Welcome back, college football. We’ve missed your concussing excitement and your uncanny ability to fully justify Saturday morning boozing.
No one wants to sober up during the game, whose alcohol vendors are either overpriced or nonexistent, yet you need to maintain a certain level of drunkenness in order to excuse, well, questionable decisions that people will retrospectively scrutinize. “It was whiskey’s fault I tried to slap that hot mom’s ass and tumbled down three rows of bleachers,” “It’s not that I couldn’t make it to the bathroom; I was just comfortable where I was,” or “No, I’m not a monster who would consciously scream in a child’s face; no, I ‘m just a reckless alcoholic with unchecked enthusiasm who happened to be sitting in front of a small human.”
“Technically,” some unasked chuckle-fuck will remark, “you can always sneak drinks into the stadium within your bloodstream and stomach.” Do not fall for this faint-hearted suggestion (1). It might sound like an oxymoron, but you have too much alcoholic integrity for it. Plus, who is this fearful interjector to assert that you’ve been holding back at tailgate, as if you’re not fully indulging in the weekly mouth fiesta of salted meats and grain-alcohol funnels?
You know the truth. You know that, week-in-and-week-out, you’re ingesting 100% of your potential pregame fun juice. And you know that “sneaking” booze in through this pseudo scheme is a hollow, false victory. Frankly, I’d equate it to saying you got a handjob when all you did was find an alley corpse, wrap its lifeless fingers around your desperate erection, and pump to completion.
It’s obvious, but it bears repeating that, in terms of potent potables to sneak in, liquor is your best option (2). Beer is an awesome mind-numbing elixir, but this is about space and discreteness. It’s not like drug mules cut their wares with baby aspirin and floor cleaner while they’re still in Mexico. Truly, ABV is the only stat that matters here (3).
Again, this is Secret Drinking 101; lifelong alcoholics employ these concepts typically around age twelve, but you always want to opt for long pants and a bulky jacket (4). Everywhere suddenly becomes a hiding spot. Wearing the gaudiest and oversized garments, the Phattest of Farms if you will, can afford you tons of potential liquor troves that few of the slightly-above-minimum-wage security guards will care to ever tease out.
If you’re not impoverished, stupid, or some tragic combination of the aforementioned, you’ll also avoid repurposed water bottles (5). Such vessel had its time—and that time was high-school dances. Its malleable shape gives it a telltale crackle, an easy tipoff when it’s coming from your pant leg or unexplainably noisy crotch. Though, sturdier plastic is the route to take if your stadium utilizes metal detectors (6) that hold up lines, confuse old fucks with knee replacements, and give the illusion that we’re all preventing terrorism.
Okay, I realized that, much like sex education in a puritanical high school, this advice is becoming fairly don’t-heavy. Avoid all these dead-end pitfalls and invest in a flask (7). Get yourself something classy, something that says “I take my perpetual blackout seriously.” Join the ranks of covert stadium drinkers with a solid flask, or just shell out money for airplane shots (8) each week and stash them in your socks, ass crack, fun hole, etc., you know, whatever’s convenient for you.
Godspeed. May your on-the-go alcoholism be forever fun and your stadium’s security remain forever incompetent.
[Image via Scott Olmos-USA TODAY Sports]
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