DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Soured Puss!

DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Soured Puss!
by Louis Fowler


I have never really enjoyed alcoholic beverages. Never. Even beer. Just don't like 'em.

Oh, when my friends were around, I’d be the “big man” and fill a Dixie with vodka and chug it down, acting like it was nothing, when, deep inside, I’m in such searing pain that it takes everything to not vomit my blueberry pie, STAND BY ME-style. And even then usually failing. But real men can handle real liquor, right Chris Holmes from W.A.S.P.?

After spending hundreds of dollars on replacing the rugs of many friends from my oral soilments, I had to face it: I just don’t like the taste of hard liquor. I can't handle the tastes of most liquors, hard or soft, actually. Just writing about them and thinking about, right now as you read this, is making my stomach churn. I'm breathing heavily over the trash can under my desk, just in case. Gasp and swoon, I got the vapors!

Beers are bitter and go through me fast—I don't buy them, I rent them, HAHAHAHAHAFART. Over the course of two or three bottles, I'll urinate enough to fill up another pitcher. And, to top it off, the only beers I can really handle are the cheapest, most watered-down lagers. The Pabsts, the Natural Lights, the Milwaukee's Bests...but I'll be damned if I drink those in public. The ultra-ironic hipster-douchebag contingency have co-opted those for their “Hey, look how poor and working class and I love rockabilly!” jollies, so me ordering them is completely out of the question. And, unless a dirty bomb goes off at Coachella wiping out their vast numbers, I really don't see me ever drinking them ever again. Thanks, trucker hats!

And shots...let's not even get started on those. Everything from Patron to SoCo and back to Jaeger, as I previously mentioned, leave me shaking uncontrollably and retching violently, sweating profusely and lightly foaming. Plus, don't take this the wrong way—OK, do—really only whores do shots. So that's out also.

And champagne, well, I get no kick from champagne.

I have always envied women when it comes to alcohol...well, let me rephrase that: I have envied women's ability (or is it privilege?) to be able to drink fruity, syrupy drinks without shame. Everything else, they can keep. Like periods.

I have always wanted to be able to go up to the bartender and order something watermelon-flavored, but the cat-calls of “Fag!” from the collective peanut gallery made up of my macho male-friends was just too much deal with. It was too embarrassing, especially when you're a single dude. Single dudes can't be seen with a bright blue concoction in a brandy snifter!

But, what I eventually figured out was that, under the cover of comedy—hey, Louis is a wacky guy!—the only beverages I have ever found passable were…sigh…wine coolers, Boone’s Farm (Mountain Berry, please!) and Zima. It became a running gag that I was only happy to trot along with. Show up with some Bartles and Jaymes at a party, play it off as a joke and enjoy a nice little buzz.

“Hey guys! Hahaha, look, wine-coolers! Get it! Because that's so unlike something a kick-ass dude like me would drink! Party on! Kick out the jams! Remember the Alamo!”

But, when that option isn't available, there you are, nursing a nasty local micro-brewed lager, forced to stand-by and watch the lame chicks down the drinks that you secretly wanted. And they're doing it happily. I wanted that Fuzzy Navel, you bitch!

I hosted trivia for over a year or so for a while there. Even though I got a free bar tab, I usually would only have a soda. A tired, lame soda. A flat, bar soda. As my co-hosts downed free brews and the like, I chugged soda after soda just to catch some sort of manic caffeine buzz that never came.

And then I met sweet lady Midori Sour.

True, I saw some drunk sorority chick order it first, but when the bartender dropped that cherry into the neon green, Hi-C Ecto-Cooler looking concoction, I was more than intrigued—I was downright entranced. What could it hurt, I thought.

I ordered up one and my God...it was magnificent. It was so tangy and sweet and sour and fruity. And finally, when you finish it, you got yourself a little treat in the form of a zingy little cherry. It’s like Xmas all over again. It's like rediscovering that joy you once had a child, a joy that has been extinguished violently by years of jobs, bills and ACCORDING TO JIM.

But, of course, that joy was short-lived. The barbs. The taunts. The accusations that I enjoy having anal intercourse with other men. All because I partook in this tasty beverage. It almost made me swear it off...almost.

Something happened to me last year. I turned 30. And, when I turned 30, that little switch in my head, the one that made me give two shits about what people thought flicked off. Everyone has that switch—it's the one that tells you it's okay to wear Crocs with socks in the summertime. And my switch was all about what I drink. I decided that no longer should I be beholden to what some asshole thinks is socially acceptable for me to imbibe upon.

And as far as the gay thing...seriously, is that the best people can do? Determine someone's sexuality over an alcoholic beverage? And, even worse, why is being thought of as “gay” such an insult anyway? In retrospect, all of my favorite directors and singers are gay, so why wouldn't I want to drink what they drink? It's what sells you meat-head fucks Gatorade, right? Call me gay, give me a rainbow flag and put my ass in a parade; in one hand I'll proudly have my cock and in the other, a Midori Sour.

Young men, won't you listen to me: if you don't like Guinness or Wild Turkey, don't waste your life grimacing while trying to keep it down. Grow a pair and admit to yourself that you want a sweet, fruity drink where you can't even taste the alcohol. Saddle up to the bar, sit next to the unemployed grizzled ex-factory workers and proudly say “Barkeep...set me up with a Midori Sour and, aw Hell, drop two cherries in there...one for me, and one for my brothers too ashamed to admit they want one too.”

EDIT: Thanks to Schnaars for taking this pic of an obviously inebriated me, making more Sours for everyone and serving them on the lid of a pizza box.