Greetings, fellow internettians. After a few months of reading this, I suggested to Neko and Walrus that I might have something to contribute, and get this, the fools believed me. So, story-time with Fizzgig commences now.
Early on in my freshman year at PCU, I still spent evening times with my hallmates more often than not (like ya do). One night in particular, there was a party with a decidedly sexual theme, and these hallmates decided, with inarguable logic, that it would be best to combine this event with alcohol. Now, being not so much a drinker at that point in my life, I had but a little, but one of my hallmates, we'll call him Mr. Potato Head, had quite a bit more. So much more, in fact, that another of my hallmates, we'll call him Yankee, was prompted to begin what would become the most memorable exchange of the evening:
Yankee: Potato, you're looking a little flushed...
Potato: WHaa?
Yankee: Your face is looking a little red.
Potato: /dabs finger on face, licks finger/ Doesn't taste red...
The moral of this story: If it ever starts to seem reasonable to taste your skin to determine color, put down the booze.
Showing posts with label booze. Show all posts
Showing posts with label booze. Show all posts
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Violet Abomination
Since moving to this town, it has been my (admittedly adopted) custom to host a board games evening every Tuesday. For a long while, the regular attendees were myself, my housemate Arisbe, and our friend Francis. All of us happen to share a love for absurdity, and one week, Arisbe announced that she had found something we would all enjoy that happened to happen on board game night: the Spike show "Deadliest Warrior".
As some of you may already know or have guessed, this show was a finely honed example of absurdity and violence. The premise is this: take two categories of famous warrior (say, Shaolin monk and Italian mobster) and get some 'experts' to come on the show, talk big, and demonstrate some of the preferred weaponry. Then they put their data into a magical computer simulator and decide the victor. Complete with 'reenactments' of the supposed fights.
All three of us are history buffs of one sort or another. We decided it must be watched. Francis declared that this would require hard liquor to numb the pain of stupid; he said he'd bring some.
The next games night, after a rousing game of something or other, we sat down in front of the telebi and turned the channel to Spike. Francis pulled out his backpack and brought forth two bottles: Scotch and something brilliantly purple and slightly disturbing.
The violet liquor was something Francis did not know; he'd gotten it out of an elderly relative's cabinet somewhere, and decided that if ever there was a time to find out, this was probably it. We each took a tiny swallow.
It tastes, if you will forgive the poetry, like some rose petals died in a vat of sugar water and then fermented.
Francis declared that he was going to pour it out, but I decided I liked the color of it. He let me keep it. Even now, it lives on top of the television. Right next to the duck.
As some of you may already know or have guessed, this show was a finely honed example of absurdity and violence. The premise is this: take two categories of famous warrior (say, Shaolin monk and Italian mobster) and get some 'experts' to come on the show, talk big, and demonstrate some of the preferred weaponry. Then they put their data into a magical computer simulator and decide the victor. Complete with 'reenactments' of the supposed fights.
All three of us are history buffs of one sort or another. We decided it must be watched. Francis declared that this would require hard liquor to numb the pain of stupid; he said he'd bring some.
The next games night, after a rousing game of something or other, we sat down in front of the telebi and turned the channel to Spike. Francis pulled out his backpack and brought forth two bottles: Scotch and something brilliantly purple and slightly disturbing.
The violet liquor was something Francis did not know; he'd gotten it out of an elderly relative's cabinet somewhere, and decided that if ever there was a time to find out, this was probably it. We each took a tiny swallow.
It tastes, if you will forgive the poetry, like some rose petals died in a vat of sugar water and then fermented.
Francis declared that he was going to pour it out, but I decided I liked the color of it. He let me keep it. Even now, it lives on top of the television. Right next to the duck.
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