A Laugh Threatening Situation

Chapter 8 – Belyy Russkiy (White Russian)

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“Deeper!”

The one word a man never wants to hear when he’s loving a woman with all he’s got.

But I heard it.

And in a Russian accent too, which made it sound more like a threat than a passionate request.

How did I get myself into such a situation?

By channeling my inner Big Lebowski.¹If you haven’t seen the film The Big Lebowski, put this book down now and go watch it.

I worked my way through college waiting tables and bartending, and had been expanding my repertoire of cocktails.

I think everyone who appreciates alcohol goes through various cocktail phases.

Vodka Tonics are a common entry point that might lead to Margaritas.

Then perhaps someone hands you a Jack and Coke.

From there you might evolve to Manhattans or Old Fashioneds.

Next thing you know you’re sipping Negronis and contemplating the nuances of various sweet vermouths.

Maybe.

At this particular point in my life, I was in a White Russian phase.

For those of you who don’t know, a White Russian consists of vodka, Kahlua, and cream over ice. It’s surprisingly good, but like Martinis,²I had a Boss who shared this valuable advice: “One martini is heaven. Two martinis is bliss. Three martinis is fucking stupid.” one or two is probably enough.

I was so enjoying the novelty of this fine beverage that I suggested to my roommates that we should have a White Russian-themed party. I figured it’d be a nice break from beer and we could wear fur hats and talk in funny accents.

Besides, we’d just moved into a cul-de-sac in a new neighborhood, and this would be a great way to meet our neighbors and have some fun.

They got on board and we immediately planned a covert mission to the liquor store and then spilled the secret about what we were up to. And that’s when we found out the guys two doors down were having a keg party on the same night.

And in college, nothing beats a keg party.

But now we had a fridge full of cream and cases of Kahlua and vodka. I tried to convince my roommates to stick around. Surely some people would still want to come to our place for a cocktail. Besides, we had a bathtub full of ice. Let’s make some drinks!

But in college, nothing beats a keg party.

Well, I wasn’t about to let all those undrunk White Russians go to waste. So I consumed as many as I could out of spite.

But drinking alone is sad, especially when you’re pretending to be a KGB agent and there’s nobody around to arrest.

So I fixed myself a to-go cup, put on my fur hat, and begrudgingly headed across enemy lines and down the street to the keg party.

Because in college, nothing beats a keg party.

Miraculously, the first person I met was a white girl from Russia. An exchange student. And gorgeous, but also a giant. Full Amazonian. It was like she’d been scaled up by 30%. Plus, she was in high heels which put her ample bosom at my eye level.

Naturally, I was immediately convinced that she and I were meant to hook up because, after all, I’m drinking White Russians, and she is a white Russian, do the math.

But it turns out that White Russians, (the drink), are not so popular in her motherland and she’d never actually tasted one.

“This will not stand man.”

Naturally, I invited her back to my place for a little cultural exchange. And next thing you know she was diminishing my manhood in her sexy accent.

And at that moment I wanted to die. But it wasn’t to be.

It was the hangover that nearly killed me.

After she left I spent the next three days trying to get rid of all the White Russians still hanging around in my gut. I could feel the cream congealing into cheese and the pain was severe.

I knew I had alcohol poisoning and was guzzling gallons of water in hopes that I could pee or puke it all out. But nothing was working.

I was sure I was dying. I needed to get myself to a hospital and be put on a saline drip. But my masculinity had already taken such a beating, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Instead, I suffered in my room, groaning in bed, alone, regretting my poor life choices and contemplating the fall of communism.

Finally, on the fourth day, all the curdled cream emigrated out of my “belyy” and into the toilet.

And I never drank White Russians again.³This is a lie.

Life Pro Tips

• White Russians (the drink) can be a lovely change of pace. As long as you adopt the right pace, which in my opinion means no more than two a night.
• White Russians (the people) can be a lot of fun as long as they’re not spies, hackers, or 30% bigger than you (unless you’re into that). 
• If you drink so much alcohol that the next day you literally cannot move and cannot pee no matter how much water you drink, get professional help for your physical problem – and possibly for an emotional one.

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• 1
  If you haven’t seen the film The Big Lebowski, put this book down now and go watch it.
• 2
  I had a Boss who shared this valuable advice: “One martini is heaven. Two martinis is bliss. Three martinis is fucking stupid.”
• 3
  This is a lie.