August 19th 5:05pm - Gallon Challenge

The purpose of this glorious event is to drink a gallon of milk in an hour… without throwing up. Earlier this summer six of my friends partook in the contest. Six males, I might add. No female felt the least inclined to participate. That said, we did form a spectator section. The audience comprised of four girls (myself included) and two guys, neither of whom felt any inane pull to join in the theatrics. Each contestant prepared individually, and the techniques ran the gamut. One of the guys ate twelve Lactaid pills, one smoked pot. One restricted his caloric intake to lettuce (and gallons of water) for the four days prior to the contest, one baked brownies, and one prepared a cooler with… (drumroll)…Oreos, Pepto Bismol, and Tums. One did nothing to prepare, but he told me he had a strong, determined mind, and that’s all that mattered. I’m incredibly skeptical as to the thought process behind the lettuce and water, but…whatever works? These methods became pre-competition (and, for us, pre-entertainment) procedures. Ganja Man decorated his gallon with the nick-name “The Red Baron.” Lettuce Man inscribed his gallon with the oh-so-motivating “This is not hard for me,” “I will win,” and “The Champ.” Brownie Man composed the always-inspiring phrase, “The whole fight” on his. As the men lined up their white plastic chairs on the sidewalk in front of the house, Lactaid Man inserted a hunk of chewing tobacco under his lip and walked to his truck to watch Shawshank Redemption, gallon in hand. Cooler Man settled himself and rifled through the articles inside his treasure chest. Cannabis Man relaxed, arranging a glass and containers of chocolate and strawberry Hershey’s syrup beside him. His reasoning: “Nobody dislikes chocolate milk. And when I get sick of chocolate milk, I’ll switch to strawberry milk.” response: “Ummmm….” Brownie Man positioned the brownies within easy reach, while the others talked. To themselves. Muttering encouraging words as they were about to embark on this epic trial that (clearly) tested their manhood. One of the guys punched his invisible milk demons, bouncing on his toes, boxer-status, saying, “You can do this. You will do this. You will win.” The announcer/video taper counted down, the milk hovering above everyone’s mouths. Ready. They all launched the competition with colossal gulps, throwing their heads back and guzzling, gulping. Sixteen minutes in found Ganja Man on his back on the sidewalk, quite unable to move. He lay, comatose, until someone suggested he beer bong the rest of the milk. Sidenote: chugging milk out of a beer bong is not advisable. He was the first to discharge his stomach’s contents. What emerged was a thick, gelatinous pink and brown substance. From the Hershey’s syrup. The others eventually spewed. Lactaid Man quit and soon thereafter spent a half an hour on the toilet. By the last five minutes of the gallon challenge, two remained. No Preparation and Lettuce Man. With three minutes on the clock, No Preparation ceremoniously raised what was left of his gallon and began to swallow. Lettuce Man glanced over and nobly, hurriedly, elevated his gallon and chugged. He regurgitated with less than a minute remaining, with less than two mouthfuls of milk left in his gallon. No Preparation shortly followed. End result: no win, but a vow that it will happen next year. A vow that there will be a victor next year. There will be a champion. And I’ll still be there to watch: oh how lucky I am!

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