (oh Senegal, how we miss you at the strangest of times). Gross, sure, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Sure I wouldn’t order it in a bar but it sure beat lung butter and Crisco mixed with tequila.
BF on the other hand, and to everyone’s surprise, got the shitty end of the stick by group consensus. His was tequila and oyster juice. That is just rude. Once you start mixing fish products into drinks I think a serious and incredibly precise line has been crossed.
What I learned, I suppose, is that Leen doesn’t hate me as much as I thought she did, and that Chanth’s boyfriend has been leaving the toilet seat up or something of the sort to incur her wrath.
On a related note, back in August it was Leen’s birthday. Once again, alcohol was involved. We went out for buffalo wings then came back to the house to drink a box of PBR in cans (when you have a lot of guests, you gotta go cheap. I hide the good beer in the toilet tank when people come over). Someone... OK... I got the bright idea to shotgun the cans for "old times sake." Unfortunately the times were so old that no one really remembered how to do it.
Was it necessary to shake the can?
Did you just stab it and suck?
Did you have to pop the top on the can before the stabbing?
After?
Did it all shoot out or did you have to suck or squeeze the can?
The first thing we had to do was find the proper stabbing tools. I had a couple of screw drivers, a pocket knife and some thumbtacks. The tacks were deemed by all present as too small, so the screwdrivers and knife were selected.
People choose their own preferences. BF (OK, I suppose I take it back. He is a sport. He just hates oyster juice) opted to shake the can while the rest of us just went for the stab, open, and suck, squeeze, whatever technique.
It was not a graceful scene.
A handful of what some would refer to as adults (27-32) spraying beer all over the place and sucking it out of a hideous wound inflicted on an innocent can. We were like vampires at a Born Again Virgin Jamboree...? (Sorry. I suck at analogies.)
The beer did not, as we were expecting, come spraying out like a punctured artery. No, after the initial spray that covered everyone and everything it just dribbled down shirt-fronts and breasts and wasn’t all that eager to leave the cylindrical and asinine confines of the Tall Can (oh, the Tall, a harbinger of good times, bloody knuckles, and more often than not, a wicked hangover). We ended up having to squeeze them dry-ish. Strangely, with a hole popped in the bottom it was not that easy to get all of the beer out. I suppose we just got impatient at the suckling of the cans like tin teats, so they were thrown with great ceremony and fanfare over shoulders, and new beers were opened, the proper way, and nursed(ish) for the duration of the night.
This wasn’t really a new low, just an old low revisited. It’s funny how something that was so fun as a teen turns over the years into something so wasteful and ridiculous. You begin to realize later on down the road how much of being a teen was sheer spectacle, practiced or demonstrated to get just a little more attention from people who will later end up dead, in jail, or long forgotten.
Praise be to Allah that we never have to go through that disaster again.
But the night goes on, all drunk and lazy-eyed, and terrible things fall from mouths that were born innocent, imbued with hopes of greatness by parents who would shake their heads sadly if they were to witness this, us, all of it.