Saturday, August 6, 2011
Four Alcoholic Beverages I Drank In College That I Have No Business Drinking Now (Part 2)
IRISH CAR BOMBS
College Me: "Damn! This tastes just like a milkshake!"
My GOD, Irish car bombs are tasty! And there's something about the ritual of making them that just says "Boy, are you gonna be fucked up." It's a bit pricey to go out and buy a six-pack of Guinness as well as a bottle of Bailey's and another of Jameson's. Generally I need a few people to pitch in, but, hey, once that's done, instant motherfuckin party.
Usually we just sit around the coffee table with all the equipment handy for making these dreamy concoctions. Pint glasses, shot glasses and about fifteen fucking rolls of paper towels, 'cause after awhile, this shit gets messy. I can mix the Jameson's and Bailey's about half and half in the shot glass for the first five or so car bombs. I also have no trouble dropping said shot glass directly into eight ounces of Guinness. After those first five, though, I start to have a bit of trouble. I'm not the only one, though. I look around the table and see people carefully constructing what was so easy just an hour ago. Folks have their faces almost touching the table as they goggle at the junction of shot glass and liquor bottle. They slowly start raising the bottom end of the bottle, gently tipping it up hoping for a trickle of sweet, alcoholic bliss to slide into their glass. The higher the end of the bottle goes, the slower the actions become. It looks like they're handling nitroglycerin. Eventually, the liquor comes slopping out at a totally unexpected speed, drenching the carefully concentrating face of whoever was making the drink. We roar with laughter. Eventually the poor wet bastard gets his shot glass in the vicinity of his beer, then drops it straight on the table and pounds the Guinness down as Bailey's and Jameson's go splashing all over the place.
It's so worth it, though. Being drunk on Irish car bombs is like being inebriated with God's love. The only real problem is that, when you wake up the next afternoon, God's love has pretty much coated everything in the apartment. All objects are stuck to other objects with a now-heinous and foul-smelling mixture of Guinness beer, Bailey's Irish Cream, Jameson's Irish whiskey and, if you've done it right, vomit. I have to imagine this is how actual Irish people wake up every day.
We haven't yet found a cleaning agent that will cut through this substance. We figured out an easy way around it, though. We only have Irish car bomb parties right before someone moves out of their apartment. That way it's the landlord's fucking problem.
Current Me: "Damn! This tastes just like a milkshake! Where the fuck am I?"
The last time I had Irish car bombs as an adult, I was in public. This turned out to be a mistake. A friend and I were going to go Christmas shopping and we decided we needed at least a moderate buzz before we braved the throngs of rabid assholes at the mall. As we quickly learned, "moderate buzz" and "Irish car bombs" go together about as well as cotton candy and dick. It didn't work out. But it didn't work out spectacularly, kind of like the space shuttle Challenger didn't work out.
We started this disaster at 4 in the afternoon at one of our favorite bars. All the bartenders knew us and liked us. Which made it all the more uncomfortable when they had to cut us off at 7 o clock. I mean, I suppose it was uncomfortable. I certainly don't remember. My friend (let's call him Randy) has no recollection either. We were told later that, as soon as we were cut off, we began calling other friends to come pick us up and take us to another bar. Eventually, some stupid fucker did. I wish I could remember who it was because I'd kick his ass. I have no idea why he took us to the next bar instead of handcuffing us to each other and taking us home.
Alas, we ended up at another of our favorite haunts. It almost became a literal haunt because we damn near Irish car bombed ourselves to death. I have to imagine that, had we died there, our spirits would still be struggling on the sticky floor even now.
We remember exactly nothing about our activities at the second bar. We became so disgustingly intoxicated there that, to this day, Irish car bombs are banned from the premises. They won't serve them to anyone because of us. They cut us off, forced us to leave and called us a cab. The bouncer had to actually carry Randy's drunk ass out to the curb. When the cab pulled up, we were so visibly fucked up that the driver took one look at us and drove off. A cab. Refused to take us. I just kept telling the bouncer to put Randy in my truck and I'd get us home. I didn't own a truck. And, honestly, maybe I shouldn't have been driving.
The bouncer eventually found someone we knew inside who was willing to take us home. I apologize to whoever that was. I'm sure it was like having ten highly retarded guys in the car who all thought they were Spider-Man.
When we woke up the next day we began our hungover scavenger hunt mystery tour. We slowly followed clues towards our missing possessions and memories until we'd pieced together most of the night. We found our vehicles at the first bar. Our jackets were at the second bar. Also, our unpaid tab, a pile of puke and a fair amount of irritation. The memory part was easier. People kept calling us to see if we were alive. Each one provided another piece of the alcoholic puzzle. Though this entire story happened to me, all of the above details were provided by other people.
Which is why I don't drink Irish car bombs.