I was hanging out at a friend’s place after work last night, drinking beer, eating homemade zoo-sticks and discussing the merits of fidelity, when something totally poetic happened.
As I took the last sip of beer from my mug, my associate placed a mickey of vodka in front of me with a shot glass.
“All right,” he said in a funny voice of wavering confidence, “you’re taking a shot.”
“Like hell I am.”
“What? You’re not even going to have one shot?” he replied in semi-disbelief.
Shrewdly, I relented. “Fine then. You first though.”
Generally, I’m not one to start pulling shots on an empty stomach when I’m already half-corked. If I’d been offered anything more palatable than vodka, such as Jagermeister, Fireball or Sour Puss, maybe I’d have considered. Not this time though. I’m too old for this shit and I know what can happen.
“Okay,” he replied. “But then it’s your turn.”
“Oh for sure,” I said with a faint tone of sarcasm.
As he poured the 2oz shot, I could taste the vile liquor in my mouth.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers.”
He raised the glass to his lips, tilted his head back, and as quickly as the drink disappeared, his stomach convulsed. Pasty green vomit surged out of his mouth onto his white shirt, pants and couch. There was a short pause. He looked down at the mess, then up at me. And then…another. This time he kept it in his mouth, eyes bulging and cheeks half inflated. As I burst out laughing, he jumped from the sofa and rushed to the toilet for refuge.
“That doesn’t count,” I yelled to him as he heaved.
“I guess not,” he croaked, hacking and spitting.
In that disgraceful moment of truth and pain, I couldn’t have been more delighted. But I also recognized that mixing uncertainty with hard alcohol and fried zucchini can, and often times will, result in puke stains on your furniture, clothes and credibility.
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