Posts Tagged ‘shots


The Three Evilest Shots You’ll Ever Drink

If you’re the type of person who enjoys this blog, then I’m just gonna jump right in there, take a shot in the dark and guess that you probably don’t mind a drink from time to time.

You don’t mind a drink from time to time, you don’t mind going out with your friends and maybe doing a sneaky tequila or two, you have nothing against that. You don’t mind opening a fine bottle of wine and drinking the whole thing by yourself, that’s fine by you, and you don’t mind taking a hip flask of whisky to work everyday and taking large gulps under your desk when no one’s looking, you know, just to steady your hands a little.



We don’t judge here at Them’s Fightin’ Words, well unless you’re MTN, The Parlotones, 30 Seconds To Mars, a fascist pig, or any number of other things that irritate the shit out of me. I like drunks though, so you guys are safe.

In fact, a lot of my good friends are well accomplished drunks, and I’ve followed their drinking careers in some cases right from the first drink I forced them to down. You know where you stand with a drunk because the second they’ve had a few, THE TRUTH starts flowing like a fountain of milk and honey from their wet, booze soaked lips, usually with hilarious consequences.

Also, I love watching the body language of truly wasted people, especially when they’re trying to get some ass. Take this one friend of mine for example, we’ll just call him X, to avoid an awkward conversation later today. When he’s nice and lubed up he’ll approach his target, leaning backward at an angle of 45 degrees from the floor. Then once he’s made his approach, he’ll straighten up to a respectable 90 degree angle, occasionally wavering forward to 100 and backward to 80.

God help his target if she shows any kind of interest because then it’s balls to the wall, 135 degree forward leaning, right up there in her personal space. Now it’s her turn to lean backward at 45 degrees. It’s like some bizarre mating ritual perpetuated by two similarly charged magnets.



So anyway, I decided for today’s post I’d share a few priceless nuggets of information I gathered whilst living in Grahamstown and studying at Rhodes University, Where Leaders Learn… To Drink.

And no, I don’t know your friend’s sister Kirsty who went there to study a BSC, or your mate Rhino who was part of the surf club so let’s not even go there ok? I went to Rhodes I remember NO ONE! I leave all that remembering bullshit up to other people cause yesterday’s got nothin’ for me, pictures that I’ll always see, time just fades the pages in my book of memories.

Here are the three EVILEST shots ever invented. I sincerely hope you never have to drink any of these. Rhodes students invented these. Yeah, that bad.





Not a very original name for a shot, I’ll be the first to admit that, but when you’re caught in the hazy deluge of a three-day drinking binge, these things seldom matter.

For this particularly potent assault on sobriety, you’ll need the following:

  • 1 x double shot glass
  • 1 x shot of absinthe
  • 1 x shot of stroh rum
  • 1 x draught glass
  • 1 x lighter
  • 1 x bent straw

Ok? Are you picking up what I’m laying down here? It goes like this: You pour the absinthe and stroh into the shot glass and light it. You hold the draught glass upside down over the flaming mess, catching as many fumes as possible before putting the draught glass down over the shot glass, thus neatly extinguishing said flaming mess. Carefully sneak the shot glass out from the draught glass, being careful not to let the fumes escape and SMASH the shot in your face.

Then, quick as possible, put the short end of the bent straw under the draught glass and suck the fumes in like a bong hit. I watched someone pass out instantly when doing this once, so maybe tie yourself to something first.





Specially designed for the shoe-string budget drinker, this is by far the MOST FUCKED you’ll ever get on one shot. I’ve been there. I have the scars to prove it.

For this suicidally retarded foray into drunken oblivion, you’ll need the following:

  • 1 x shot of stroh rum
  • 1 x shot glass FULL of sugar
  • 1 x round slice of lemon, with rind

Can you see where this is going? I think you can see where this is going. This is going straight to shit, do not pass go, do not collect 200.

First empty the entire shot glass of sugar into your mouth. You’ll be surprised how much sugar a shot glass can hold. Swill it around a little to get it moist and then pop the entire lemon slice, rind and all into your mouth and chew it up but good.

By this stage your mouth will be so full your cheeks will be in real danger of rupturing. Now somehow get that shot of stroh in there and swallow the lot. Sit down for 15 minutes and for god’s sake, no matter how ‘fine’ you feel, DON’T drink anything else. Now stand up, walk around a little and marvel at how completely wasted you’ve just become.

Make an educated decision at this point, ask yourself ‘Can I handle any more booze?’ O’course y’can! Ffffaahk!

This will be the last thing you remember.





This shot should not be drunk by ANYONE. It was invented by barmen at Champs Action Bar shortly before the place was closed down. Champs was frequented mainly by truck drivers, correctional services officers, criminals and students who were into metal and didn’t mind spending their evenings watching people fight one another with broken bottles and screwdrivers (true story).

So anyway, there is nothing cute or clever about this shot. To make it you need:

  • 1 x double shot glass
  • Bit of tequila
  • Throw in some stroh rum
  • Fuck it, why not some whisky
  • Vodka’s definitely a winner
  • Some amarula cream so it can curdle instantly
  • And why not finish that bad boy off with a healthy dollop of Tobasco sauce?

Does that sound like fun to you? I had no idea what it was when I bought it because I was already pretty hammered. The sign behind the bar said ‘Don’t be a pussy! Try The Sacred Shit Of Satan.’

‘I’m no goddam pussy!’ I slurred, ‘gimme Satan’s shit!’

Yeah. Boy did I regret that decision.

So there you have it guys, three fun ways to spend a night slurring incoherently, hitting on ugly strangers and starting fights that trust me, you’ll lose.

Hahaha! Good times I tell ya, good times 🙂



The Most Hungover I’ve Ever Been At Work

It’s Friday guys, hell yeah! Hands up who’s hungover from smashing tequilas into their face last night! C’mon, be honest – you at the back there, what’s your name? Eh? Dave? Fuck dude, you look like something I watched come out of a stray dog’s backside once, what the fuck are you doing at work?!



Fridays when I’m hungover at work always remind me of the infamous Friday-that-shall-not-be-named a few years back when I dragged my sorry ass to work, praying with all the strength left in me that my hangover would just cut the fucking foreplay and kill me already.

At this point I think it should be said that if you have delicate sensibilities you should probably just stop reading this right now. Just stop reading it. Just click close now, because the story I’m about to tell you is not pretty and I can guaran-fucking-tee you you won’t look at me the same way after you’ve finished reading it.

In my defence, it’s a mistake I have made once and only once and will sure as hell NEVER REPEAT AGAIN, because if I did, there’s a good chance it would be the last thing I would ever do, it was that bad.

So this is the last warning I’m going to issue – don’t read this if you’re some nancy, enjoys one-or-two drinks when he goes out, doesn’t like getting out of control, parties, but not too hard kinda guy (or girl) because you won’t understand this story.

Also, if you’re my mom just stop right now. Close this window and rather play Tetris for a bit, then make some coffee and carry on with your day and this won’t fuck your entire weekend up.



Ok. Now that that’s out the way, let’s proceed with reckless abandon.

It started at a client event on a Thursday back in 2007. It was a launch we had organised with a whole crowd of consumer media at this awesome and trendy barbershop that had just opened in Fourways Crossing. The turnout was excellent and the event went really, really well – we’d set up a Bedouin tent outside the shop and Liquid Chefs had specially prepared a selection of 5 different cocktails for the afternoon / evening. Very slick, very classy.

We kicked everything off at about 3pm and by 6 all the journalists had gone home, leaving only the owners of the barbershop, my colleagues and the liquid chefs barmen, who we’d hired until 7.

We were all in really high spirits because of how well the event had gone and so decided to sample the cocktails that had been specially prepared because, well, why the fuck not?

This was the first time I can remember getting locked into a proper old school drink-off with The MAEN! who, at nearly six and a half feet tall, can do to drinks what thirsty camels do to 50 gallon water troughs.



The MAEN! and I were both pretty much just ‘work friends’ at that time as I’d only been at my company for about 3 months, but thanks to the events of that night, all that changed VERY fucking quickly. It didn’t take us long to realise that between the two of us we had the capacity, unrelenting sense of purpose and single-minded determination to drink that entire fucking bar dry, which is exactly what we did.

We started out ‘tasting’ one of each of the cocktails Liquid Chefs had prepared in order to reach a proper scientific conclusion as to which was the best one, after which point we drank as many of those as humanly (inhumanly?) possible. Let’s just pause right there and take a minute to think about this – 5 different cocktails with at least 3 different shots in each one = 15 different shots.

Never try this. Promise me.

When they eventually packed up the bar, The MAEN! and myself were suitably unimpressed as both of us felt like we were only beginning to hit our stride and so The MAEN! somehow managed to steal a bottle of gold tequila which the two of us then proceeded to swallow in large gulps straight out the bottle until it was bone dry.

In hindsight, I definitely should have gone home right then and, like a werewolf who knows a full moon’s coming, chained and locked myself to our security gate.



Haha, hindsight. It’s always fucking 20/20 ain’t it?

Instead I drove home, got a buddy to pick me up and proceeded to go out to Tanz Cafe, where Guitar Jon was playing the finals of the singer/songwriter competition they’d been running for the last two months.

I was single at this time and experiencing an acute sense of what I can only describe as suppressed hatred towards the female race. It had been 7 long months since I’d last gotten laid, which was officially the longest dry spell I’d ever lived through.

I don’t know what I did or said to the female population of that bar and I don’t want to know. Probably it was like watching an 85kg wrecking ball of alcohol-fuelled testosterone swinging slowly and purposefully through the crowds of people gather there, smashing into poor, unsuspecting women and scattering them in every direction.

All the while I carried on drinking. Knowing me, it was probably whisky.

My memory of events is hazy at best, but I do recall getting really emotional during Guitar Jon’s performance and screaming ‘WE LOVE YOU JON! FUCKING YEAH!’ at least 15 times during his set.

Sadly, Jon didn’t even crack a spot in the top 3, which enraged me to the point where the ‘red mist’ began to descend. This is where my vision begins to turn blood red, much like the Terminator, and the switch inside me flips from ‘Party, Joke Around, Have a Rad Time’ to ‘KILL EVERYTHING’.



I gave the judge and sponsor of the event, Andy McGibbon, a piece of my mind, and not just any piece. A big, ugly piece.

Eventually, I remember feeling a meaty hand clap firmly on my shoulder, shortly after which I was forcibly removed from Tanz in a tangle of limbs and ‘Get yr ffuckin’ dirty han’s off me you fuckin’ ASS’OLE!’. That’s the last thing I remember.

The next thing I remember was waking up thinking I’d been run over by a truck. My skull was pounding like a jackhammer on a hard cement sidewalk, my tongue tasted like an oversized slug in my mouth and my eyes looked like fried eggs.

I didn’t look like shit. If I’d woken up looking like shit I would have been fine, a shower, shave and some Bioplus and I would have been peachy. I looked much, much worse than shit.

My face was loose and swollen with booze and I swear to god, if you’d squeezed my nose, whisky would have come out.

I showered, got dressed and left for work, the contents of my stomach swilling around malevolently every time I turned a corner. I caught my reflection in my rear view mirror. My face was turning green.

I was the first to arrive at work and dutifully booted my laptop up and took a seat at my desk in the tiny room I shared with The MAEN! and El Guapo. Once my laptop was up and running and Outlook was open I carefully folded my arms on my desk and passed the fuck out.

One of the girls I worked with arrived and popped her head into the office to say good morning. The stench of me sent her reeling like she’d been shot.

‘Woah, fuck dude! You smell like a brewery!’

‘Yep. I feel like a brewery.’

‘Are you ok?’

‘Yeah, I mean, I’m still alive… unfortunately…’

‘Do you want some coffee or something?’

‘NO! I mean, no, I’m fine thanks. Maybe just some water.’

‘Err, ok… I’ve got some Panado if you want any?’

‘That’s ok. Just water is fine thanks.’

Moments later I started getting that godawful feeling right under the back of your tongue that tells your brain that in about 5 seconds you’re gonna become intimately acquainted with whatever it was you ate last, which worried me because I couldn’t remember eating anything.

I calmly stood up and walked across the entrance foyer to the staff bathrooms in the most dignified way possible, smiling and nodding at Beth the receptionist, but not actually saying anything for fear of unleashing the fountain that felt like it was about to erupt from me.

I’m not going to go into the details of what happened next, but I kept things neat and tidy, and didn’t miss the bowl, which was a big plus. The big minus however was that I had to do it as quietly as possible because you could basically hear everything from the bathroom in the entrance foyer.



Have you ever tried to throw up quietly? It’s like trying to jump into a swimming pool without getting wet.

I immediately felt better though, flushed, washed my hands and face, and strode out the bathroom, ready to face my day.

The girl who made the ‘brewery’ remark from earlier was waiting in my office with a glass of water and a concerned expression on her face.

‘Are you sure you’re ok?’

‘Yeah, haha, I’m fine, gimme another half hour and I’ll be 100%.’

‘…Ok… have you had anything to eat this morning?’

‘Um, actually now that you mention it, no I haven’t…’

‘Well, I’m going make some toast with cheese, do you want some?’

‘I’m good thanks, I’ll just stick with water for now.’

‘You should probably eat something dude, you’ll feel much better afterwards.’


‘Just eat one or two pieces, it will settle you stomach.’


‘Cool, wait right there.’

I sat back down and stared blankly at my emails. I was definitely feeling better, but wasn’t quite out of the woods yet. Just then I felt a long, low groan deep in my bowels and suddenly everything became clear to me.

I needed a ‘beer kak’. Once you’ve had a ‘beer kak’ after a heavy night, you instantly start feeling much better.

And so I got up again, and with another big smile on my face, crossed the entrance foyer again, smiled and nodded at Beth politely, closed myself in the only cubicle the men’s toilet had and unleashed something that I can only describe as concentrated evil from my backside.



It felt amazingly satisfying and sure enough, the minute I’d choked that dirty bastard I started feeling almost human again. I wiped and turned to survey my accomplishment and immediately burst out laughing.

God only knows where I got all that fibre from, but the structural integrity of my movement (let’s just call him Derrick to avoid getting too graphic) was impeccable. So much so that when I flushed, nothing happened.

I mean sure, water sloshed this way and that inside the bowl, but Derrick refused to budge. Mild panic set in as I remembered that Beth could hear the toilet flushing loud and clear from the reception desk. I didn’t want to be that dude you know? The double-flusher. Nobody wants to be the double-flusher.

But what could I do? I’m not a fucking animal!

I waited until the toilet was done filling up again, said a silent prayer to whatever Gods may be, closed my eyes and with sweaty palms, hit the flusher a second time.

The sound of water churning inside the bowl filled my ears. It sounded like a good flush, surely this would be enough to send Derrick up the U-bend and out of my life?

I opened my eyes.

I said ‘fuck’.

Derrick didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. He had beaten me, the sick and twisted fuck.

What could I do? Flush AGAIN!? Become the TRIPLE-FLUSHER? No, if two wasn’t going to do the trick, nothing was. I washed my hands, waited for the coast to clear and, like a ballerina skipping across a stage, crossed the foyer in about three quick strides, trying not to make eye contact with Beth.



Back in my office I gratefully tucked into the cheesy toast Brewery Girl had left by my laptop. She was right, all I needed was to put some food into my stomach and I’d be fine…

Or was she…?

The pigswill in my stomach made friends with the cheesy toast at first, but it very quickly became apparent that they had a number of irreconcilable differences that weren’t going to just quietly resolve themselves over time.

My stomach started turning, gently at first, but gradually it got more and more violent until, not 30 minutes after I’d swallowed the last mouthful of cheesy toast, I could feel that unless I got my ass back into that bathroom, something bad was going to happen.

Once again, I got up from my desk, and once again I crossed the entrance hall foyer, smiling at Beth, only this time Beth wasn’t smiling back, she was looking at me with genuine concern and even got up and started to say something, which I pretended not to hear as I burst into the bathroom for the third time that day and closed myself back in the cubicle only to find…

Derrick. Exactly where I left him, reclining with a smug look on his face in his little brown plunge pool.



Do I need to write what happened next? Yes? No?

Let’s just say that Derrick was not impressed AT ALL. But seriously, it served that fucker right. In this world, you play by the rules or suffer the consequences, it’s fit in or fuck off. I felt rocks for Derrick, he brought that upon himself, the arrogant prick.

Still though, it was by far the nastiest moment of my life. The kind of story Alcoholics Anonymous group members tell about the time they hit rock bottom.

At the time I didn’t pause to dwell on the new low I had sunk to though, I just flushed and try to put it all behind me, which was difficult because even after a third flush, Derrick remained steadfast, that fucking fucker!

Fuck, I should be the poster boy for high fibre, I’m what every middle-aged woman trying desperately to become ‘regular’ would give a toe to be like. Kellogs would fucking love my ass if they ever met Derrick.



From that point, I slowly started to recover but, like a dead body I’d buried in a playschool sandbox, I started to feel really guilty about Derrick. Something about just leaving him there went against my code of ethics as a man and a human being.

And so, after a brief and only mildly embarrassing conversation with the cleaning lady, I crossed the foyer for a fourth time, this time with a large, plastic bucket tucked under my arm and a look of steadfast determination fixed on my face.

I hit Derrick with a bucketload of water large enough to drown a cat in and finally, thank fuck! the tough ol’ bastard joined millions of others in ducking up the U-bend and into a place that I see sometimes in my worst nightmares.

Needless to say, I blacked the events of that morning out of my mind for many years, and it’s only been through extensive psycho-therapy that I’ve come to terms with the Friday-that-shall-not-be-named and the indelible mark it’s left on my soul.

There’s a lesson here folks – do everything in moderation and you’ll be fine.

Especially fibre. Watch out for that stuff, it will fuck your shit up, literally 😉

Have a killer weekend.


A Word From The Kind Folks At Nokia

January 2019
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