Well, there goes my ham gravy.
The dozens of cases of Four Loko I had bought to make this Thanksgiving a Thursday that my family will never forget are—as of today—officially contraband. And now I’m reconsidering my decision to use this as the most never-endingly intoxicating meat slather since Bristol Palin’s last performance and subsequent miracle run on Dancing With The Stars.
Sure, I have no idea what that last sentence means. And it’s not technically illegal to drink this stuff, merely to sell it. But the Massachusetts legislature has spoken loud and clear: I should not be using this drink as a gravy in order to get my uncle to unknowingly say something disgusting about Flo from those Progressive commercials.
At least I think that’s what would’ve happened. But I don’t know. And I don’t know because I have never tried Four Loko in my life.
I’m a young man. I sometimes do young man things. I open jars that are welded shut for the perilously weak. I’m in the NFL. I help the woefully old understand new computer lingo (“BRB,” “ROTFL,” “MAYONNAISEMAYONNAISEMAYONNAISE”) to make sure they can communicate with their grandchildren the only way teenagers in captivity know how—solely in acronyms.
And I also attend parties where people drink alcohol with their mouths.
These are usually well-planned, garish affairs. Upstanding citizens. Lots of sweaters. Some wool-panted jazz at a medium volume. Let’s say Dave Brubeck.
In fact, let’s set the mood.
(Today’s Soundtrack: Dave Brubeck - Take Five)
Oh, that’s nice.
So everyone’s standing around, talking about foreign policy or something, I’m sure, over this music. That’s when, invariably, someone kind of staggers in through a backdoor who looks like he’s spent most of the day licking the conveyor belt at a Benjamin Moore quality assurance factory. He’s tired. He’s wearing a torn windbreaker that appears to be an Osh Kosh B’Gosh boys XL. No one claims him as his or her friend, but he seems to know everyone’s name.
He is plastered. He is smelly. He is insufferable.
He is exactly kind of person that I’ve seen drinking Four Loko.
The girl who stole a friend’s half-eaten, oversized Disney World lollipop on Halloween because she was entranced by the colors. The guy who had to be forcefully removed because he was telling us he could juggle knives and that he’d like to show us.
The glassy-eyed sort of people that every generation has readily avoided since the beginning of time? These are the people drinking Four Loko.
I have no opinion about this law. I know that’s not allowed nowadays, here in The Media, but I’m completely ambivalent to the ban of this drink.
I understand both sides. I know that there’s precedent for this sort of thing. We had to euthanize Joe Camel to save the children, so killing a drink that looks like a boozy Capri Sun doesn’t seem all that different. I also understand that it’s simply too painstaking to blacklist every fad that is clearly a menace to society. Snooki would’ve been quarantined in her tanning booth months ago.
But I don’t care because it’s never going to affect me.
Yesterday, I saw a post from an acquaintance on Facebook. In his profile picture, he’s giving the finger to a painting of a man that appears to be a bank robber but is probably a very serious and important artist. Oh, and he loves drugs.
He bought three dozen cans of Four Loko yesterday. He told us on Facebook. This surprised no one.
In the articles I’ve seen criticizing this drink, the most common complaint is that this beverage tastes like candy. I’m almost positive that this guy who bought 30-plus Four Lokos yesterday didn’t do it because 7-11 was out of Pop Rocks.
Maybe, perhaps, we should stop fetishizing a palette for beer as a steppingstone to adulthood? But, no, that would cost too much money. That would ruin the commercials in our football games. You’re right.
So ban my ham gravy at the least opportune time, Massachusetts state government. Looks like my family is going to have to sit through another Lions game stone-cold sober again. It doesn’t seem possible, but we survive it every year, somehow.
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