Last week two old college chums called out of the blue. While reminiscing, each recalled odd things about me back in the day that I'd managed to forget (or repress). It's a little disturbing when others remember you better than you remember yourself. If I ever sit down to write my autobiography, I'll have to hire these people to do it for me.
Anyways, after recounting one of my particularly cringeworthy misdeeds, one pal summed me up with "what would you expect from an Ultra Bullethead?" I had no idea what he was talking about. "Bullethead?" But then my calcified brain fired into action, opening long-locked doors and clearing away years of cobwebs. Bullethead . . . Bullethead . . . Piercing the haze of time, the word Bullethead unleashed a torrent of blocked memories. Bullethead, it turns out, is a tale so bizarre and distasteful and embarrassing that I just have to share it with you.
My bud, who I'll refer to as "Ted" out of respect for his current respectability, belonged to a particularly fun-loving fraternity. We'd spend hours in the fraternity's basement playing foosball, drinking beer, playing beer pong, drinking beer, watching sports on their massive 36" big screen color television set and drinking beer. Then we'd go out to a bar and drink beer.
Once, after a rare bout of studying had taken me away from the sticky floors for a few weeks, I was greeted at the door by two brothers holding three beers. They each proceeded to chug a beer and yell "Bullethead!" Then one thrust the remaining beer at me and told me I had to chug it. I shrugged, chugged, and as one of them heaved on the rug I went downstairs looking for an explanation.
Ted was standing next to a trash can with a stopwatch in one hand and beer in the other. He and a bunch of brothers were yelling "Bullethead" at another brother who, as I watched, chugged four beers in rapid succession and then threw up in the trash can. Ted looked at the stopwatch, said "45 seconds" and everyone yelled "Bullethead" again.
Ted noticed me and waved me over. He explained that the house had recently instituted the "Bullethead Program." Under the Program, any brother who chugged four twelve-ounce cups of beer in less than 60 seconds and managed to hold back the vomit until the end earned the right to be a Bullethead. Any two Bulletheads, approaching a non-Bullethead on fraternity property, could compel the non-Bullethead to chug a beer by (1) each chugging their own beer, (2) yelling "Bullethead!" at the non-Bullethead and (3) handing the non-Bullethead his own beer to chug. That explained my reception at the door.
I quickly realized that if I were to continue to hang out at the house with any hope of maintaining consciousness past the early evening hours, I'd have to become a Bullethead. After some huddled consultations with the leaders of the Bullethead Program, Ted announced that they'd given me a special non-brother exemption and would permit me to attempt to qualify for the Program.
He motioned me over to the trash can, helpfully observing that "it's all in the wrist." Most people assume it's all about the chugging. But it's also about carefully choreographed beer cup replenishment. You can only hold two beers at a time, so in order to get the fastest possible time you have to chug with one hand while, in one fluid motion, your other hand drops the empty cup and grabs another full cup.
Ted set the stopwatch, I hoisted two beers to mouth level, my pit crew stood to the side, ready to replace my empties and upon Ted's "go!" I started to chug. I've always been a quick drinker, so it was no problem to quaff the first three cups. By the fourth, though, I had 36 ounces of cold beer in my system. My stomach was full and the excess was backing up into my esophagus. With an eye on the trash can I drained the fourth, felt the beer rise in my throat and up into my mouth, tossed aside the empty cup and allowed my saturated system to heave the beer into the trash can.
Ted announced "28 seconds" and proclaimed me an Ultra Bullethead, an honorific reserved for those who chugged four beers in thirty seconds or less. As an Ultra Bullethead, I would be able to make mere Bulletheads chug, and I could do it alone without having to grab another Ultra Bullethead to do it with me.
I was feeling pretty proud of myself until I learned that one brother -- we'll call him "Bob" -- had earned the rare status of Magna Cum Bullethead by chugging four beers in less than 20 seconds. Being a Magna did not entitle you to any specific additional privileges under the Bullethead Program, but it did give Bob significant bragging rights.
We debated whether the highest ranking achievable by the Bullethead Program -- that of Summa Cum Bullethead -- was physically attainable. Could anyone chug four twelve-ounce beers in 10 seconds or less? No one ever did, but some of us thought it could be done.
We planned to make T-shirts commemorating our accomplishments in the Bullethead Program but, like so many of our plans over those beer-soaked weeks, nothing came of it. Eventually mid-terms scared most of us temporarily sober, marking an end to the Bullethead Program.
Looking back, I'm struck by how different my college years were from the rest of my life. The beer I drank in my sophomore year alone would fill a wheat silo; the beer that's passed my lips over the many years since graduation would barely fill a Prius's gas tank. Today I'm such a different person from that idiot who attended college in my name. Maybe that's why I can't remember so many of that idiot's exploits.
Or maybe my memory problems and my Ultra Bullethead status are somehow related.
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