Everyone has a shot their body refuses to accept. The liquor is so heinous to them that a mere droplet upon their taste buds sends their senses into a full blown PTSD episode as their throat closes itself and declares with a pathetic gag, “YOU SHALL NOT PASS,” before they spit up the shot like a gassy infant that chugged too much formula.
Usually a person’s aversion to certain drinks has to do with their drinking history. If someone can’t handle, for example, a shot of Jäger, it’s likely because they had an unfortunate experience with it. Usually that means they did something like spend one evening in high school drinking it warm, straight from the bottle, until they got two thirds of the way through it, blacked out, and woke up hovering over an infrequently cleaned litter box, violently puking up what now tasted like the Black Death instead of black licorice. When they woke up in the morning, they had ruined a pair of pants and at least two relationships, and could never drink Jäger again.
Other times there isn’t any particular reason why someone doesn’t like a drink or a shot, but nonetheless they simply can’t stand the taste. For me, that shot is the “Pickle Shot.” I am repulsed by it. I would rather take a microwaved shot of Pepe Julio’s Tijuana Gutter Batch Tequila (Distilled with REAL Mexican Creek Water!) than shoot a pickle shot, which to me just tastes like pre-distilled Mexican creek water. The last time I was given a pickle shot I took it unaware of what it was, and consequently my senses were ambushed like I was a fresh platoon walking into a freakin’ Viet Cong crossfire. I was out with the guys from Atomic when one of them handed me a neon green shot. The bar we were at, Buckshot, is infamous for making sweet, sugary shots (there’s a wall listing like 50 of them), so because of the color I assumed this concoction was called a Mountain Dew Bomb or something. I threw the little bastard back before I knew what I was doing. As my taste buds identified what exactly that salty, bitter juice that just washed over them like a wave of sewage spilling into the 9th Ward actually was, my insides began to churn forward as if in slow motion. The contents of my stomach were like a crash test dummy flying through the windshield of a poorly manufactured Hyundai slamming into a concrete wall. With all my might, I clenched down to hold back what was about to be an embarrassing mid-bar projectile vomit.
“HOLD. HOOOOLLLLD,” I demanded of myself.
Thankfully, miraculously, I held back my body’s natural reflex to purge itself of all the evil I had just taken in. Unfortunately, for every action, there’s a reaction, and that reaction was, because I had forced everything down so hard and so fast, that I then nearly shit myself in the middle of that same bar. I wanted to keep everything in me down, and I had. It was going down all right, down and out. There I stood in the middle of the bar, my insides swaying back and forth like a nervous tightrope walker on a windy day, wondering in which direction he would fall to his death. Eventually I found my balance, but the suffering was great. Fuck pickle shots.
On a personal level, it doesn’t get much worse than pickle shots. As I said earlier, in general, everyone has that shot or that liquor that will make them ill upon contact. I always assumed that, unless someone was able to pull my deepest fears from my brain and literally distill them into Bacon’s Nightmare Gin, there was no drink I could ever hate more than a pickle shot.
I believed all of that until yesterday, when I discovered the Cracky Sack, the world’s most heinous non-infant blood based beverage. I wrote about the Cracky Sack after discovering an Instagram video of two LSU guys partaking in the shot after the ‘Bama-LSU game. What is it? Just see for yourself.
According to the good people at Fred’s in Tigerland, a bar near LSU’s campus, the shot involves the following:
We stand up on the bar, and the employee is given a bottle of Jack Daniels. And it is poured down their back, down their sack, and caught with a cup. And then that person takes it or somebody else takes it.
Don’t believe me? Listen to this blackout drunk ginger explain it, and then watch him serve a Cracky Sack up to someone who, I’m guessing, has imbibed in his scrotal drippings before.
Jesus fucking Christ, LSU. The FUCK, Fred’s in Tigerland? Give me a thousand pickle shots before I drink a Jack and Taint. Let me break down the journey that the Jack Daniels of a Cracky Sack takes before it reaches the shot-taker’s mouth, just to fully illustrate what’s happening here.
At the start, the Jack Daniels shoots down the pourer’s back, perhaps splitting currents and reforming, depending on how thickly haired the pourer’s back happens to be. Then, near the small of the back or the top of the ass, the streams come together, maybe pooling or meandering, before shooting down through the depths of the ass crack, falling around and through the pourer’s hairy asshole, like a waterfall inside a cavern whose flow plops from rock to rock on its way down to its ultimate reservoir (which in this case is a cup held beneath a scrotum). Then, clinging to the sphincter, the river of what is now thoroughly assy Jack Daniels defies gravity by traveling across the taint and to the scrotum, where it drips into the cup held by the person who has volunteered to drink it.
That’s a Cracky Sack. People drink it, apparently. Those people go to LSU.
If there are any other SEC schools that enjoy combining alcohol and their assholes, we already have LSU and Tennessee in the fray, now might be the time to step forward. Let’s just get this all out of the way at once.