Helping you pregame like a pro.
For all you “sneaky booze drinkers” who are of age—as HuffPo would call you—Shots iGot is the new must-have app. As all college students firmly believe that VitaminWater/Gatorade/Coke bottles are the new martini glasses, your classiest nights have probably involved an unknown amount of liquor poured into one of these elegant containers. Then, after adding the perfect amount of meal-swiped Nantucket Nectars and Poland Springs like the pro-mixologist you are, you have concocted an excellent surprise-themed drink, allowing you and your friends to play the party classic Pass-the-Bottle-and-Don’t-Gag.
Enter Shots iGot: For a mere $1.99, you can choose from 44 container types, swipe your finger to indicate how much liquor you poured in, and discover just how many shots are actually in that water bottle. You can also start with a bottle that is half full of mixer and add liquor—just a touch-screen away from smart drinking. I know, Keeney bathrooms are about get so much less disgusting. Know your limits people; you want to try and avoid using our vom-embarassment spectrum.
This, by the way, is an app for college students made by college students. The three Rutgers and Princeton students have gone on to found their own startup aptly named Something With Flow. While a jealous part of me is mildly irritated that every third college student you hear about these days has his/her own startup (Brown students included), I can appreciate the effort make drinking safer, one iPhone at a time.
Wow. We need to step up our game. After Tufts’ annual “Winter Bash,” 15 Tufts students were “treated for excessive drinking,” six of whom got EMS-ed (or whatever they call it up there). Other kids were seen “throwing up and urinating in the lobby” of the Westin Copley Place hotel. Suffice it to say it’s a bit more upscale than the Whisko men’s room. Contrary to Bill O’Reilly’s belief, this actually makes SPG look tame-ish on the EMS front.
Ahhh Thanksgiving! Eating turkey, giving thanks for friends and family, and passing out on the couch like a football-watching beached whale. That’s fine, but personally I want more days centered around Americans being badass and climbing up flagpoles.
Ok ok, allow me to explain. When Lincoln created Thanksgiving in 1863, (there’s nothing Lincoln can’t do), Evacuation Day became obsolete as a holiday and faded by the turn of the 20th century. Before its untimely demise, Evacuation Day celebrated the end of the Revolutionary War: George “Gallant Stroll” Washington took back Manhattan and evacuated the last British troops from the island on November 25th, 1783. This is my appeal to bring back Evacuation Day because it’s crazy as fuck:
- The last shot of the war was apparently fired on this day when a smelly redcoat shot a cannon into a jeering crowd on Staten Island.
- By the time George Washington reached the Battery, (now Battery Park), British soldiers had nailed a British flag to a flagpole at the Battery and then greased the pole, proving their douchiness. The scrappy Americans nailed some wooden cleats to the pole and John Van Arsdale was able to switch out the Union Jack for the stars and stripes before the British fleet had sailed away. Continue Reading
To my fellow Brunonians:
Recently, I’ve come to a sobering realization. I’m writing today to confess something: I have a dark secret. It’s taken me four semesters to admit it, but I have a serious problem.
I didn’t recognize it for what it was at first. Sure, it was eating up my time, my money, but goddamnit I can stop whenever I want to!
It starts with a couple beers. A shot of tequila or vodka, maybe. Perhaps some mixed drinks. Seems pretty harmless. You’ve actually dressed up and put some makeup on. You go out. Drink some jungle juice. Now you’re bored, so you go home. Alone. Suddenly, you’re online. You can’t stop browsing. Click click click.
Before you know it, it’s 7 a.m. and the athletes are rising for practice.
No, my addiction is not porn. It’s much more sinister than your weekly boner jams. My porn is Amazon.com, eBay, Macy’s and Forever21.com. I am a Drunk Shopaholic, and PayPal is my enabler.
Because we hope you’re as excited as we are about Spring Week
end, we’ve decided to up the anticipation even more. We’ll be hitting you with a snapshot of the food and drinks we’ll be consuming over the next 12 days.
Because you may know (or you can guess) that the amount of exquisite, delicate, flavorful sustenance about to hit your palate over the next few days can be too much to handle, why not prepare your stomach/body with a shot of nutrients?
To this extent, we suggest some Vitamin Water (like XXX or Power-C) and fruit juices with plenty of antioxidants and vitamins to reload once you finish all your assignments. We’re not sure what any of these words mean but they suggest health and responsibility, things we will soon be sacrificing in favor of free
love beer music … well, paid-for fun. You’ll find these beverages in all the auxiliary eateries and neighborhood markets for fairly cheap prices.
And if you really can’t wait for the fun to start, they also make great mixers.
When I turned 21, the age when the morally upright Uncle Sam decided I could handle booze, I was abroad in London. It’s a city that proves gloomy enough without an unwelcome birthday. London’s nickname is “the Smoke,” which is appropriate because it’s very gray and because I sometimes found it was hard to breathe there.
It was April 6. As the clock approached midnight, I downed some Stellas at a sparsely populated café. A few of my moneyed friends had left London the day before to go skydiving in Lucerne, Switzerland; I was mostly broke and completely alone.
When I sobered up, I found myself aboard a train to Hollyhead — a seaside town in Wales. From Hollyhead, I bought a roundtrip ferry ride to Dublin. I boarded the vessel and promptly fell asleep in the first available chair, mumbling about a Portrait of Dorian Gray. I awoke with a dry mouth aboard the ferry. I got up and stepped carefully: the floor was littered with bodies; each was asleep or hoping to be. It was around five-thirty in the morning when the sun smudged the sky, polluting the cragged Irish coast with a sour orange.
F. Scott Fitzgerald would introduce himself at parties as “one of the most notorious drinkers of the younger generation.” While I’ve sort of fallen in love with the phrase, I’m not as brilliant a drinker or writer as he was. Anyway, I needed something of an introduction (as I knew no one and had no plan) so I went with a typical Irish greeting: “What’s the craic?” Continue Reading