The night. Friday, October 13th, 2000. The event. My 23rd birthday. The occurence. Sheer terror. The victim. A certain cheekylass. The culprit. Jagermeister. The story. Not for the weak of heart...or stomach...
All was well at Yancy’s Bar on San Francisco’s Irving Street. Cheekylass and a small motley crew of celebratory folk (including the light of my life, epinions-user repulsemonkey) gathered to rejoice in the commemoration of the day my pouty being came into the world. I had enjoyed the mind-numbing pleasures of a Long Island ice-tea, a Fuzzy Navel and was now devouring a fast-becoming-lukewarm Heineken.
Stress was a thought of the past, with my inhibitions predictably decreasing more with every passing minute. In the midst of hoopla surrounding present-opening and glass clinking, I was unaware of the foreign object that had been stealthily placed in front of me. “What the heck is that? I queried, suspicious of the murky-looking liquid emitting a scent somewhere between licorice and hell.
Ooh! Ooh! I don’t know about you, but I feel another cheeky re-enactment comin’ on! Hey! Quit yer groanin’!
repulsemonkey: Just drink it. It’ll do you good.
cheekylass(inhibitions slowly coming back due to “fight or flight” syndrome): Uh, yeah right. No way.
repulsemonkey: Come on, it’ll be great!
cheekylass: Right. That’s what you said at my last birthday when I took those ten shots of Wild Turkey.
repulsemonkey: Oh, stop it. Just chug it.
cheekylass: With what to chase it? Heineken?
**Okay. This is where I should have been stoppped. No doubt about it. Chasing anything, much less 70-proof Jagermeister with Heineken is a no-no.**
repulsemonkey: Sure.
cheekylass: (shrugs with the moronic apathy of one who is regaining an uninhibited state-of-being) Okay.
Said shot is swiftly gulped.
Overheard precursory remarks from repulsemonkey to the bartender had included “Give her the dirtiest, stankiest shot you can find..” While supportive friends encouraged me with, “You’re not drunk, yet. But, you will be. We’ll see to that.”
But, “You said you wanted a shot,” was the last coherent remark I can remember from that night.
4:30 a.m. is what the blaring red digits on the alarm clock burned into my eyes right before I bolted up at-attention and presently projectile vomited all over the sheets belonging to repulsemonkey. All over the sheets. And the floor. And my shoes. And the carpet...
“NOOOoooooo! Julie! No! Not-On-The-Carpet!!!” screamed repulsemonkey as he groggily hopped out of bed and turned on an intrusive light. I, with my tail tucked between my hind legs, scampered into the bathroom to continue my tryst with a quite disgruntled stomach, while I could hear grumbles coming from the toxic-waste infected bedroom. (“Damn! Why, gods, why did it have to be on the carpet?”)
I re-entered to find repulsemonkey kindly scrubbing the messed items with paper towels and soap, only glancing up once--with a look of sheer betrayal on his tired, simian face.
cheekylass: I’m sick.
repulsemonkey: Really?
cheekylass: (the onset of a pout coming on) Yes! I threw up.
repulsemonkey: No!
cheekylass: I’m five years old right now. Take care of me.
repulsemonkey: I’m sorry, cheeks. But, I have to clean this.
cheekylass: (trying to stifle a tantrum) But, I’m sick! (trying another tactic) YOU gave me that shot of Jager!
repulsemonkey: (rebuffing the blow) YOU drank it! You said you wanted a shot, anyway...
cheekylass: But....but...You are the devil.
repulsemonkey: (shaking his head in frustruation)Go to sleep.
Thirty-six hours later, I finally stopped puking. The results of ONE SHOT of Jagermeister (mixed with only two-and-a-half other drinks--throughout the course of four hours!) equalled over six sessions of violent vomiting, ten sessions of ungodly-bathroom time and about five pounds of weight loss.
Fast forward a few weeks.
The day. October 26, 2000. The event. The Oktoberfest I was dragged to by my family. The occurence. Sheer flashback terror. The victim. Me. Duh. The culprits. Two vacant-eyed, twin models bearing Jagermeister shots. The story. Too annoying to believe...
“Free shots of new Jagermeister flavors!” the models enticingly cood. “Honey! Try the new Honey-Jagermeister shot! MMmmm, it’s good!” Um, ew.. No sooner had I begrudgingly entered the Fest, then I found myself in the bathroom, wracked with post-Jagermeister shakes. The stench of Jager had hit me immediately. I could only be soothed with the promise of seeing “May Day” dancers flauncing giddily like leiderhausen-clad Chevy Chase in European Vacation.
So. What brings me here? I promised myself I wouldn’t torture you with another epinion until inspiration struck. But, last night I happily surfed endlessly through epinion after epinion, until I came across File13’s Jager-review. Just reading it, I again had the
familiar sensations of nausea and terror, and felt the need to a)toss my cookies like there’s no tomorrow, and b)warn possible future consumers of the dangers one cheekylass had with the enemy that will be forever feared: JAGERMEISTER....
In all fairness, I could have been the victim of a nasty 24-hour flu. Perhaps it was even the mixing of drinks that did it. But, to quote repulsemonkey, as he saw the expression on my face immediately contort after consuming the foul poison;
“Woah. You just experienced slack-jaw, huh? That crazy feeling when your jaw goes totally heavy.”
In-deed.
Beware the Jager.
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