The Vodka brewed in Sommerville Massachusetts. Why not “from the cool, clean waters of lake eerie!” or “from the rolling hills of Chernobyl!”? It is the worst tasting vodka in the history of history. Poor Siberian farmers made better vodka in their toilets. Seriously, it tastes like an awkward combination of sludgy and yet chalky. Basically, it tastes like elmers glue.
But there’s a bigger story here. Cossack Vodka is tied in with the story of the worst night of my life.
It was back in College when I lived in a two floor house with my 6 of my best friends from school. The night was none other than the disparaging game 3 of the ALCS in 2004 and the Red Sox had just got their asses handed to them on a silver platter by the Yankees. My roommates were also having a party at the time. It wasn’t a huge party, but there were enough people to constitute a large get-together. And most of them I didn’t know for some reason. I was extraordinarily depressed by the game and a number of other recent and decided to take out my sorrows with the time-tested approach of copious amounts of alcohol. I’m normally quite the merry drunk, but this night was bad news bears.
We didn’t have much of a choice. The liquor stores were closed and all that was left was a bottle of “Cossack Vodka” that had been sitting around for some reason. My good friend Little Mike and I decided to start taking shots in effort of comraderie. We started of with 3 quick shots to get that “quick drunk” buzz. What struck me immediately was the horrible taste in my mouth. It was Epic-Fail bad. The horror-striken taste was totally analogous to the terrible night. So we started drinking more in an effort to stop tasting it. It started an epic streak really where we consumed 11 shots in 30 minutes. I proceeded to take 4 more in the approaching 15 minutes to little mike’s two. That means in 45 minutes I had 15 shots of horrible vodka to Little Mike’s 13.
That’s a lot of awful booze.
Apparently somewhere during that home stretch we were going back and forth at our neighbors house. I don’t really remember much anymore, though I did remember this stuff the next day.
Anycrap, flash-forward a half an hour and I feel awful and I make my way to a toilet, to perform my santicmonious duty of throwing up. I immediately start thinking “this is good, just get it out, you’ll be fine”.
Thirty seconds into the proceedings Little Mike is being pushed into the same bathroom after throwing up on our friend. Needless to say, she wasn’t amused, but she was being a good sport. So there I am throwing up in the toilet as Little Mike pukes (rather messily) in the sink. It sounded like two horses dying in heat.
This went on for hours. It was not one and done. It was puke-fest 04. Getting up constantly in the night to hurl. All the next day, to hurl. I couldn’t get it off of the lining in my stomach. It was horrible. And all the while, I tasted that awful chalky texture of Cossack vodka.
Maybe the worst part of all of this was that Little Mike somehow still uses this as night where he “beat me” in a drinking contest. The first problem with this is that the drinking contests with myself and Little Mike didn’t develop til later on in the semester, all of which I won handily. The Second problem is I drank two more shots of vodka. The third is if I knew it was a contest I could have easily handled the next thirty seconds and held it in. Fourth, I never would’ve puked on a girl. Ssssssssssorry Little Mike.
The only good thing about it is I think of it like my “baptism by fire” and the Red Sox went on to do the impossible, win 8 straight, win the world series, and lift the curse.
But damn. When I think back to that night. I can still taste it.
Damn you Cossack Vodka.
Damn you to hell.