Where did we leave off again?
Oh yeah, the worst year of my life was about to begin!
Edwin had just accepted my challenge to a drinking contest, while Slim had just accepted another order of mozzarella sticks. Unfortunately, I hadn’t accepted Alex’s suggestion that maybe this contest was a bad idea. That guy’s always spouting some kooky conspiracy theory. Alex once told me that the anti-fluoride movement in America was actually a ploy by the British monarchy to ruin American dental hygiene. As if I was going to listen to this guy’s thoughts on my drinking!
The terms of this battle to the death of our livers were laid out:
- Standard 20 oz mugs of beer, drinker’s choice. I went with my usual brew, while Edwin chose Miller Light. During our pre-competition trash talk I made sure to point out that he drank Miller Light because he’s a lightweight.
- Puking is an immediate disqualification.
- Water is available upon request. Not like I needed it, I was only doing a favor to Edwin.
- Whoever drinks the most wins.
- The loser must go sober for an entire year.
It was that final condition that led to my year from hell!
As we took our seats at another nearby table, Edwin used this opportunity to talk some more trash.
“You’re going down, Mugg!” Edwin gloated while gesturing at his crotch. I replied with a rather clever quip of my own.
“Oh yeah? Well you’re an asshole and I can drink more than you!”
As we stared each other down, a crowd formed around our table. No backing down now! The waitress brought over our mugs, and after going over the rules again we clinked our glasses together and drank. And drank. And drank!
For four hours straight me and Edwin pounded down beer after beer with no end in sight to our contest. How would this battle of the boozers end? When would it end?
As it turns out, quite sooner than we’d thought. Within four and a half hours we had depleted both of our beers’ taps. We began incoherently shouting at one another, demanding that the other yield. Slim had racked up a tab close to $1,000 and was shouting at both of us demanding compensation. Alex was at the other side of the bar shouting about some crazy conspiracy theory involving the JFK assassination and a marketing ploy to sell hats. Juan was shouting at Alex to knock it off. Peter had realized how stupid this whole party was and left three hours ago. Things were getting ugly.
Finally, Barty the Bartender (who as it turns out hates that nickname and wants me to stop calling him that) came over with a bottle of Grey Goose vodka and two shot glasses. He sat the bottle down on the table.
“This one’s on the house. Now finish this damn contest so I can close up and go home.”
Fuck no, I hate vodka! Frosty + Vodka = FUCK NO
“What’s the matter Frosty,” Edwin slurred, “Can’t handle a little GOOSING?!”
Then we went shot for shot. And by that, I mean I took one shot and puked my guts out.
Edwin stood up triumphantly.
“YEAH I WIN!”
I had lost, I was defeated. The room spun around me, turning the three people still watching into a crowd. Edwin began singing to the tune of “Frosty the Snow Man”.
“FROSTY THE BLOW-MAN CAN’T HANDLE HIS ALCOHOL! HE FINISHES ONE CUP AND THEN THROWS UP AND REGURGITATES IT ALL!”
The crowd joined in.
“FROSTY THE BLOW-MAN WAS A LIGHTWEIGHT THEY SAY! ONE SHOT OF GOOSE AND HE LET LOOSE, AND EDWIN WON THE DAY!”
Even Slim was laughing at me. This was the most embarrassing moment in my life! As I stumbled out of the bar and into the cold dark night, I contemplated the year of sobriety that lay ahead of me. I hadn’t seen sober since, well, forever!
A Frosty without alcohol? How would this play out?
Stay tuned for the exciting third chapter in Frosty’s Sober Saga!