There's Always Room For Jello-Shots!

I know what you’re all thinking: “Ehren, sure I like drinking, but isn’t there an easier way to ingest alcohol?” Well my friends, as luck would have it, there IS another way to get drunk. It came about like this:

One of my friends was having a party, so I went with him to the store to stock up. We wandered about the supermarket, picking up things that caught our eye: chips, dip, cards, and lots of Mardi gras beads. You know, to this day I’d really love to be there for the first transaction that went down in this way:

Man: Remove your top!
Busty Lass: I shall not!
Man: Show me your boobs!
Busty Lass: I, sir, am a lady of dignity, class and high breeding. That you think I would “show off my goodies” to you, an ill-mannered, drunken hooligan is an insult to women everywhere! Have we, the fair sex, toiled for so long in the name of equal treatment simply for me to debase myself for a perfect stranger in the midst of this common thoroughfare? Hang your head in shame, sirrah!
Man: I have shiny beads.
Busty Lass: Woooooo! Spring break! Fuck you, mom and dad! I’m gonna be on America’s Skankiest Cum-Dumpsters!

Seriously, at what point in our culture did the trade of beads for nudity and dignity become standard? Still, I guess I, as a man, should be happy that it came to this. All I know is that I’m not about to flash my testicles to girls for plastic jewlery.

At any rate, my friend and I at last came to stop in front of the Jello display. He was browsing through the various flavors, trying to find the perfect concoction to mix with alcohol when I called out his name.

“Greg!”
“What?” He drifted over.
“GREG!”
“What...” then he followed my eyes and there was a moment of silence.
“Greg, everyone always makes jello-shots…is there any reason we couldn’t make alcoholic pudding?”
"I don't know."
Another long pause before, in unison we said one word that would change house-parties forever: “Butterscotch.”

We combined the pudding ingredients along with Kailua and rum and proceeded to get absolutely hammered on the results. Basically, if you’re looking for a way to not only kill your liver, but send your cholesterol through the roof at the same time, we had the snack for you. Binging on it was the equivalent of living four days as wino on the streets of New York.

The whole experience was eye-opening for me. It made me wonder what other ways there were to get plastered. Perhaps my greatest moment was still to come. I was sitting (well, propped up, barely clinging to consciousness would be a better description) on the couch, licking the empty serving bowl when I yelled, “GREG!!!”

He stumbled in. “Yesh?” he stammered.

“Greg! Wherza pot-brownies you made lasht week?”

“Dunno…I think they’re gone. Shtop spinning, Ehren, ish not cool!”

“Greg…next time you make them, you should frost them with the alcoholic pudding.”

Long silence.

“Ehren, are you the devil?”

I’ve also been toying with the idea of an alcoholic ice cream. As soon as I figure out a way to get liquor to freeze, I’m going to make a fortune. I want to be clear here, I don’t mean liquor flavored ice cream—I mean get-you-so-drunk-you-fall-face-down-in-the-cone-and-drown-in-chocolate-sprinkles alcoholic ice cream. The way I see it, it’s the next natural progression from those Zima drinks that they serve now.

I’ve honestly never understood the purpose behind those things. They’re so loaded with sugar that you’re guaranteed to get sick. Not only that, I hear so many girls say, “I love them because you can’t taste the alcohol.” I don’t suppose these women ever considered that maybe tasting alcohol is a defense mechanism? Maybe if you don’t like the taste of alcohol after a few drinks, you shouldn’t be drinking that many in the first place. What are these girls doing? Seeing which one will get date-raped first? Then again, these are usually the same females wearing body glitter and pants with writing across the ass.

At this rate, we’ll be up to alcoholic I.V.s soon. Bartender, 300 CCs of Henessey, stat!