On special occasions, however, I would set aside the time to do something especially thoughtful and outrageously terrible.
Setting aside the childish application of kidney shots and flying elbows, I would exact the most delightful kinds of mental anguish I could muster.
My opus (which I performed on two separate occasions) in regard to this psychological reign of terror, was a scenario wherein I (age 10 at this point) walked into the kitchen just as Jake was getting a drink from the fridge.
I would patiently wait until he had emptied his glass and then, with great alarm, shout, "Wait, you didn't drink THAT juice did you? The juice in the yellow pitcher?!?
He would demand to know what the big deal was and I would feign a troubling visage of confusion and sorrow. Then I'd ask again, with slow and somber inflection, if he was sure he had drank THAT juice.
Without a doubt, he was sure. Why was this such a big deal? Oh, no reason, I'd assure him--but I had probably better go get Mom.
This is where the real problems started. He knew that awakening The Beast with news of this apparently illicit juice drinking would go over poorly.
What on earth was such a big deal, he demanded.
In lugubrious, dispirited tones I explained that the juice he had drank was poisoned.
And there was no known antidote.
The result?
Complete panic. Utter chaos.
Then it would dawn on me: "Oh wait, I do remember an antidote, but it's really gross, so never mind. Maybe you should sit down so the poison won't work so fast and you won't die standing up and hit your head when you fall."
It turned out, as a matter of fact, that he was willing to drink any antidote.
Any antidote, Jake?
Yes, any.
So I set to work.
While assembling my supplies, I explained that this life-saving elixir it was a complicated and distinctly gross concoction.
He explained, in no uncertain terms, that he did not care how it tasted since seven was a pretty early age to die just because someone left poisoned juice in the fridge.
As I began to rush about the kitchen, I made it clear that his only hope laid in the specific ingredients I was now arbitrarily assembling from around the kitchen.
After filling a huge glass a third of the way with water, I added bacon bits, pickle juice, pickles, mayonnaise, walnuts, thyme, a piece of a napkin, corn flakes, bread crust, milk, a half cup of dish soap, vinegar, cream of tartar, sun dried tomatoes, olive oil, part of a carrot, a handful of paper clips, some bird seed and pancake mix.
I shook the glass a few times to properly randomize the contents and then, with seconds remaining before certain death, passed it into the eager hands of my dying brother.
Jake looked down at the mixture, which was frothing and, thanks to some horrible chemical reaction, slowly increasing in temperature.
He was hesitating.
You had better hurry! I kept screaming. This was life or death!
He took one sip, swallowed and immediately bent over double at the waist.
Now I was in his ear shouting about, "This is no time for dry-heaving - start chugging!"
...He was on his third mouthful when The Beast walked in.
What exactly is going on, she wanted to know.
Jake began recapping.
He hit all the main points:
- Drinking the juice
- The juice being poisoned
- No hope
- Special antidote
- The antidote was killing him, too
Mom was not amused.
She had a way of breaking up historically significant moments.
Later, when I got to college, this same trick worked remarkably well on drunk friends.
I wore out my welcome at several parties by bursting into a neighbors kitchen and shouting, "HOLY CRAP! You didn't drink from THAT keg did you? That's the POISONED keg!"
Luckily for the person with a rubber tube hanging out their mouth, there was plenty of hand lotion, barbecue sauce, fish food and peanut butter readily available to whip together an effective antidote.
No comments:
Post a Comment