Malortious

This weekend was somewhat lowkey, compared to the liver-hardening weekends I've grown accustomed to over the past 10 years.

Friday night, Kyla's bar, the Roscoe Village Pub (hereinafter "RVP"), was having a "Return to Hee Haw" night (or something like that), which was essentially an attempt to create a Hillbilly Sunday-type ambience. As far as I could tell, the attempt was a successful one.

The night's specials included: (1) vats of Skippy Go Naked, a sweet, yet powerful mixture concocted in the RVP's basement by Alex and possibly an evil henchman named Igor; (2) $2 Old Styles; and (3) $2 shots of Malort.

When Christoff saw that shots of Malort were on special, it was kind of like in It when the kids are all grown up and they see Pennywise again. He described it as the worst tasting alcohol he's ever had, having tried it once while in high school. Personally, I have never consciously experienced the taste, although according to Alex, I did a shot of it last Friday (9/29) in the midst of my barrage of Sloppy Hookers (or Retard Sandwiches). I've been told I did not enjoy it.
From what I can tell, "Malort" is Flemish for "self-induced vomiting." While I will save the various descriptions of Malort for Midwestern Eavesdropping, here's what the label on the back of the bottle says: "Jeppson Malort has the aroma and full-bodied flavor of an unusual botanical. Its bitter taste is savored by two-fisted drinkers." No drink should come from a botanical, much less an unusual one. And thank you, but I prefer to be fisted one at a time.

As I'm sure you all know, this story wouldn't be complete without giving unsuspecting victims shots of Malort. Victim #1 was Jessie (who was not privy to Christoff's rage-filled soliloquy on the various downsides of Malort). The culprit was Alex. I wasn't there for the actual shooting, but Jessie soon returned to our table with a look on her face that suggested she had just had cat urine sprayed into her nose with a pressure washer.

Victim #2 was Katie "The Birthday Girl" Bohaty, and the culprit was Christoff (who was nice enough to take a shot of it himself). This nearly viewable post-Malort-shot picture of Katie exhibits the Jekyll-to-Hyde frenzy that seems to accompany doing a shot of Malort.

Jester and I left somewhat early because I had to get up at 6am Saturday to go to the IU/Illinois game in Champaign. Tradd and I met my dad out in the LG, dropped Rhonda off for a new muffler, and headed down I-57.

The game itself was a rollercoaster. Shortly after the start of the 2nd quarter, the Illini had built a seemingly insurmountable 25-7 lead. It was at that point, I theorize, that the Illini players became haughty, indulging in meade, the finest of pork shanks, and the fairest of wenches. All the whilst, the Hoosiers quietly chipped away at the lead, slashing back to 4 down at halftime. As Tradd and I were indulging our own hunger on the concourse with some wurst, the second half kicked off. Seven seconds and 98 yards later, IU had the lead, thanks to the trusty legs of woodsprite Marcus Thigpen. In the end, the Hoosiers got a field goal as time expired to come away with a 34-32 victory, their first victory in Champale since the once-successful Lee Corso era, and their first road Big Ten victory since 2001's vaunted 5-6 team led by Antwaan Randle El.

Number of victories until IU clinches Motor City Bowl berth: 3

Saturday night, I did nothing, due to the lingering sleep deprivational effects of staying out until 5:30 last Saturday night. I slept for nearly 12 hours Saturday night, which was nearly as glorious as the reign of Gustav II. For those of you who are confused, the "II" means "2."

In a bout of irony not fit for Alanis Morissette's lips, Sunday I watched Illinois alum George Halas's Chicago Bears dismantle IU (and LTHS) alum Lou Saban's Buffalo Bills. I came away from it feeling somewhat irritated by the fact that it was not a shutout. Being a Chicago sports fan, I know better than to expect excellence from my teams, but this Bears team is pretty fucking ridiculous. Assuming everyone stays healthy, I will be disappointed if there is not another 46-10-esque result arising from the muggy Dolphin Stadium air on the first Sunday in February, Peyton Manning's tattered and lifeless body having been carted off the field after a particularly disconcerting encounter with Brian Urlacher (and another playoff choke), leaving Jim Sorgi to play the role of Steve Grogan.

And I would be remissed if I didn't give a birthday shout-out to Anton Szandor Zumpano, who turned 28 yesterday.