It’s Time To Rethink Mimosas

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I’ve been living in a fraternity house for a long time.

Well, since time has no meaning inside a fraternity house, I don’t honestly know how long I’ve been here. Most of it I spent drinking Potter’s on a couch while somebody dived deep into “Suggested Videos” on YouTube. It’s been a couple years for sure. Anyway, if I’ve learned anything from all that time, it’s definitely this one, unchanging truth: hangovers suck big, floppy elephant dick.

You know what an elephant dick looks like? Most of the time it’s jammed up inside a tiny fleshy sack, just chilling there until something excites it out. Then the little dogger pops forth with confused priapic fury, like a fifth year nobody’s seen in months showing up at a formal: sweaty, bald and looking for something to have sex with.

You don’t want that elephant weiner hangover anywhere near you. But you don’t really have a choice, do you? Think of your hangover as a beer bong filled with Tecate. It’s terrible, but you made the choices that brought you into this situation: the one guy in the entire world who likes fucking Tecate is pouring and you asked for a bong. You were fully aware that drinking alcohol carries with it the risk that one day you might end up sucking elephant dick via a hangover or be forced to chug down a bolus of the 2nd shittiest Mexican beer from an unwashed PVC tube. You did it anyway, because this is who you are.

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There are essentially two options with hangovers (and they get worse as you get older): you can a) choke on that elephant dick like a champion and stumble through a charity 5k the next morning, OR b) hair of the dog.

Recently, a freshman asked me, “What?” when I told him, “It’s the ‘hair of the fucking dog that bit you,’ you 18-year-old piece of human excrement. This is the future? Dammit, where have we failed? It’s a thing about werewolves, you idiot… I think? Stay off the fucking moors after dark if you want to live.”

Fortunately, there are lots of options for keeping your buzz going in the morning. Everybody’s got their routine: wounded soldier beers, warm Svedka, Angry Orchard (you know who you are).

I’m going to submit (for your consideration) the following counter-suggestion: fucking mimosas.

Okay, stay with me. I understand mimosas are supposed to be a brunch thing. I also understand they have no place in a fraternity house. After all, they prevent scurvy, and healthiness is the opposite of what we’re going for in beverages that intoxicate us. Plus, they dominate thousands upon thousands of basic bitch Instagram pages across the world wide web, and that’s the place where the sun doesn’t touch — the shadowy realm beyond our kingdom.

But guys. Mimosas are fucking delicious.

Check your preconceptions at the door and open your mind. It’s Cook’s + orange juice. Soft, bubbly nectar and cold, frothy citrus. You can put fruit syrup or pineapple spice in that shit. Izze? Pom? Literally can’t go wrong. It’s fucking alcoholic juice. And not like hard lemonade; that’s for trash people. The bubbles make this concoction a cut above.

Imagine you’re having a rough go after a night of sucking the sweat teat of Monarch Gold and Shasta Cola (college is the state of being so broke you can’t even afford real Coke but loving every minute of it). You’ve got a headache the size of the Grand fucking Canyon. Side note: to those of you who are older than 22, do you remember when you used to open a fifth every Friday and finish it by the end of the night? Yeah, that didn’t last long.

What do you want to sip in the cold, dewy embrace of the morning? Do you want to finish off the last warm sputum of that Monarch from the plastic cask that once entombed it? Or do you pop a fresh bottle of the finest California champagne you can get at a Walmart and pour it into a glass of ice cold Florida’s Natural pulp-free orange juice, greeting the first piercing rays of the day with the breakfast of motherfucking champions in a tall champagne flute like the master of men and plastic ping pong balls that you fucking are? And by champagne flute, I mean those giant ass steins from Dollar Tree that all of you have.

A mimosa is the soft touch of a lover you actually remember the name of. The sweet taste of success. It’s time to rethink mimosas. They’re not just for sorority girls on brunch and dudes named Jared who own a purebred french bulldog. Mimosas are the perfect hangover helper. They’re seriously the best way to ease your liver into another 8 hours of drinking.

So wake yourself up, get some Cook’s or André, and pour out a pitcher. You’ll be glad you did.

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Doctor Franzia

*Not qualified to practice medicine*

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