12.10.2007

Drinkin' Island is inside each of us, my son.

I'm not much for alcohol, but years and years ago I was one-half of an evening that involved two people and eight rapidly-consumed Irish Car Bombs. It began at around 8pm and ended somewhere in the neighborhood of 8:25. Or, depending on your measure, ended at around 5 the next morning when I woke up on my friend's floor and walked thirty-five of the hundred or so blocks home before falling into a cab, leaving behind my glasses and a giant wedge of my postcollegiate dignity. Or, by yet a third measure, ended at 10am four days later when the hangover finally slouched out of my system and toward Bethlehem to be born.

On the one-year anniversary of that lost night, I did an Irish Car Bomb in its honor and nearly puked. Never again, I vowed, will that unholy combination of Guinness and Bailey's pass my lips.

Turns out I am not exactly nun-caliber when it comes to sticking to vows (any future husbands, please take note), since I had one and a half this weekend at Mr. B's birthday party. I am pleased to report that I lost neither consciousness nor my lunch.

I feel like adulthood has finally arrived. It is like my liver has had its bat mitzvah.


Post title taken from this vital piece of Americana.

2 comments:

RW said...

And now that adulthood has had its way with you, may I recommend vodka-based fruit drinks? You get where you're going and have vitamin C too!

Last Knight said...

Oh, the Irish car bomb... so wrong and yet, so tasty.

I maintain, however, that jaeger bombs remain the fruit of the devil.