So last Friday I mentioned that a few of my friends and I had a “race to ten Irish Car Bombs.” I should have let on that it was a misnomer. There really isn’t a race. It’s a well scripted descent into blinding drunkenness, which you may have noticed is a running theme with this blog (see this and this). Childish? Yes. Dangerous? Most definitely. Fun to the point of pukesville? Without a doubt.
The “Race to Ten” is a budding tradition of mine, a challenge that you cannot deny and a journey that you mustn’t miss. The rules are simple: Survive drinking ten Irish Car Bombs in one sitting (though you may be leaping, crawling, retching, sneezing or imploding at various points). It always starts out with all sorts of good intentions, okay, that’s a complete lie; the intentions are the worst kind.
For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about an Irish Car Bomb is 3/4 of a pint of Guinness Stout with a half shot of Bailey’s and Jameson dropped into the glass. Our glasses were slightly smaller so on average I’d say we were doing closer to a half pint each time. Still though, that’s like eight loaves of bread.
Enough intro, more body. Let’s meet up with the contestants (The pictures below will also serve as “Before” examples):
Contestant #2: Miss Blue Sky. Melissa throws a weekly party at a bar that I’ve literally spent more time in than any school I’ve ever attended. I did the math. She was the only other contestant in the first race. Neither of us won that time either. In fact, we both lost several hours of our life to Blackout Village, population: Us.
Contestant #3: Commando. Keith is a buddy of mine from way back. He works on Rhythmism with me. He likes guns… and drinking. I believe he may even like them at the same time, which is why I only hang out with Keith in Blue States.
Contestant #4: Noiseboy. Mikey and I do everything together, well whenever he’s around. He’s a super special tour manager for some big named DJ’s. We like to sit around and talk about our favorite things about ourselves. Hence why we get along so well.
Oh and we can’t forget Trixie.
The eminently charming and talented Trixie is our bartender. She was on hand for the destruction that was about to commence. Trix is the best because she’s among the handful of New York bartenders that can keep up with me when I get a mind to get down to boozin’. She’s also way prettier than the guys I usually get alcohol from.
Anyway, we started with a simple plan. One car bomb every thirty minutes till we were done. Some people hopped in and out along the way, but myself, Melissa, Keith and Mike were committed by a binding contract of assured shame should any of us bow out. The rounds were arranged as such:
The play by play.
Round 5: This is when we started naming rounds and acting them out. But not without a few midway status upgrade pics first!
Here Keith is threatening to either stab Betty or the booze, or he is about to rail a massive bump of invisible cocaine off that knife Carlito style. For the record, Betty wrote all our round cards and named them. She’s a type A personality, whereas we are just drunks.
After five Car Bombs Mike was starting to feel gangster, which is obvious by the massive wad of $61 dollars he was flashing around like a Turkish sheik in a harem full of women made out of diamonds and platinum.
I look like death warmed over. However I can assure you I was feeling fine. Though look at my friend Joe’s look in the background. He was obviously concerned, or passing gas. Neither would have phased me, I call this look: “The Zone.” You may know it by another name, “The Crazies.”
Round Seven: “Lucky 7”
This is me being lucky not to get a fucking thorn in my tongue. Actually this was our Sexy 6 photo. We were at a complete loss as to how to look “lucky.” But I guess being lucky enough to have a pal like Meliss is good enough.
Round Eight: “Crazy 8’s”
Remember when I just said that great stuff about being lucky to have Melissa as a friend? Well I said that because she disappeared for good after round 7. We didn’t notice until round 11. In honor of Crazy 8 Mike and I also did a shot of Tequila because the Guinness was being all pussy. Here’s the effect of us on some Tijuana Bang Bang:
I get all fucking frightened by this picture till I realize it’s me.
Round 10: “The Round of Death”
Was HIGHLY anti-climactic. In fact, I was drunk enough to forget that we’d done it and asked Mike several times when our next one was coming up. We ended up doing another one, or Round 11: The Round Which Shalt Not Be Named. Then we did a variety of poses and realized Melissa was missing.
This is when Keith gave me a piggy back victory ride… to nowhere. Bear in mind I was like twenty pounds heavier than usual, what with all the Guinness.
And so our night was over. As we wandered out into the night to find (hopefully) our beds to sleep off the poisoned, frothy goodness we’d so unabashedly injected into our gullets we were all seeing the world like this:
I woke the next morning the way I did the first time I had a race: On time and completely unhungover, though quite possibly still drunk. So the race ends and the tradition grows. You up for a Race to Ten?