Weekly Feature: Drinking Stories

This week’s drinking story is a perfect illustration of the adage, “All things in moderation”. Luckily, no one was injured…except for possibly a couple of people’s ears.

On to the story:

When Scott and I lived in St. Thomas (yes, the Virgin Islands. Jealous much?), we were regular weekend features at Iggie’s Beach Bar. Conveniently located at the bottom of the cliff we lived on, it was walking distance from home; it also served the best portobello mushroom fries on the planet and had karaoke every Saturday night. They don’t call it paradise for nothing, folks!

Typically, I got my fill of tropical rum drinks during the week (that’s a whole ‘nother blog!), but my weekends were reserved for long neck bottles of beer, usually of the Coors Light variety. Our waitresses were trained to keep the buckets coming. We’re from Texas, see, where beer has the highest allowable alcohol content in the nation. Many a night we were amused by the stunned faces of the other patrons to see the number of buckets of beer Scott and I could put away and still sing our asses off on stage. And then walk home after!

One night, however, I startled both the waitress and my husband by shaking things up. I had noticed a sign change on the wall across from our regular table (stop judging me) and was intrigued. Cruzan Rum, a favorite in the islands, was advertising their new Voodoo Juice–a scrumptious-sounding concoction of 4 flavored rums, dark rum and (a minuscule amount, I’m sure) fruit juices. It was all served up in a really kicky plastic pail with spears of fruit chunks and little parasols. I wanted one, and would not be satisfied until I had it.

It was so freakin’ good! In another setting, at another time, I never would have believed there was even any alcohol in it. That, my friends, is the evil design. I was amused by the pail and its adornments and sipped it with abandon. I wasn’t even bothered by the $12 price tag!

It just so happened that this particular night wasn’t just any old karaoke, but a karaoke contest hosted by VI’s own Pirate Radio!! Fueled by my liquid courage, I got up and sang my heart out. My first song choice that evening was Tricia Yearwood’s “That’s What I Like About You”. Naturally I rocked the house (countried the house just doesn’t sound right) and returned to my seat, convinced I’d won the contest.

Scott sang brilliantly and others sang so-so, but I was not to be swayed in my confidence. So confident was I, in fact, that when the waitress came by and asked if Scott would like another beer, I butted in and ordered another bucket of bolstering. “Um, really?” was the waitresses response… or so I’ve been told. Scott looked at me and said “Honey, are you sure?”. Well of course I was sure! I know the difference between sure and not sure.

Yeah.

Right.

The remainder of the night only returns to me in oily flashbacks whenever I see a rum bottle. As told to me later (much, much later), I got up on stage one more time. Before the music started, I even made an announcement:

“A shong sho nice, I’m shingin’ it twishce.”

And I did. A memorable rendition of the same song, that would probably get me kicked out of Tricia Yearwood’s fan club. (Ms. Yearwood, I hope you understand it was the rum. I’m very, VERY sorry. And please tell Garth I said hi!)

Needless to say, I didn’t win.

How Scott managed to get me back up the hill I’ll never really know. He said I stayed funny right up until the point the puking began, and then we both lost all humor. It didn’t help that by the time I woke the next afternoon I was absolutely miserable with pain and a mango aftertaste that I just couldn’t shake.

And the capper? Both of my hard-earned plastic pails were left sitting on the table at Iggie’s. All things considered, I nearly cried when I realized this. I really wanted to blame Scott, but I’m just not that cruel. It’s not like he didn’t already have his hands full!

The moral of the story? Rum is the devil’s swill and to be avoided at all costs.

Story courtesy of feathermaye and image by Svenstorm