It all started just like any other regrettable college moment.
“Chug! Chug! Chug…”
I shouldn’t have panicked.
But I did. And ultimately, that is what did me in.
I had to figure out how many ounces I could drink without ruining my stomach, and honestly, I had never really tested the limits of how big of a bottle I could handle.
On the paper before me, I had one shot to impress the judges, and I didn’t want to blow it by claiming I could only drink 16 ounces. I mean, for all I knew, the next college-aged blockhead could come along and say they could drink 24 ounces of that Nectar of the Gods, and then where would I be? Out in the cold, that’s where–just a mere spectator in the crowd and not a competitor.
“No, I better go big or go home,” I mused to myself. “Surely no one else would be daring enough to put down 36 ounces…”
Mere milliseconds from dropping my scrap of folded-up paper into the submission box, and a wave of regret started to wash over me. In my gut I just knew that 36 wouldn’t be enough. Luckily I was quick enough, and was able to jerk my hand back just in the nick of time.
Hastily, I added 36 to the list of scratched-out numbers–along with 8, 16, & 24–and penciled in my final answer, the one that would indubitably get me a spot in the finals.
“Forty-four, baby. Forty-four ounces to freedom…”
“Ladies and gentlemen of Haymaker Hall, I present to you our 4 contestants, one–and only one–of whom will leave tonight with a $100 gift certificate, good at any business in downtown Manhattan (brought to you by the Little Apple Chamber of Commerce).”
“Wait just a minute. A gift certificate?!?” I screamed in my head.
I had been under the impression that the winner of the “What’s The Dumbest Dare You Would Do For $100” contest would be awarded…ya know…$100. As advertised.
Dammit, they had suckered me in with the lure of cash, and now here I was with a cold over-sized bottle, about to sacrifice my stomach, and for what? A lousy hundred dollars to spend at the lamest stores in this whole college town? Well, if this wasn’t the Banana Split Incident all over again, then I didn’t know what was.
“Welp, too late to back out now. I better go big or go home, amiright?” I told myself as I awaited to hear what type of stiff competition I would be up against.
“First, we have Dominick, who has dared himself to…shave his legs!”
What was this amateur hour? It sounded like to me that this dude was more just looking for an excuse to shave his legs. He definitely wasn’t going to beat me.
And I was right. The crowd of about 50 students gathered in the basement of Haymaker Hall barely even murmured when Dominick followed through on his threat to shave his gams.
…
“Second, we have The Gator, who has dared himself to…eat 3 worms!”
Okay, so despite The Gator being a good friend of mine, and despite the fact that eating worms was pretty nasty given our Western culture, I had no doubt that his paltry 3 worms wouldn’t threaten my shot at that certificate.
Or so I thought. Seeing that third worm get stuck in his Adam’s apple before coming back up and then going back down again? That was actually pretty disgusting. But still not enough to worry me.
…
“Third, we have Goofus the Doofus, who has dared himself to…bite the head off of a goldfish!”
“Hmmm, interesting…playing to the crowd I see. But still, no one gonna beat nasty l’il me…” In my head, I just knew that darn-near-worthless gift certificate would be going home with me that night.
However, a little bit of doubt started to creep into my head when I saw that he, too, had decided to “go big or go home,” on account of the 5-inch goldfish that the bastard had busted out to sacrifice to the gods of collegiate stupidity.
And for a split-second–the one where we all heard that decapitating “CRUNCH”–I was worried. But then what did that lightweight do? He spit it out! The fish wasn’t even in his mouth more than half a second. Hmmph! Even The Gator and his worms should have him beat.
…
“And last but not least, we have Floyd,1That’s a self-reference: Floyd is my alter ego. who had dared himself to…drink 44 ounces…”
I was pleased that our Emcee spotted me a dramatic pause, just long enough to lull the audience into a false sense of complacency.
“…OF [CENSORED]!”
You could actually hear a few audible gasps from the crowd, though those were pretty much drowned out by the much more numerous “WTF?!?”s…
“I think I’m going to be sick…” one girl bemoaned, as she watched me guzzle those 44 ounces down with the utmost of determination.
I, too, was starting to feel the same way. I knew that I liked to drink the stuff, but damn, Homie, after the first 10 ounces, this schitt wasn’t fun any more.
Nevertheless, I persisted. In hindsight, I probably could have quit after downing half the bottle; the crowd by then had more than enough appreciation for the evil genius behind my choice of, uh, “beverage.” I just didn’t know when to quit.
In fact, after I had nominally finished the bottle, I wanted to make dang sure nobody accused me of not finishing what I started: I found the nearest water fountain and diluted the disgusting dregs that remained in the bottle. And, in what turned out to be waaaay nastier than I had anticipated, I sucked that bottle dry.
I had come to shock the sh*t of the crowd, and guess what? Mission accomplished.
Sorta.
After all of that, the crowd decided (by the cruelly not-so-objective Applause-O-Meter), that 500 milliseconds of shock factor was more worthy of a $100 gift certificate than 3-5 minutes of watching a grown man slurp down [CENSORED]. Of course, they ended up awarding it to Doofus-Goofus No-Neck McJock Face–though I knew that they knew in their heart of hearts that I should have been its rightful owner…
“Always have an exit plan”…was the too-late advice that came to my mind mere moments after my shocking defeat. I hadn’t really thought about what would come after I had achieved this forgettable milestone in my young life.
Having all that in my system couldn’t have good been for business. It couldn’t have been good for anyone.
Now, the version that my Public Speaking 101 classmates got the following year would have you believe that this all had an edgy (i.e. “interesting”) ending, with me getting my stomach pumped in the Emergency Department. You know, as one tends to do when they desperately try to self-induce vomiting by micro-dosing rat poison.
But I’m not going to blow smoke up your butt: I’ve already been more than forthcoming about all my stupid trips to the ED. And this one wasn’t one of them.
No, instead, I did boring dumb things. Like non-stop sprinting for 90 minutes playing Ultimate Frisbee (no luck). Or sticking my entire fist down my throat (don’t believe everything you see on TV, kids). Or even having my racistly nick-named Vietnamese pal, Chong, punch me in the stomach a few times (no dice).
In the end, all that did was make really thirsty for some reason.
Ultimately, the “exit plan” for all that junk that went in one end of me was remarkably predictable, in that it just came out the other. Let’s just say that for the next day or so, that was some of the weirdest sh*t I had ever seen…
The point of the story is, just because you have the unique skill of being able to drink [CENSORED] and enjoy it, doesn’t mean you should attempt to drink copious amounts of it as part of some dorm Double Dare knock-off contest. And if you’re going to poison your body like that, you might as well do it with something fun and cheeky. Like gravy. Or cold hard liquor.
Wait, you thought I was talking about booze this whole time?2Of course you weren’t. That would have been too obvious. Nah man, it takes someone truly special to put away one whole big-ass bottle of Heinz Ketchup.
Content created on: 13/14 November 2021 (Sat/Sun)
Footnotes & References:
Leave a Reply