About Me Monday: The Day I Drank 20+ Shirley Temples

For those who aren’t aware, Shirley Temples are non-alcoholic cherry drinks. Just wanted to be clear about that. Now that we’ve cleared that up, let’s get into the story.

A few years ago, my cousin got married. Her wedding was a great time, and it yields many memories. One of those memories in particular is definitely worth sharing with you guys.

So my cousin Justin and I generated a bright idea. Due to the fact that it was an open-bar wedding reception, we decided to have a competition. We wanted to see who could drink the most by the end of the night. I was dedicated to drinking Shirley Temples, and he was dedicated to Coke. The unspoken rules were as follows. Every time either of us got a drink, we would tell and show the other. We both kept a mental score-count of both of our progress concerning the amount of drinks.

 VS 

If you were in my situation, which drink would you choose to drink in excess? Coke or Shirley Temple? Alright, back to the story.

So as the night went on, we made occasional stops at the bar, together and alone. We were both fully aware of the fact that we were probably nuisances to the bartenders. We’re two guys bothering them for sugared drinks. But because of the large amount of sugar in our bodies, we began to get hyped. I proposed an idea that was surely not a good one. Because our energy levels were so high, we decided to go for it.

Justin went to the bar and just laid his arms on it, maintaining a nonchalant look. A moment or two after he seemed set, I moved to the bar. A bartender had his back facing me, and so I took my chance. I said, “Scotch on the rocks, no ice.” The statement was absurd, but the bartender just rolled with it. He shoveled some ice into a glass and began to fill it with Scotch. He turned around as he filled it and looked at me with a death-stare, instantly dumping it out. He didn’t say a word to me as he moved to the other side of the bar to help a person who actually wanted a drink.

Justin and I never intended to actually drink the Scotch. We were fully aware that we wouldn’t get it. We just wanted to mess with somebody and order something at the bar. So as the night progressed, I made sure to avoid that bartender, as I did feel a bit guilty. But the Shirley Temples overshadowed my guilt.

We constantly made trips to the bar. Every time I saw Justin with a full glass, I asked if he was ready to tap out. Regardless, we were both relentless, not ready to quit. But as we noticed the hall get less and less packed, we started to slow down. Then, when only a small group of people were remaining, we both tapped out.

Justin had a full glass of Coke with him when we called it quits. He couldn’t drink it. Instead, we took everything at our table and put it in the glass. All of my cousins pitched in. The salt, the pepper, the sugar, the remaining fries, everything. I think we put gum in there as well. I don’t recall where that came from. This was years ago, and I think that we’ve all matured from then.

The final count was 25 drinks for me and 23 drinks for him. I was victorious. But that isn’t where our story ends. It was 12 o’clock in the morning when the wedding reception was over, and I was going to sleep over Justin’s house. In fact, Robert, my cousin from the last About Me Monday, was also going to sleep over his house.

Because Justin has two brothers, it was a five cousin sleepover. As we were driving to his house, he and I were exhausted. The sugar rush was over, and we were ready to crash.

As soon as we walked into his house, the ties and shoes were off. We were all heading to our designated sleeping areas, and Justin was the first one up the stairs. As he approached the top, he suddenly just stopped and collapsed forward. Of course, we were alarmed. We helped him up and sat him upright at the top of the stairs. He was clearly out of it. The sugar had gotten to him. He put himself to bed and we slept like babies.

We had a great time at that wedding, and it definitely yields many more memories. Did you enjoy this story? What kind of story would you like to hear next? Do you have a story similar to this one? Let me know the comments below, and thanks for reading!

~Ddog

About Me Monday: The Day That Pizza Betrayed Me

Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first episode in the series I would like to call: About Me Monday. As I want to get more personal with you, the viewer, I decided that sharing personal stories would be a step in the right direction. These stories could be about a mess of things. They’re about me. Nothing too grand or dynamic, just stories that I’d like to share with you. These posts will not replace Movie Monday. Movie Monday will simply be posted only when there is news to be shared. Please feel free to ask me any questions and request new topics in the comments below. The first episode of this series is lighthearted for the most part, and it isn’t a story with a ton of substance. I figured that we’d start up easy. Without further delay, sit back, relax, and enjoy! (I would recommend putting down any food you may be consuming for the duration of the post.)

Pizza is my friend. Or so I thought. This is the story of how pizza betrayed me.

My dad used to own a couple of pizza places in New Jersey, both by the name of Fox’s Pizza Den. They were the first Fox’s locations in New Jersey. I believe I mentioned this in my post about how I nearly died. That’s here if you’re interested to hear about my near-death experience, which is an entirely different story.

Anyways, my dad owned two pizza places. He and my mom were in Vegas for the weekend, and so my aunt was watching my sisters and I. I was at my grandmother’s house with my cousin Robert. Conveniently, the pizza place was not even a minute away from her house. Robert and I were getting hungry and so my aunt drove us to Fox’s to get some pizza.

We decided to get a White Pizza, pizza with no tomato sauce. I was never that type of kid who was picky, but we decided to switch it up.

We went back to my grandma’s house and went to the basement. We turned on the TV, opened the pizza box, and began to devour the pizza. After a good half hour of working on the pizza, there was just one more slice left. I looked at Robert and he shook his head, reclining back with his tongue hanging out. We demolished that pizza. I ate my half of the pie, and Robert had a slice remaining. I never took wasting food lightly, but I was ready to tap out. There was no way that I would eat his slice. I brought the box up to my aunt and told her that we were done.

As I turned around to go back to the basement, she called me back. I told her that there was no way that we could finish the pie. Still, she insisted that I eat it. Sighing, I took the last piece of pizza and brought it downstairs. Slowly, I ate it. Every bite was like torture. The pizza was so good, but I had already eaten my half of the pie. The plan was to split it in half, but Robert didn’t pull through with this half. He would soon regret that decision…

I finally finished the last slice of white pizza, and I suddenly became quiet. For the rest of the night, I felt kind of out of it. I didn’t think that it was from the pizza. I simply felt tired, and I wasn’t in a very social mood. A few hours after eating the pizza, I found out that I’d be sleeping over Robert’s house. Cool. So his dad came and picked us up. Before I left, I took a water bottle, as I was starting to get hot. I sat in the back of the car, silent. Robert wanted to stop at Barnes and Noble to pick up a strategy guide for Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn.

I didn’t mind, of course. I was so out of it that I don’t think I could have physically cared. My uncle kept starting conversations with me, but I took a few seconds to actually respond to him. Like I said, I was out of it.

Then, out of nowhere, I let it all out. After blowing chunks on the car floor, I looked up and was surprised to see that neither my uncle nor Robert reacted to my episode. I said, “I’m sorry,” my throat still burning. My uncle said, “It’s okay, just wipe up the water.” The water? Then Robert turned around and cringed. He was speechless.

I finally realized what happened. They thought I spilled my water. My uncle then smelled my regurgitation and turned around. He reassured me that it was okay, and he pulled into a gas station. We vacuumed up what came out of my mouth and then got back into the car. I used my shirt to cover my nose, as the sour smell of my vomit was embedded into the carpet. Throughout all of this spur-of-the-moment mayhem, I saw the look on Robert’s face. He wanted to get his strategy guide. I insited 100 times that I was okay. We could still stop to get his strategy guide.

Well what do you know? We get into the store and it turns out that the guide wasn’t anywhere to be found.

Fast forward a year. There was still the lingering smell of my vomit in that car, despite the amount of times the car was washed and aired out. Did I mentioned that when I barfed in it, it was a new car?

That was the story of how pizza betrayed me. Pizza, who I thought to be my friend, stabbed me in the back. But I can’t blame it all on the pizza. My aunt was the one who made me eat that last slice. But that last slice wouldn’t have been left if Robert had manned up and eaten it. (Yes, Robert, I partially blame you) I decided to share this story because this is a memory that I always equate to Robert, one of my many cousins. I am sure that many stories in the future will mention my shenanigans with the rest of my cousins as well.

The moral of the story? Finish your food, because if you don’t, someone else will have to eat it. They will then give the food back to you on your car floor.

Thanks for reading! What other experiences would you like me to talk about? Let me know in the comments below!

~Ddog