Blood Sugar Sex Magik
Last year, on my birthday (Nov 28th in case anyone wants to get me a gift) I had recently started a new job, so me and the rest of the training class head out after work for a good old-fashioned piss-up.

We start with the obligatory meal to line our stomachs, then get into the heavy drinking. After staggering through a good few pubs, we end up in Revolution, a vodka bar that offers plenty of cocktails and masses of flavoured vodka shots. Seeing as it's my birthday, everyone chips in to get me 6 flavoured shots. Kind of them, you might think...

Ian, who's a bit of a twat, offers to go up. He returns with 6 shots, 1 of them pink and the rest a strange red colour.

"Here we are mate. The pink one's birthday cake flavoured. You should save that for last."

"Cheers mate, very kind of you" I say, like the trusting mong I am. "What's in the others?"

"Oh, a good mixture" he says with a sly grin. "Bet you can't down them all one after the other, no pausing."

"Fair enough" says I. Having had a good few drinks already, I fail to see anything wrong with this - full of bravado, I line up the shots, square my shoulders, and down the first one.

Sweet zombie Jesus! It feels like I've just swallowed a shot of napalm! My mouth is on fire! My tongue feels like it's been soaked in gasoline. However, I've still got 5 shots left, and my drunken bravado refuses to let me stop.

I down the second. Holy goat-fucking Christ! It's even hotter than the first. It's like swallowing demon piss! My eyes are beginning to water, but I soldier on.

Down goes the third. I'm afraid to breathe out, in case I set fire to the table. My teeth feel like they're going to melt. I still refuse to be beaten, and reach for the fourth.

Christ on a fucking bike, it's painful. My vision blurs, and I can't stop myself from emitting a low, gutteral cry of pain. But I've got 1 more to go, then it's the birthday cake flavour. I can't stop now.

I force myself to pick up the fifth shot, and, eyes closed, down it. At this point, my taste-buds have had enough and went into hiding, so it doesn't taste quite as bad. But I'm suffering. My 'kind' workmates are pissing themselves by now. Cunts.

I gratefully grab the last shot and throw it down the hatch. It tastes of spicy red-hot birthday cake, the kind of cake they would serve in hell. My mouth still feels like a raging inferno.

I desperately grab my pint and drink like a thirsty camel. My fuckers of workmates manage to stop laughing long enough to give me an enthusiastic round of applause.

It turns out Ian had ordered 5 shots of 'Red Hot Chili' flavoured vodka. Once my mouth had cooled down enough to enable speech, he showed me the drinks menu. There was the full list of shots, and there, beside the Chili shot, a skull and fucking crossbones. I shit you not.

My Sisyphean task complete, I felt like I had pushed the boulder to the top of the mountain. I was invincible. I was also incredibly drunk.

I can't remember anything from that point on, though I've been told I spent the rest of the night hitting on the only two girls in our training class - one of whom was married, and the other was a strict muslim. Strangely enough, I didn't pull that night...
(Pavlov's Frog figures no-one really reads sigs anyway, Fri 2 Nov 2007, 0:13, 1 reply)

Haha, I know the pain of which you speak!
And as an added bonus, I also know the pain of spilling a small amount of the shot down the sides of the glass and then going to pee shortly afterwards O_o
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Fri 2 Nov 2007, 11:57, closed)