After the horror and headaches of Sunday morning (or three in the afternoon, fucking whatever), I'm pretty sure Jager is off the drink list for at least like, two weeks. There's a dark and dangerous thrill to secret shots, even when they're like, secret shots with a fellow alcoholic peril-seeker, and they're in front of everyone at else at the after party.
It's more like initiation for the Skulls, when you're friends with the hosts, and they choose you, with conviction, "Ross, shot time!" because you're always down for cryptic shots as long as you're sleeping there anyway. Or as long as it's like, free.
And then you have an Awesome-Off, which is basically an argument with Slinger over who is more awesome, and it goes something like this:
Clink the bottles and drink. "Dude, you are awesome."
"Pffffsh," I shrug it off, "not nearly as awesome as you."
"No seriously, you're fucking awesome."
"No, you're fucking awesome."
"No, but you have like, the Rossi Posse. And that's awesome." (I have a fan club. Long story. Maybe I'll share it someday.)
"And you're the President of my Posse. Of Awesomeness," I take a drink of my beer and grab the back of...something. For support.
Slinger contemplates this while he takes another drink. "I am the President."
"The fucking awesome President."
"El awesome Presidente!"
"Dude, you are so awesome."
"I think you're awesome."
And this continued for like, ten fucking minutes.
In the end, he totally won, by the way, for reasons in accordance with the following visual representation:
So really, no contest. But in two years, once I've hit thirty? I will totally be awesomer, and everyone knows it.