Every few thousand years, a great challenge is born, one that stirs individuals to action, forces them to choose right from wrong, and provides them with something to fight for besides who gets the last Cheeto. One such memorable challenge belongs to Mel Gibson in "Braveheart" when he calls for his men to rise up against the oppressors in the hope of compelling the king to make Friday casual dress day -- the professional dress code of skunk-fur rags and no underwear really annoyed them during the normal week.
Yet these aforementioned challenges are but pale contenders to the supreme one: the milk gallon challenge. What exactly is this, you may ask? Well, it usually begins with someone having a great idea.
"I have a great idea," he will say (it's always a guy, since girls flee as quickly as they can from the gallon challenge, as if it were a gun-wielding, moldy, rodent-like insect). The other males will look at this person in awe, wanting, wishing for him to stir their inertia.
"Please stir our inertia," they will say with faces of wanting, wishing awe.
"How about -- and work with me now," he will continue, "we each drink a gallon of milk, and whoever finishes it and is the last to throw up wins."
To this statement, any respectable person with the maturity of at least a six-month-old will reply that the idea is the most repulsive thing he has ever heard.
"What a waste of milk," they will say. "Why not hide the milk in somebody's closet and wait for it to stink up their place?"
But these respectable citizens just do not understand the motivation of bored college students, who will often sink to such depths that they find mechanical engineering interesting. Interesting enough to major in it. These are exactly the people who leap toward gallon challenges, often knocking over people or buildings or entire villages if they are in the way.
Now, no gallon challenge is complete without at least six people, preferably 30, and a building of at least four stories, preferably the Empire State Building. This is because even if you start vomiting -- which disqualifies you -- you and your fellow losers can have side games about who can throw up with the widest arc or who can injure more people. Supposedly vomit falling from the roof of the Empire State Building has the velocity necessary to crush Michael Moore.
I haven't personally engaged in the gallon challenge, but I have watched one. The game exists in six stages.
First: Opening of milk, enjoying first few gulps. Pleasant memory of Cocoa Crisp cereal arises.
Second: Chugging more of the gallon, liquid tastes like concrete, face begins to contort in disgust.
Third: Gallon almost finished, whatever is left of pea-sized region of brain's reasoning lobe cries that perhaps the game was a bad idea. Another gulp kills the lobe for good.
Fourth: Mouth opens. Body instinctively leans over balcony. Vomit, vomit, vomit.
Fifth: Vomit, vomit, vomit. Then, more vomit.
Sixth: Ambulance arrives to carry away innocent pedestrians. Vomit. Quick escape down the alleyway before the police arrive. Vomit, vomit, vomit.
I have never heard of someone finishing the gallon and not throwing up. I'm sure somewhere there is a brawny male who has finished it --you know, the type of male who doesn't need clothes because he has so many women hanging off him. Yet most males are not like him, which may be a good thing, because I hear excessive milk-drinking can lead to the growth of udders.
I recognize that my description hasn't portrayed the gallon challenge in a positive light. And in all honesty, it isn't a pleasant experience. You throw up for more than five minutes, and if you are unfortunate enough to be below the projectile, you could forever have vomit scars on your body. But as with most experiences we have in this life, the joy of the gallon challenge is not in the end result, but in the priceless look on your good friends' faces as they realize they are about to throw up much harder than any man has ever, in the history of vomiting, thrown up before.
Chris' column runs weekly Monday. He can be reached at shuptrine@cavalierdaily.com.
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