By Hour Three…
We had run entirely out of Kaluha, and I was bleeding pretty bad from my wrist. I wasn’t sure which was the worse problem. On one hand, I had somehow smashed a glass over my own hand and missed any serious damage, and on the other hand we were running desperately low on White Russians. Preston was keeled over and slurring; Dan was wondering how to get his brassiere off. The night had descended into a debaucherous cartoon stupor; what would three grown men do when given nothing but Girl Drinks for six straight hours?
The Beginning.
It had begun innocently enough. There we were; with two handles of premium vodka, two bottles of Kaluha, three packs of cigarettes (of discerning brands), four different types of fruit juice, a bottle of Apple Schnapps, a quarter of a bottle of Goldschlagger, the basic ingredients for a Bloody Mary, the extraneous ingredients for a Bloody Mary, a quart of cream, three Bic lighters, one bucket, and one towel. There were four of us that were to do this: Paul Jay, Dirty Preston, myself, and underground comedian Mister Dan Dominguez.
The little hand on the clock pointed to 9pm, and we started. No-one was to leave the apartment, except for to smoke a cigarette if needed on the back porch. I was to document all of this with my trusty Moleskine notepad. Sadly, the notepad was not to survive.
Scientifically, we wrote our name on four pieces of paper and pulled them out of Dan’s motorcycle helmet, one by one. In order to pick the drinks, I had gone to my bar of choice (the Cha Cha Lounge) and asked ten patrons (five women and five men) what they would consider “Girl” drinks, and what they would consider “Manly” drinks. Nearly all said that beer and whiskey were “manly”, while the “Girl” drinks ranged from Appletinis to Sex On The Beach to things I had no idea existed named “Pink Squirrels”. I narrowed it down to four drinks, with Bloody Mary’s – I thought – for the hangover the next day. Regardless, after the pulling of the names, had we stuck to the plan that night, Dan would have stuck to Appletinis, Preston would have stuck to Goldschlagger, Paul would have had to have stuck to White Russians, and I would’ve been relegated to Seabreeze Slammers. However after an hour of continuous drinking we decided – much against our own chagrin – to try other drinks. Now, as any person knows, mixing different types of alcohol is not just a bad idea but an idea frowned upon and shamed by much of Western society, and we were none the wiser. We were collectively the Lewis’s & Clark’s of womens beverages.
In Which We Drink.
The easiest to drink was the White Russians. You’d think it might have been the Seabreeze Slammers with their fruit juices and what not, but after four or five of those you start to get belligerent and slur. Trust me. I found out the hard way. Upon standing up to make my fifth drink I almost fell over onto the glass dining room table, nearly ending the entire night altogether. Instead, I broke the glass I was holding, and jabbed it into my own wrist. Thankfully, this was to be the end of the bloodshed for the night. But woe was for he who drank the Goldschlagger, for Preston, by his third drink, decided it was time to take to interpretive dancing. Sadly, no evidence of this exists, as we were all laughing as the throws of Sarah McLauchlan played over the speakers.
Paul decided he couldn’t handle it anymore – mostly due to the Sarah McLauchlan – and (un)ceremoniously bowed out. This left Dan and Preston to wax philosophically about how easy it was to be a girl.
“They get all the best parking spots, and if they’re cute enough, they could shoplift”, exclaimed Preston.
“But what about dating?” I said. This turned the entire conversation around, and everything descended into hems and haws of all colors.
“They have all the god damn power in relationships”, said Preston “And that’s, you know, haha, pretty cool, I guess… it’s a good thing, because if guys controlled relationships we’d settle fights by kicking eachother in the genitals – man or woman – it’d be all out war”. He was unsure of the validity of what he had just said. Dan, on the other hand, had his girlfriend in the room, although he did not tread lightly.
“I totally fucking disagree”, he slurred, “Chicks are nothing but heartbreak. It’s like “Hey I’m A Pretty Girl” and then yer FUCKED”. He screamed the last part a lot louder than he had intended. This caused his girlfriend to retreat into her room. He entered to try and calm her, and emerged five minutes later wearing one of her brassieres.
“You can’t win all the fights”, he mumbled aloud. Nobody asked about the brassiere the rest of the night. We all took a shot of Goldschlagger ceremoniously. It was barely midnight, and we were totally over the line drunk. Dan – for whatever reason – had a breathalyzer, that he’d won in a card game from a cop in Reno. Preston blew a .15. I blew a .14. Dan blew a whopping .20, more than twice the legal limit. It goes without saying that getting in a car at that point would have been a stupid, stupid, stupid idea.
It was at this point we decided to watch the movie “Twilight”, the story of two young vampires or one of them isn’t a vampire, one of them is apparently gay and looks British, it’s all very weird, I don’t know, I couldn’t stop laughing at how bad it was. It’s really a terrible movie. That’s about all I remember. We must have all passed out before 1am. I woke up on the couch the next day with a hangover the size of Bolivia.
The Aftermath, and A Word To The Wise.
Hell, I lost my notes. This was supposed to be a scientific study in Girly Drinks, but quickly descended into full on drunken foolery. I’d kept track of near EVERYTHING… from how much alcohol was in each drink to what percentage, but in the course of the night my notes were ruined. At least one page was lit on fire by Dan, that I remember, because upon waking there was a Post It Note on my forehead saying “I’m sorry for setting some of your notes on fire – Dan”. What was the point of all this? Originally, it was to figure out what made “Girly Drinks” so appealing to those of the opposite sex.
My consensus? They get you absolutely shitfaced with the least amount of drinking possible. There are no bad aftertastes, no wrinkled faces. The alcohol goes down your throat with such ease that you almost forget you’re drinking alcohol, with the exception of the Goldschlager, which could tear the paint off a battleship if needed. I’m sure of that. That might have been used to help set the notes on fire.
It was such a huge change from the usual “beer and whiskey and gin” route that most men take in bars that it took us by complete and total surprise. Was it fun? You bet. Was it dangerous? No doubt. We kept drinking and without the “bite” that most alcohol has we became VERY drunk VERY fast. And then kept drinking, because even by hour two we were totally and utterly hosed.
Girly Drinks are very dangerous, and probably more complicated and stronger than what would be considered “manly” drinks. Use caution out there, fellas.
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