Now, I don’t quite know what it is, but there’s nothing, no matter how far out I look, that can happen on a weekend out with friends at a club, that compares to the simultaneous awesomeness and ill-decisiveness of drinking shots. You’re there with a bunch of your mates; it’s not even an occasion. Suddenly, your table is splattered with myriads of shot glasses including the likes of tequila, vodka, rum, Kahlua, Sambuca, B52′s and whatnot, and sometimes, if your friends are real assholes – Absinthe.
The only logical reason to drink shots is to get drunk fast. Back in college, we were always a bit low on cash, so we did straight up whiskey shots at a friend’s house, then headed for a club. We’d get by the entire night on two beers. Money saved is money earned. But it isn’t the same now. Because no matter how many shots we have, we still manage to maintain the quota for the rest of our night’s drinks. If I’m gonna have 6 beers in 3 hours, then even if Tinku passes me an additional 3 shot glasses dispersed in between, my original intake of 6 beers will remain. I’m only getting drunker. In the same amount of time.
Shots are also a catalyst for throwing up. Nothing good ever came out of throwing up at 4am. Ever. That means you’re drunk, pissed drunk. And that’s not good, buddy. I know you only had 5 beers, but you did it in 2 hours, so those two shots of tequila you just had are going to fuck you up. Tinku, and others like him, are the real bastards. See, they’re the ones who just aren’t getting drunk enough, or at least they don’t feel it yet. And having shots alone is just silly, so they feel that they should buy one for everyone in the group. Regardless of whether everyone wants them or not. Buntu’s seemingly virginal girl-pal has spent the night sipping on iced tea, so really, Tinku, why buy her a shot? But Tinku does. And he takes it personally if someone doesn’t want it. Like, once, Buntu disappeared. All hell broke loose. I mean, the rest of us (some unwillingly) are standing there, arched forward in the “cheers” pose waiting to down our poison and suddenly, Tinku realizes Buntu’s missing. He’s probably taking a piss, some of us scream, get it over with. But no. “Banchod, where’s Buntu? Get Buntu. It’s shot time, get Buntu!”
And God help you if you refuse. Girls have it easy here. Our banal discrimination convinces us that they are, in fact, the weaker sex, and thus are unable to handle the highly potent nature of the shot. So, off they go. But the guys, well, that’s a different story. They gotta have ‘em. Fuck everything else. You’ve got a pair of Jack & Coke in hand, put them down. Drink up. What are we celebrating? I don’t know. Umm. Life? Okay, life. LET’S DRINK TO LIFE! Lick salt, down that Mexican bitch, cringe and regret, suck on lime, cringe and regret some more, then complain about how you’re never doing another one again, because you hate it.
Let’s face it though. Nothing says “I’m a sick, irresponsible fucktard with no ambition in life” like 3 straight shots of Absinthe. Now, there’s a real bitch. I’ve been there. Passed out, knocked out, comatose for 17 hours straight. And when I woke up with a screaming headache to the voice of my two-year old going “Baba, wake up”, my own personal turf-rating increased two-fold.
I’m off to the World Cup Finals tonight with a group of people split between supporting either team. So, it matters not who wins or loses, the shots are coming my way. And I’m calling in sick tomorrow. Suspiciously. For the third time this month.
Fuck this shit.