Drinking games. Everyone knows how to play at least one, right? There’s a variety of them: King’s Cup, Never Have I Ever, Presidents and Assholes. One of my favorites: the Every Time Game. You know how it’s played; whenever [fill-in-the-blank] happens during [fill-in-the-blank] you take a shot of [fill-in-the-blank]. I remember there was an Every Time Game that revolved around the Buffy The Vampire Slayer television show; every time one of Sarah Michelle Gellar’s bra straps was revealed during an episode you had to drink. One time, I got so drunk playing that game, I ended up in the gardening department of Wal-Mart wearing nothing but red Power Ranger underwear, arm floaties, and a Hello Kitty bike helmet.
Anyway. I’ve created a new drinking game, a new Every Time Game. My version is so hardcore I don’t even recommend drinking alcohol while you play. Chances are, if you do, you’ll die. Here’s what you do: every time you come in contact with the word “amazing” — whether you say it, someone talking to you or in your vicinity says it, you read it on a blog or in a gossip magazine, or hear it on morning-fuck-zoo radio show or on TV, whatever — imagine taking a shot of hard alcohol.
An example:
“Oh my god, Ashley; did you watch last night’s episode of The Hills? It was amazing. When Heidi was all like, ‘Look at my new shoes, they’re amazing,’ and Whitney was all like, ‘You’re right; they are amazing!’ I was all like, no they’re not! It was amazing.”
I believe that’s worth four shots.
Do it for twenty-four hours. Hell, do it for one hour if you’re watching HGTV. Keep score on a napkin or something. I guarantee when you’re done, the number will be so high, just adding up all the check marks will give you a 1.0 percent blood alcohol level.
I don’t know when the whole of the American population forgot our language contains an extensive list of adjectives — adjectives other than “amazing” — but it has happened. It bothers me; it depresses me; I notice it and think about it all the time. Almost as much as I think about recreating Tom Colicchio’s pastrami sandwich from his restaurant chain, ‘wichcraft, and playing strip-poker, strip-foosball, strip-anything with Fox News’ Megyn Kelly.
Megyn Kelly. I’m not always listening to what she’s saying, but I’m sure it’s amazing.
Maybe it’s Sex and the City’s fault. I’ve never been coherent through an entire episode of that show but I can’t imagine the chick from Big Trouble In Little China using a word other than “amazing” to describe something. Okay; maybe “fabulous”. Is Kanye West to blame? I’m sure he’d like to take credit, not being a big book reader and all, but I feel like this started before his music. No matter who’s fault it is, I know what I’m getting everyone this year for Christmas: a thesaurus and a shot glass. That, and the first season of Dawson’s Creek on DVD. That show was amazing.
LINKS:
Big Trouble In Little China (One of the finest cinematic adventures ever, starring Kim Cattrall.)
Dawson’s Creek (I’ve signed this thing, like, fifty times.)



Credit unknown.
CHRIS WALKER VS. THE DEATH OF A LADY
Posted in Alcohol, Social Commentary, Women on April 24, 2009 by Chris Walker“Feminism is dead, ladies. Put your bras back on; relinquish your right to vote; get back in the kitchen and make me a sandwich. Your successors have failed you.”
That’s one way I considered starting this. I wrote it in my head as I leaned against a wall in the corridor that connects the main room and back patio at Pub and Sub, a local college haunt. I was waiting to use the bathroom. Directly in front of me were two obnoxious fat girls. They were waiting to use the bathroom as well. The men’s bathroom. “Sorry,” said Fat Girl Number One, exuding superiority and entitlement. “We’re next.” Arms crossed, I smirked.
These girls could have been attractive once, I thought; maybe they even had class. Not anymore. Those days were done. Their thoughtless and vapid nature shined as brightly as the glitter they wore. After they used the men’s room they would undoubtedly go back to devouring pizza and chicken wings; they would continue mainlining Pabst Blue Ribbon. The clothes they brought with them when they came to college would continue to fit less; the guy they swore they wouldn’t blow at the start of the night would come that much closer to getting blown. I was witnessing their decent from grace in real-time. Granted, most of their “Freshman Fifty” had been gained before our interlude but I was still watching their ascent into fat, sloppy slutdom as it occured. It was remarkable.
When the door opened and the previous occupant exited, I pushed past the two behemoths (no easy feat) and entered the men’s room. “It’s okay; you can shove me out of the way,” barked Fat Girl Number One as I posted up at the urinal. I ignored her. Something you should know about the men’s bathroom at Pub and Sub: the only walls are the four establishing it as a room; with the exception of a small, chest-level divider between the sink and urinal, everything is exposed. This means if you decide to hunker down and drop a deuce while another guy is in the bathroom, he can watch you. This also means if you’re a shameless nineteen year old with a fake ID who has consumed too much beer, and you decide you want to come in, pull down your pants, and pee in front of a complete stranger, by God, you can.
That is, of course, exactly what Fat Girl Number One did. Meanwhile, Fat Girl Number Two loomed overhead, texting friends, or checking her MySpace account, or twatting about the situation on Twitter. Whatever. As they annoyingly carried on I found myself wondering, whatever happened to the iconic influence of Audrey Hepburn? Did it die when Hollywood green-lit Barb Wire starring Pamela Anderson? Surely, Hepburn wouldn’t approve of these ghastly whores. Virginia Woolfe would be ashamed. Even Julie London would shake her head in disgust. Buckling my belt and heading out the door I realized not only is chivalry dead, so is the need for it.
Interestingly enough, watching these little tradegies take place is the charm of Pub and Sub. (Or Pub and Chub, as my friends and I affectionately refer to it. We also call it the Rub and Tug, the Thug and Chug, the Drug and Plug, and the list goes on.) It’s one of the reasons my friends and I congregate there on Thursday nights. We show up for the $2.50 pitchers of Pabst Blue Ribbon; we stay for the laughs. No matter where you look or who you interact with, there’s always hilarity or adventure awaiting you. Sometimes both. More often than not, it involves chubby chicks who think they’re smart because they study interior design (or something equally useless), wear club attire to dive bars, and do their damnedest to set the women’s movement back a minimum of fifty years.
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