Now, believe it or not—and I've been known to lie—but this here's a true story. It happened to a friend of mine. Actually, that's bullshit. It happened with friends of mine; it happened to me. Anyhow.

Those of you who knew me before my ASU years might remember that, despite my being a college student and my legal majority having long since been vested, I did not imbibe alcoholic beverages. Well, more than just the scenery changed with my move to Arizona State University. I am now a fully fledged drinking machine. Beer, rum, gin, whiskey, vodka… well, not much vodka after last Thanksgiving, but I digress…

This summer that has just passed, I really came into my own as far as alcohol consumption is concerned. A former roommate and some buddies have a place just down the road, and we congregate there to barbeque just about anything and drink with reckless abandon. Some nights are hodgepodge, drink-what-we-have nights, and others carry a theme; this was a theme night, and the theme was "rum."

Actually, the theme for the night was 'puke', but I didn't know it yet.
Huzzah for rum!

Once the rum-theme had been approved by all, the next step was procurement. A quick walk later, a lovely bottle of Captain Morgan's Private Stock was ours. Out and out the finest rum for my money, by the way. Not in the mood for any fancy mixing, we simply purchased some tortilla chips and a 12-pack of Dr. Pepper, which we would mix with the rum in order to drink it faster. The Dr. Pepper, that is. The chips, those were for eating.

Anyhow. After a when we got back to our favorite watering hole—these men's dwelling—the drinking commenced. I poured myself a moderately stiff drink, and wandered outside to have a cigarette and chat with my ex-roommate, who was not drinking or smoking due to a brief case of Mormonism—don't worry, he's fine now, but it was nip and tuck for a while there. Anyhow, I'm gabbing away and sipping on my drink, when out come two more of the revelers, having arrived late due to yet undisclosed reasons. Alex asked me if I'd like another drink. With only an inch or two left in my glass, I replied in the affirmative after downing the remainder.

Alex returned a moment later, cautioning me to "be careful, it's a stiffie." Referring to the drink, not an erection or a cadaver; stiff as in "having a higher than usual alcohol content." Having consumed the previous libation in approximately ten minutes with nothing else on my stomach save a handfull of snack chips, my judgment—and tastebuds—were already somewhat impaired, but I kept talking, and smoking, and snacking... and drinking.

The corruptors of my innocence.

After a couple more "stiffies" (see above), the night had waned and people were preparing for bed; it was "last call." Alex went inside and returned with another drink for each of us, and said, "you know, there's only a little bit left in the bottle. Why don't you kill it?" At this point, I was pleasantly rolling, but some portion of my mind was not yet pickled, as I declined. After much badgering, the bribery began. Alex looked into my face and called me by name, saying, "I will pay you $3 to drink what is left in the bottle. AND you get to keep the string." A mischievous gleam entered his eye. "BUT. You must drink it… from a skillet."