“Sink the Ship” is a decadent college drinking game in which two teams gather in a circle, teaming up with every other person in the group so that each player has a rival on both sides, and take turns pouring droplets of beer into a cup floating in the middle of the pitcher. The unfortunate soul who pours the droplet(s) responsible for capsizing the cup, i.e. sinking the ship, must chug the contents of the pitcher along with their teammates. The pitcher must be passed to a teammate once the binge-drinker’s lips leave the spout of the glass pitcher. What this means is that the anchor of the team, depending on your teammates’ penchant for consuming hops, may be forced to drink up to half a pitcher of beer in one mighty, debauchery-fueled chugging frenzy.
I used to play “Sink the Ship” on a biweekly basis when I was a junior in college. It is astounding, scary, and whimsical, the damage we have the liberty to inflict on our livers without consequence of severe hangover, when we are 20 years old.
Before Doc Za contributor T. Mario ever adopted his alias, we went to college together. Shortly after he came of drinking age, he arranged a tag-team case race at his house in which members of the college newspaper staff (Jimbo Slice included) paired up and competed against each other. My partner and I got off to a strong start but wavered after an hour or so. We didn’t end up winning the contest. But afterward, I was drunk enough to (accidentally) gulp a shot of 409 cleaning spray. I have long debated which is more puzzling: 1.) Why someone would fill a shot glass at a party with a liquid that, to the inebriated eye, could pass for a cherry bomb, or 2.) why I decided it was prudent to send the mystery shot down the hatch in the first place. Thankfully, I didn’t need to have my stomach pumped at the hospital. 20 minutes later my gag reflex, in tandem with a rejective stomach and a recoiling esophagus, evacuated all the nefarious chemicals in my system with a raging deluge of vomit. After being told that I had just swallowed 409 spray, I promptly walked two blocks to the editor’s house and upchucked in his bathroom. It is testament to my respect for T. Mario that I had the discipline not to throw up in his toilet.
All this is to say that I have partied, for good or ill. But long before the accounts of booze-induced debauchery that I have just described, my first memories of parties prominently showcased pizza. In first grade, for example, the only type of party that could make my pink crayon tingle was one of the pizza variety. I could not say the two words, “Pizza Party!” without exclaiming them as I pumped my fist with salivating anticipation.
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I don’t like to brag (I love to brag), but when I’m not checking in with hardly edited and cuss-filled pizza reviews from a city most people in Wisconsin openly hate (Madison), I’m writing mildly edited dispatches about the very bad British band Yuck and children rappists (or rappers, if you prefer). I’m what STD doctors call a “music blogger” and in that capacity, I recently went to SXSW in Austin, TX. Are you aware of it? It is a long line of people in Austin, TX, that somehow involves music, in some capacity. I guess bands play there, and I went to see many of them (I saw 50 shows in four days). Do you have an opinion on Dom? I do, since I saw him twice in 48 hours. Were you at the show that Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All played where they told Billboard to go fuck itself? I was. Read more »