I’m Finished Drinking Sidewalk Slammers

Have you ever woken up with the liver quivers, heart palpitations, a splitting headache, and a moderate desire to jump off something high? If so, you’ve probably had yourself a Sidewalk Slammer.

This comically excessive malt liquor cocktail is like something out of Trailer Park Boys. It consists of an entire forty ounce bottle of Colt 45 mixed with a twenty-four ounce tallboy of Four Loko. Medically speaking, it’s pretty much like chucking double birds at your heart and liver.

Yesterday afternoon I consumed two of these ulcer inducing concoctions. Why? Because if you don’t test your limits, then you won’t… know where your limits are, I guess.

I was playing some casual beer die in my buddy’s backyard with few guys from high school. The sun was shining, the boys were buzzing, and Chingy’s 2003 hit song Holidae In (feat. Ludacris and Snoop Dogg) was blasting through my brand new bluetooth speakers. Life was good.

Then, one of my friends suggested that we walk down to the local package store and purchase the ingredients for Sidewalk Slammers.

Full of Natural Light, youthful exuberance, and teenage nostalgia, I enthusiastically seconded his reckless proposition.

It didn’t occur to me that pounding 64 ounces of malt liquor, sugar, and caffeine on top of an already irresponsible quantity of Natty Light, was a one-way ticket to a hangover that feels like a stroke, but that is exactly what happened.

After turning 21, I’ve found that drinking like a total psychopath has lost some of its luster. Back when the procurement of alcoholic beverages involved hassling older siblings and using fake IDs, it didn’t really matter what poison you put in my body. Now, I can legally purchase alcohol, and I just feel like an asshole when I get preposterously blackout hammered. Some things are just more fun when they’re illegal, I suppose.

So, it is with a heavy heart and a bloated liver that I would like to officially announce my retirement from Sidewalk Slammers. We had a good run, but it’s time for us to part ways. I’m not as young, spry, and carefree as I once was. I can’t continue treating my body like a red headed step child’s rented mule.

Stumbling around parties like Jordan Belfort on ‘ludes might be funny when you’re a freshman/sophomore in college. However, I’m an upperclassman now. People my age are astronauts, I think.

I know for a fact that there are guys younger than me overseas murking terrorizers. So, I can’t be wasting entire afternoons chugging gallons of malt liquor. It’s just counterproductive.

From now on, I will be playing table games OR chugging liquor, not both, not simultaneously. Not like yesterday. Good Lord, I still feel like somebody beat me over the head with the sharp part of a hammer. Your boy is hurting.

There is something especially shameful about being hungover at home during the summer. When I’m at school, I have a whole house full of guys to commiserate, exchange off-color euthanasia jokes, and ultimately start day drinking with. Now, I have to walk my degenerate ass downstairs and face my parents, both of whom have been awake since a perfectly reasonable hour and are dressed like contributing members of society, just judging the absolute shit out of me. There’s nothing like a little early morning parental disappointment to take the wind right out of your sails on a weekday.

As I matoor, my drinking habits must matoor with me. If you’re a big fan of the Sidewalk Slammy, have at it. No judgments. Do you. Just leave me the fuck out of it. Please. I’m getting too old for that shit..

Written by Malcolm Henry

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