There is a struggle.
There is a struggle and I emerge downtrodden, feeling like I have been stabbed in the chest with, no, not an ice pick, though that would be appropriate. I have been stabbed with the key to the city. With the beak of a sad sparrow. With the bottom of a rocking chair. I have swallowed a pair of cleats. I have chewed hot gravel. My throat has been lined with the shittiest diamonds. I have done nothing wrong.
And then, the belch, the release of carbon dioxide, the sound of vibration from inside of my throat. I have killed and eaten a teenage girl. I have devoured her backpack, her locker. Her friends, too, I have killed and eaten: their hairspray, their lotions and soaps, their cheap mall anchor-store perfume. Their stickers on their math folders, their names written in bubble letters.
My stomach is a Lisa Frank light switch cover. I feel like I am going to throw up a rainbow. I feel like the Trix Rabbit is going to grind his skateboard on the edges of that rainbow and quote the existentialists: I hate victims who respect their executioners, Brian, this, this is not for silly rabbits, this is not even for kids; certainly this is not for kids.
I am on the ground. My executioner is above me, grinning like a fat baby. He had been documenting this, this hour of my discontent, this … this. He had found the proper angles. He is taking photographs on his phone. I look horrible in four megapixels. He was creating art: me, genuflecting, one knee on the ground, arm outstretched to the heavens like a plea to the beautiful soprano in this opera (she does not exist), a plea to the gods, who certainly have been slaughtered or else they would’ve prevented this, this folly of man, this beginning of the omnicide, the end of the Holocene, the voluntary human extinction movement.
My other hand is around a glass bottle: clear, ridged, slightly Russian. Arsenic in green apple. Sparkling regret. A lost earring on a wedding day. I will smash this bottle on the ground and stab my executioner with the remains of the glass. I want him to get 72 stitches: this is the number on the side of the bottle, 72. 72 is room temperature. 72 is the average number of resting heartbeats per minute. 72 is the percentage of water of which the human body, my human body – which crouches sweating and wretched – consists of, though certainly the combination of malt and sugar has compromised this number, has sucked the life essence from my pores, has rendered me awful. I’m probably down to a 68.
Some say God has 72 names. There are 72 Goetic demons. You can guess which 72 I am praying to now.
You must understand that attempted murder in this case is necessary. People will look at me, horrified. They will say, “He tried to kill a man over that? A drinking game?” They will not understand that this “game” is not a “game”. There are no rules to it—it is a game in the same way that our fundamental human systems are games: commerce, love, faith. This is the gift economy destroyed—reciprocal altruism with the devil’s mustache. A world has been created in which one person can present another person with a fraudulent gift, an alcoholic beverage mixed with fruit flavoring and fructose, and demand that the recipient bow to them and drink it; to have this vile fluid slide down their throat. A gift is not a gift if terms and contracts are involved in the deal: Here, have this motorcycle that I purchased for you. Now drive it off of this cliff immediately. A malted citrus carbonated Jonestown Flavor-Aid is not a gift.
Making someone chug one is not a game. This is far more serious. This is a cycle: a mutually destructive nightmare. To ice is to be iced. All “icers” were once victims. They were in the same situation that I was, kneeling on a sidewalk while the sun set on our half of the world—an apt metaphor, certainly. They, presumably, went to the store and purchased a six-pack of Smirnoff Ice with their extraneous funds for the weekend. They sought out their victims, hiding the bottles in protein powder containers, in bathroom sinks, underneath covers. They laughed and snapped photos of their friends struggling to choke down some repugnant concoction, some abhorrent mixture, some detestable brew—probably wild grape.
They verbosely commented on how gay this whole thing is, how retarded. A sentimental and accurate dissertation to be sure, but it is now they who carry around Strawberry Acai in their backpacks at all times—to indoctrinate another to the horde or to perform an “ice block”: to force your would-be-assassin to chug twice, revealing your concealed-carry in cinematic fashion.
When questioned about the sudden concern and obsession with what has always been perceived to be a girlish-drink, they acknowledge the stupidity of it all. They explain this “game”, how it works. They joke that Smirnoff must be happy about these ironic purchases—that in the month of May, flavored malt beverage sales are up 12% after dropping 20% over the past year. They buy another six-pack at the store: Pomegranate Fusion.
When the news reporters comment on this incident, they will use phrases like “a drinking game gone tragically wrong,” and “revenge seemed to be a factor in the deadly fermented beverage whose barley is allowed to malt before processing homicide,” and your friends will comment that that is fucked up. I will explain to them, calmly, that this has nothing to do with revenge: that these individuals, these bros, are building a doomed house—that you, Aegisthus in khaki shorts and a polo, may be fine suckling these curved bottles like the teat of a goat, but I cannot stand idly by while the uneducated few make demands of all, especially when these demands involve something inspired by Zima. I did it so that my people do not need to live in fear of being forced against their will to drink unicorn vomit and fairy urine. I will take the flies with me. I will be redeemed.
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Very topical article since the website is no longer there.
Such a mailman ripoff…
Very lyric and disturbing, tinged with, if you will, a lime’s wedge of humor. NOt topical, but in the know; using authority to expound on a tragic, unnerving, hysterical event. Not a ripoff, but poetic journalism. No rip-offery in writing anyhow. Only a borrowing. Interesting and great piece.
-Dt
Phatty:
Tragically, this is beyond just the simple website–sure, it was the way it was introduced to the masses (and there are rumors that the guys in charge of the site sold it to someone larger for 5 figures and it will rise from the dead like a pineapple-flavored zombia) but the trend is very much alive (a piece on Gawker Media site Valleywag has a video of the CEO of facebook being iced, and what I’ve been told is that facebook is so hot right now). I did have a moment of ‘damn’ yesterday when I saw the original site got the axe knowing that my piece was going up today (the piece was written a week ago, but that’s how cultural zeitgeist works–the ghost is gone before you knew it was there) but to call it non-topical seems a bit harsh, considering the story is obviously not just about this wacky drinking trend but about how this came about and what its appeal may or may not be.
Chet: Agreed, although you can pull the mailman off and still kinda look cool–the bowing down/subservient pose of the icing is for humiliation purposes.
Nilo: Many thanks, dude.
I’m not sure responses to Phatty and Chet are even necessary. Interesting article, especially the second half. Better carry an ice around with you BOliu or you’re going to get iced yourself, ironically of course.