TICK TOCK TICK *SIGH* TOCK
This weekend, for the very first time, I partook in a Power Hour. It was... well, it was okay.
For those of you who don't know, a Power Hour is where you drink a shot of beer every minute for an hour. That's it, that's all there is to it. Like the best of drinking games, it is genius in its simplicity.
However, that is also it's downfall. That's all you do, you drink every minute for an hour. And in the end, all you've done is use up an hour. I mean, I was kinda drunk, but it was nothing like the Herculean task I was lead to believe I would be undertaking. I've heard stories of people vomiting, coming back to the table to catch back up (which is allowed in the official rules), vomit again, only to finish in honor. And those are the people that finish. I've heard of people that have to give up all together, rather than continue. I thought, surely, this will be the greatest drinking test my body has ever been put to. But then *bzzzz* it was the end of the hour and I was the most sober person out of the group. And did I mention I'd spent Thursday home sick with the flu? Because I HAD. Yet on Saturday I drank 7 1/2 beers in an hour like it was no big deal. I don't know if that says more about my body's incredible recuperative ability or my body's borderline alcoholic tendencies.
Honestly, I don't know what I was expecting, but I was expecting more than what happened. Maybe falling to one knee exhausted at the 45 minute mark, blurry eyes scanning the table trying to find my glass as time ticked away to the next drinking point. A shaky hand raising the last shot to my parched lips. A celebratory chorus of cheers as the final draught slipped down my throat. If I was up for it, a quick parade around the house with myself hoisted upon others' shoulders. Instead I finished the last drink, grabbed a fresh can and went to watch hockey highlights on ESPN HD. I had not defeated anyone, I had not risen above my peers. I had calmly strolled to the finish line, waited for everyone else to catch up, then joined hands and crossed together. To-geth-er.
Really, when you think about it, it's UnAmerican. I'd feel obliged to call the office of Homeland Security on all of us, but we were drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, so I think it evens out. At least I hope so. I'd hate to have been consorting with terrorists... even if they did have a really nice entertainment center.
For those of you who don't know, a Power Hour is where you drink a shot of beer every minute for an hour. That's it, that's all there is to it. Like the best of drinking games, it is genius in its simplicity.
However, that is also it's downfall. That's all you do, you drink every minute for an hour. And in the end, all you've done is use up an hour. I mean, I was kinda drunk, but it was nothing like the Herculean task I was lead to believe I would be undertaking. I've heard stories of people vomiting, coming back to the table to catch back up (which is allowed in the official rules), vomit again, only to finish in honor. And those are the people that finish. I've heard of people that have to give up all together, rather than continue. I thought, surely, this will be the greatest drinking test my body has ever been put to. But then *bzzzz* it was the end of the hour and I was the most sober person out of the group. And did I mention I'd spent Thursday home sick with the flu? Because I HAD. Yet on Saturday I drank 7 1/2 beers in an hour like it was no big deal. I don't know if that says more about my body's incredible recuperative ability or my body's borderline alcoholic tendencies.
Honestly, I don't know what I was expecting, but I was expecting more than what happened. Maybe falling to one knee exhausted at the 45 minute mark, blurry eyes scanning the table trying to find my glass as time ticked away to the next drinking point. A shaky hand raising the last shot to my parched lips. A celebratory chorus of cheers as the final draught slipped down my throat. If I was up for it, a quick parade around the house with myself hoisted upon others' shoulders. Instead I finished the last drink, grabbed a fresh can and went to watch hockey highlights on ESPN HD. I had not defeated anyone, I had not risen above my peers. I had calmly strolled to the finish line, waited for everyone else to catch up, then joined hands and crossed together. To-geth-er.
Really, when you think about it, it's UnAmerican. I'd feel obliged to call the office of Homeland Security on all of us, but we were drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, so I think it evens out. At least I hope so. I'd hate to have been consorting with terrorists... even if they did have a really nice entertainment center.
posted by Matt Worzala at
3:43 PM
2 Comments:
As an aside, my fave drinking game is Drunk Jenga. Ever played it?
By
Jen, at 8:08 PM
No, I have not. But I am not intrigued.
Your little cousins or what-have-you whipped you in Regular Jenga during the holidays, right?
By
Matt Worzala, at 3:20 PM
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