It’s anniversary week here at CJS. That’s right, this week we’re celebrating one year on the net and one year of wasting your time. We have some fun surprises this week so be sure to check in. But right now we’re going to start the celebrating the one way we know how, with alcohol! Though we may not want to celebrate with theses drinks since we asked you what your alcohol kryptonite is? What can you no longer drink? What did you O.D. on in college/high school/grade school that makes you want to ralph just thinking about it?
We’ll start with the CJS staff because we fear change. Then your responses will follow. And by the time it’s over, nobody will want to drink again. Bottoms up!
Lee S. Hart: To me whiskey is like a mistress. The beautiful brown body, the enticing aroma, and the, smooth taste, and the good ones are all Canadian or Irish. But there is always that one mistress that makes you sorry. The one you spend the night with only to wake up to find her gone, with your money and leaving you with a headache and a very bad feeling in your stomach. And the very thought of that night, even years later, conjures up the same memories and feelings and you’re sent rushing to the bathroom. For me, that mistress goes by the single name Jameson.
I first met this sultry dame on St. Patrick’s Day 2004, my hey-day of drinking, a mere month after putting down 21 drinks, 18 of which were shots, in a single night. A friend of mine brought her to my house. I grabbed one of those shot glasses that are like double shot glasses and proceeded to enjoy the night. A few hours, and several double shots later I was hanging my head off my 3rd Rock from the Sun style rooftop porch puking like Linda Blair sans the head spinning, that part came in the morning.
Well that morning came pretty fast, and I had to go to work. I was riding the bus at this point in my life. I was such a bad shape that I had to turn off my music and keep my head down on the seat. I still can’t believe I actually went to work. I may have still been drunk.
Now let’s travel ahead 3 years. St. Patrick’s Day again, we start doing Car Bombs and I’m thinking nothing of, mainly because I can’t taste the Jameson. I blacked out and woke at Dagger’s apartment. I spent the better part of the day there since every time I stood up I had to vomit. That cruel mistress left me again feeling miserable, dirty, and regretful. Damn you, you whore!
E Dagger: I thought about this question as I drove to work the other day and nearly threw up all over my dashboard. My memories of Southern Comfort are so strong and so vivid; I don’t even have to smell it to be instantly transported back to my pre-legal drinking days puking like an Army reservist injected with the newest test run of biological weaponry. SoCo was the first thing I ever drank (outside of mistakenly picking up that glass of vodka at my Uncle Mark’s wedding when I was 15), the first thing I ever ralphed up, and the first thing to ever give me a hangover.
For those reasons it always has a soft spot in my heart.
Of course, with that said, I’d also rather spend an eternity in hell than ever have to drink it again. My salivary glands are going positively insane right now just thinking about how sickly sweet this faux-whiskey is and how, more than any other liquor, it stays on your breath post-vomit like gum on the bottom of your shoe. After you’ve imbibed too much and refunded your liquor into the toilet (or onto the balcony below from the balcony above as I did once), SoCo has a built-in extra guilt mechanism that forces you to breathe its toxic fumes for at least a whole day afterward. As if you’re not feeling bad enough, you have to fight the urge to hurl every time you breathe in and are reminded of what an idiot you were for last night’s retarded binge.
I’ve drank this twice since I was 20, which was when I decided I never wanted to let Southern Comfort into my life again. Once was on my 22nd birthday where Deuce, noted sadist that he is, made me do a shot. I had to repeatedly slap myself in the face to get psyched up for it and still nearly booted all over the bar afterward. The second time was a year and a half later where, after taking it by mistake (our shots got mixed up and I was hammered), I stood over the toilet contemplating about whether or not to blow it, I was so weak from the crushing weight of my foul memories, I actually dropped my pint glass in the toilet by mistake. Yes, Southern Comfort actually worked like Kryptonite on me and caused me to lose strength.
Honorable mention goes to coconut rum, but not for any vomit-related reasons. This shit is only 48 proof, tastes like coconut (which, in turn, tastes like suntan lotion), is loaded with sugar and of all the liquors I’ve ever drank, causes the most brain-splitting hangover headache ever. Don’t ever drink coconut rum no matter how joyously festive the bottle looks. You’ll only end up miserable later.
Senor Limon: An honorable mention for this story has to go to Southern Comfort, like Dagger, and indeed most of our friends in High School, this was the preferred brown booze for underage alcohol abuse. Specifically, once when I was about 17 I chugged about 1/3 of a bottle of SoCo Black label at a party and subsequently passed out on Daggers bedroom floor after becoming unable to keep up with the movement on the Television screen as one of my friends was playing Grand Turismo. Sometime later, I vomited without waking up. Somehow, Although I can’t drink Southern Comfort anymore, I can at least tolerate to be around it.
The liquor that I simply cannot be around is Orange flavored Vodka, specifically Absolute Mandarin. I have drank the stuff on exactly one occasion in my life, and the resulting misery was more than enough to make me want to get sick and cry upon no more than a whiff of the artificial orange flavor. The incident occurred on a weeknight my freshman year of College. A friend had decided to come up for the night from back home, and since the only thing I had of consequence he next day was a Test in Psychology 101, which happens to be one of the easiest classes ever, Dagger and I decided to tie one on for the night, before our friend arrived, dragging some weird dude neither of us had met, Dagger and I spent about 45 minutes preparing for the 1 P.M. Test. We figured we would have more than enough time to be prepared. Our friend arrived, still under legal drinking age; all we had to drink was a sizable bottle of Absolute Mandarin. We decided screwdrivers would be the way to go. I remember very few things about the actual drinking that evening. All I know is that I had a lot of very stiff screwdrivers. Later on in the evening, struck by the drunk munchies, but confined to a College dorm with no kitchen to speak of, we had nothing to eat but goldfish crackers, and Chef Boyardee Meat ravioli, which would have to be cooked in a Styrofoam bowl in the microwave. I only specifically mention the food and liquor involved because everything from the Vodka, to the ravioli is orange in color, if not in flavor.
Before long, I started to sense that this particular night of drinking wasn’t destined to go my way, and started to attempt to soak up some of the booze with a large number of Goldfish crackers, I also put a bowl of Chef Boyardee in the microwave, and sat on the floor next to the Mini Fridge in Dagger’s dorm room and attempted to watch TV when the room started spinning. Years of seasoned problem drinking have taught me that room spins are the point of no return, and you’re better off just hurling and getting it over with instead of suffering an hour or so of not being able to focus as the world steadily turns into a pinwheel of unpleasantness until you are eventually unable to prevent being sick. This time, however I was 18 and still convinced that if I just didn’t move a muscle, somehow I would make it through the event. I failed after about three minutes of staring at a cooling bowl of canned ravioli as my stomach became increasingly upset at the ravioli smell in the room. By this point I was much too far gone to attempt to actually eat any of it. I sensed my impending gastrological revolt scant seconds before it was on its way, and ran
desperately to the bathroom, only to find it occupied by someone, I never found out who had locked the door. I turned left, attempted to throw up in the sink, but mainly missed and vomited a bright orange mixture of vodka, orange juice, and goldfish crackers in the general vicinity of Dagger’s sink, but mainly all over the counter, and his roommate’s shoes which were on the floor between the sink and the locked bathroom door.
After that I passed out in Dagger’s bed, somehow managing to crawl up to the top bunk. Dagger soon cried like a little girl that I stole his bed, and I half walked/was carried back to my dorm room. About five minutes after arriving in my own room, I needed to hurl again, but I didn’t have the fancy Suite style dorm room that Dagger did. There is nothing glamorous about barfing in a communal bathroom shared by a floor of 30+ dudes. I woke up just in time to take my 1 P.M. test with a truly unpleasant hangover. I managed to shower and brush my teeth before going to class, but I didn’t have time to eat anything, and in one of the worst turns of orange based luck in known history, the girl who was sitting behind me during the test was wearing some kind of floral orange scented perfume. I finished the 50 question test in approximately 15 minutes. A single minute longer and I probably would have thrown up all over my desk. I still managed a B on the test, and while I can still eat Goldfish crackers and drink screwdrivers, I am completely unable to bear the sight or smell of Orange Vodka, or Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli
While Hart only has a problem with one of whiskey, that’s not the case for Lady E.
Lady E: Whiskey! When I was a freshman in college I went with a friend to a fraternity formal in Wyoming. While I was there I decided that doing shots with a Wyoming football player was a great idea! So many shots of Jim and Jack and some Bacadri Limon that at shot 23 I decided to not quit just lose count… Fast forward to the next thing I remember, somehow I managed to get back to the dorm and was in the guy’s bathroom throwing up, and throwing up, and throwing up. We had to stop on the drive back to ft Collins so I could, you guessed it, throw up. I was hung over for days and now the smell of whiskey makes my mouth water in that, I am about to throw up, kind of way. I cannot even smell it on Daggers breath when he drinks it. I make him speak away from me.
A special nod to Flickerbock, the only person who replied who can longer drink malt liquor. To his credit, that seems like a great idea.
Flickerbock: When I was a freshman in college, my initial roommate in the dorms was a nice guy, but the two of us were not very compatible. At the semester, I switched roommates to an Air Force sophomore with a sweet spot for Jack Daniels. His favorite thing was taking a shot of Jack Dizzle out of what he referred to as “The Jesus Shot”. Basically it was a rocks glass. Meaning ridiculous. As a green drinker, whiskey was not my thing. As the semester moved forward, my love for whiskey became a lifelong relationship. One night, Mean Kid (as my now wife calls him) and I decided that we would get some 40′s of Mickey’s and some Jack Daniels, pop in Tombstone, and do the Tombstone challenge (a shot every time Doc Holliday does one). The night was set. I do know that I did not complete the challenge. Mean Kid did. Still, I had my Mickey’s to fill the time between shots of Jack. After consuming a college amount of both the liquors, I was drunk and happy. The next morning, I was the sickest I have ever been in my short drinking career. After that night, I could not even smell whiskey without the urge to vomit. While my love for whiskey has returned, I have yet to drink another drop of Mickey’s. Considering that I was a freshman in college at the time, there were countless opportunities to consume that malty goodness and I have refrained every time.
This past fall we were in Milwaukee for my grandparents’ 60th wedding anniversary. While we were there, my whole family headed to the Miller plant for the tour and samples. At one point in the tour, we came to the distribution center of the plant and there is a giant display that lights up panels showing the different beverages brewed there. As the tour guide went down the list of brews, a panel lit up with that familiar Mickey’s logo. I almost threw up. And this was before we even sampled Miller High Life.
Like Dagger and Limon, a few of our readers have trouble with more than one liquor.
Jitterrawks: The sad truth is that as I’ve gotten older, there are several things I can’t drink. It started with shots of tequila. I spent Spring Break of sophomore year in Cancun. There, I drank approximately two bottles of the stuff a day…by the middle of the week I needed two shots just to think clearly. Once I’d detoxed, my body realized what tequila does to my personality. I randomly punch people, and make out with others. As a form of self defense, whenever I take a shot of pure tequila, I can swallow it, then spit it right back out.
Then Jager was out of the question, as I would routinely show up at Dagger’s house after my radio show ended at midnight and do several shots to “catch up” with the party. This was never a good idea, and my body would threaten a mutiny whenever I downed a shot later in life.
Now, I feel old…I can’t drink well drinks. I can’t do straight up shots. Alas, I will survive, as there is still my Captain Morgan. As long as I can go into a party with him, I know life is still good.
Keithage: As far as liquors go I could never drink Tequila no matter the quality. I don’t think I’ve ever had a night that I had tequila where I didn’t wake up with a bloody fist and come to find out I was punching a monitor all office space style. The Alcohol I used to drink and can no longer imbibe is Everclear. When I first started drinking (back in 9th or 10th grade, I don’t really remember) my friend and I had one goal on our mind, to get shitfaced as quickly and easily as possible and logically the higher the alcohol content the quicker it would happen. We used no mixers and water as a chaser. Now after about a year of drinking this I discovered that you can get the same effect from drinking 100 proof SoCo instead of 180 proof Everclear and your throat doesn’t feel like its on fire for 20 minutes after a drink. Now some people will say that Everclear doesn’t have a smell, but I can attest that it does and it will make me hurl once I take a whiff. I’d much rather drink the SoCo that Dagger can no longer drink thank you very much.
Ah tequila. That brings us to our last response, and probably the most entertaining story we received this week.
Now I know this may seem like an obvious one, but understand that Tequila was once my drink of choice. Now I literally have an allergic reaction and vomit if I accidentally take a drink of something promised to be a daiquiri but with tequila added (that’s RUM ONLY you stupid bartenders!).
I went through high school attending my fair share of house parties and bonfires (bonfires are what people do when you grow up in Castle Rock). At these parties I fancied myself some a) Mickey’s Malt Liquor (only if in a 40 oz bottle covered by a brown sack and b) Jose Cuervo tequila. I could gracefully take down a good amount of tequila shots, chasing with the salt, lime, and of course, a swig of Mickey’s Malt Liquor.
Fast forward to my freshman year of college at CU Boulder. I had just pledged a sorority (which will go nameless, except to tell you it was known for it’s hot ladies with a tendency to party too hard and spend too much of Daddy’s money on recreational activities.) So here I am, several weeks into my first semester, trying desperately to fit in with these “cool chicks” in order to ensure my social calendar was filled for all 4 (make that 6) years of college. Each new pledge was given a “Big Sis” who was to introduce us into the ways of the sorority, which included a bit of hazing and drinking. My night came up to be “hazed” and although my fellow pledges were all made to drink heavily, their Big Sis was also on hand at their hazing event to ensure that the new pledge drank only enough to embarrass herself without ruining the reputation of the sorority. Unfortunately, this evening, my Big Sis got too drunk prior to meeting me and failed to show up to support me on. She had enlisted some fraternity boys to do the hazing. She had purchased a liter of Jose Cuervo and a hustler magazine, and instructed them: “Don’t leave her side until the tequila is gone.”
My night begins with a knock on my door. 6 frat boys have shown up with the aforementioned products. We chat for about 10 minutes, have a beer or two, and then I am instructed to read aloud the racy articles from the Hustler magazine. If at any point I giggle or smile, I am to take a shot of tequila. I am easily embarrassed, so I quickly put down the majority of the liter of tequila, and the memory becomes hazy. There soon occurs an event that my now husband (who happened to live in the dorms at this time and saw me in my condition) reminds me of often. Somehow I proceeded to find someone with a South Carolina Gamecocks hat (it says only “Cocks” on the hat), steal the hat, put it on, put a red lace bra ON TOP of my head (over my new Cocks hat) and run through the dorms shouting “I LOVE COCK.” (I still claim it was due to the pressure of the frat boys, but strangely at this point no one remembers seeing them around)
I wake some point the next afternoon, fairly sure I am in hell, wearing a strange mix of clothes (I apparently vomited all over my original items) and disoriented because I have awoken to find myself asleep inside of a garbage can. Yes, that is right, INSIDE of a garbage can. I proceed to get ill again and again, and as a good girl does, I call my mother, proclaim I am dying, and tell her I cannot live like this, may never recover and that I need her help.. Bless her soul; she drives to Boulder to help me recover. I am sure this was not her proudest moment as a mother. Over the next few days I remain in bed, pretty sure that I should have been taken to have my stomach pumped but overall thankful to be alive.
Needless to say, Jose Cuervo and I are no longer friends. At all.
Yeah waking up in a trash can is a pretty good way to stop you from drinking anything ever again. We hope you were able to keep everything down while reading this, and ready to join us in the rest of our anniversary celebration. We promise to only pop the champagne, and keep the beer flowing like wine.
In order to get your mind off the horrible drinks from above, and to look back at a more innocent time, we want you to tell us what your favorite video game of all time is. What conjures those fuzzy feelings when you think about it? Is it an NES classic? A new Xbox 360 gem? Hello Kitty: Island Adventure? Send your responses to firstname.lastname@example.org and we’ll put them up next week.
Dagger, Limon, & Hart
29 Mar 2009 CJS Staff