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There are times you need to spice up your parties. Half-assed themes and sorority mixers will only go so far. Buying an ice luge is NOT the way to do it, however.
For the uninitiated, an ice luge is a giant block of ice with channels cut into it. It’s inclined, so when liquor is poured through the top, it drains through, picking up an ass-puckering chill. Victims wait at the bottom with their mouths open to receive a liver-wasting waterfall of sub-zero liquor.
When used appropriately, it’s awesome. Cold booze, weird block of ice, drunkenness — that’s a party. The thing is, everyone gets drunk way too quickly. That’s when the shenanigans start.
One summer midnight, things had turned up to 11. ‘Twas a packed night, the vibe was good, and things were running smoothly. Or so I thought. As the night moved along, the house got hot and people lined up for the luge. There I stood as the vodka god, dispensing liquid mana to the partiers below. Now we went fancy that night, so Grey Goose was on the menu. As such, I treated myself to several healthy swigs.
With inebriation coming quickly, I became more generous and people got wild. Those coming to the ice luge for cooling relief soon began cooling off in other ways. Shirts disappeared. Pants started coming off, too, ladies and dudes alike.
Then came the vomiting. You see, I wasn’t measuring shit out with a shot glass; I drunkenly eyeballed it. Full shots went down the luge even before I thought I was pouring. Much of the burn of vodka disappears when it’s chilled like that. People drank it like water.
A line formed at our party bathroom, held up by a gaggle of freshmen. One cried and puked as the rest consoled her and kept barf from caking her permed hair. People started sneaking upstairs to our private rooms to relieve themselves. Some did not make it all the way. Our party house looked like a hospital hit with the plague – the plague of the ice luge.
Scanning the house for survivors, I found what looked like the Michelin man in my basement. Naked, fat, and pasty, his friends were cheering him on. Before I could kick this motherfucker out, he began running at none other than our dreaded ice luge. He jumped, slid his bare ass down the block like it was a kiddie slide, and bolted with his friends.
That was the last straw. The giant block of ice, vodka, and ass sweat had to go.
Our boys slid it to our backyard. Had we just left it, it would’ve melted away on its own, but simple facts like that tend to dissolve away with the Goose. Out came the sticks. Mini golf clubs, baseball bats, a folding chair. We chipped at that motherfucker like there were diamonds in it.
After a drunk eternity, we probably made enough ice for a small snow cone. Everyone was tired, drunk and sleepy. I then had a brilliant idea: Let’s have fire do the work for us.
Out came the kerosene and matches. It wouldn’t light. Then a bottle of everclear. No fire. Then a jug of tiki torch fluid. I put a tiki torch wick on top, just in case there were some chemical reactions needed or some shit. Lo and behold, it lit. And of course, the blue flame started pouring down the fucking ice channels. Once it hit the floor, it spread through the lake of excess lighter fluid and booze that had collected around us.
As the flame crept to the back door, someone grabbed the vodka.
“Fuck! Dude, fucking no!” I yelled.
Too late. He dumped Goose all over the flames. Bet you thought everything set on fire. Nope, this isn’t a fucking story. This was real life, and in real life vodka doesn’t light. Booze had once again been the problem and the solution.
The moral of the story? Ice luges are filled with chaotic evil. For the twisted fucks who still want one, let me sum this up with a couple lessons. First, measure your fucking drinks. Second, ventilate your house. And third, tiki torch fluid will light on a block of ice, provided you have a wick..