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I’m not one for playing politics, promoting agendas, or even public service announcements, but if there is one cause I can get behind (aside from your mother’s), it’s bringing civility back to getting fucked up. Jungle Juice has long been a staple at parties ranging from grungy basement bangers to rich girls’ birthday bonanzas in Daddy’s sky terrace apartment. It’s dirty, yet sophisticated enough to appeal to the masses.
However, the laissez-faire attitude I’ve come to expect when watching the creation of Jungle Juice at parties has me questioning this generation’s respect for such a fine tradition.
Getting drunk at a party is like playing that game Jackpot you used to play at recess. The goal is to get Jackpot, which in this case is like being really fucked up – once you get there, you realize it was more fun playing the game. Your 100s and 500s are your beers, with 1000s being your shots. Jungle Juice is like the Mystery Box. It’s tempting, but you know there’s no fucking chance that asshole put anything good in the Mystery Box, and more likely you’re gonna be glued to the floor for 30 minutes before you’re back in the game. You might catch the Mystery Box alive, but once you drink the Kool-Aid it’s only a matter of time before it catches you dead.
Everyone has their own idea of what makes a good batch of Jungle Juice. Some stick to the basics because their social dues don’t cover more than a $10 bottle of booze and some Gatorade. This is fine, because at least you know what you’re getting.
Then, you get those try-hards who pretend their Jungle Juice is going for first place at the County Fair. They put 12 nonsensical ingredients in until somehow four shots of vodka tastes like Arnold Palmer mixed with crack cocaine. You’ll drink that shit like water until someone finds you face-down on the sidewalk. Speaking from experience, it wasn’t a good look for my face, or the sidewalk. Not to mention that amount of sugar will have you feeling hungover until next Tuesday.
This is why I’m calling for the regulation of Jungle Juice. We’ve regulated Wall Street, Big Pharma, and even Healthcare, but nobody is standing up for what really matters. I’m all in favor of states’ rights, so decide amongst yourselves what makes a good Jungle Juice. Consider it like house rules for Beer Pong. Do what you want, but put a fucking chalkboard in the corner and let us all know what’s up before I call foul play. Just don’t go changing shit up halfway through all willy-nilly.
For what it’s worth, consider a Jungle Juice on the stronger side – this might be a mixer with chicks, but it’s not pink lemonade at Barbie’s Summer Camp. Make me feel like I’m drinking so I can manage my expectations accordingly without a blackout creeping up on me out of nowhere. I didn’t get blown out four times tonight just so I could get Whiskey Dick with a 5 later on.
Lastly, don’t even thinking about putting anything extra in there. Throwing a couple Xanax or some Lean in the punch because you think it’s “funny” will ruin any credibility your sad chapter has left, and it won’t be too funny when the only mixers you can land are with the engineering sorority.
Take the five minutes out of your next chapter meeting’s discussion about philanthropic finances to create some bylaws that actually matter.
Regulate your fucking Jungle Juice, kids..