As I approached the counter at my locally owned liquor store (I have abandoned that alphabet-themed behemoth), I felt a chill.
“What am I getting myself into?” I asked while shuffling through the contents of my pocket in search of an I.D.
I’d heard about this stuff before, but only in D.A.R.E. classes and from bums who looked like they’d seen a bit too much of it in their day. I’m talking, of course, about that most insidious libation, meant for the lushest of the lushes, the stuff you go to when moonshine can only get you to “normal” — Smirnoff Ice.
Though there were a few flavor options including apple, raspberry and the ever-popular stroganoff, but I chose strawberry acai as my poison of chose — because, after all, acai has anti-oxidants and that shit’s just good for yah. Amirite? (Yes.)
Anyways, I got home and uncapped my first bottle. With a slight twist it sighed the most unearthly hiss. I felt the room grow colder as I pressed the bottle to my lips for an inaugural sip. Jesus Christ, those winos weren’t messing around when they told me to steer clear of the “Russian Ripper.” I felt the hair on my chest grow a full four centimeters as I drank. For the record: Yes, I measured my chest hair afterward and yes, I think the metric system is superior.
Those strawberries and acais were surely farmed in the bowels of hell with Satan’s own shit as fertilizer, because let me tell you — this is the hardest stuff I’ve ever had, and I’ve had Mike’s Hard Lemonade. I chased the vile stuff with 101-proof Wild Turkey and it tasted like water — no, like Mother’s milk — after that berry blast of a bitch’s brew passed my lips.
The rest is very hazy, and I’m suppressing the urge to vomit even thinking of the hellish morning I endured after dancing with the Strawberry Devil. I recommend that no one, ever, under any circumstances drink any of Smirnoff’s malted beverages. Just like how “real men love Jesus,” real men don’t drink Smirnoff Ice.