I officially got the first literal taste of my own medicine about 5 minutes ago. I never thought a metaphor could come this close to reality, but it has. The story goes like this…

Before I went over to a friend's place to pre-party last night, I called and asked if they had any alcohol or if I should bring my own. Apparently BMO was in order, so I did what any junior in HS would do and filled an empty 12-ounce Gatorade bottle full of vodka, threw it in the backseat of my car and headed over to the party a good three beers deep already. Of course, after stopping for another 12-pack of beer at the store and going by the ATM, I forgot about the vodka in my backseat. No problem, they had liquor anyway.

Fast forward to today. I brought in the bottle from my backseat and put it on the kitchen counter with all the other dishes and glasses. Today I'm drinking lots of water because that's what happens when you're hungover. Now, the reason I used a Gatorade bottle for the vodka in the first place is that I use empty Gatorade bottles to keep cold water handy in my fridge.

Well, I'm sure by now you can tell what's about to happen: I reach into the refrigerator for my 4th or 5th bottle of water today, when suddenly A GIANT BLACK BEAR JUMPS OUT OF NOWHERE, MAULS OFF MY HAND AND WASHES IT DOWN WITH A FRESH-SQUEEZED GLASS OF ORANGE JUICE!!!! Oops, sorry, I looked down and started transcribing the last Mad Lib I did today.

So I grab the Gatorade bottle and walk over to my desk. Keep in mind, I'm really thirsty, like when you finish a bag of popcorn and you're all out of soda but you don't want to miss the end of the season finale of Buffy. I open the bottle and as I move it closer to my face, I can tell it smells a little different…perhaps too sweet for water. The first thing that goes through my head is, “I guess Amanda was right about how you can wash a Gatorade bottle out a million times but it will still taste and smell a little like Gatorade. I should really buy a few actual water bottles and start using those.” And that was the last thing I thought before chugging about 1.5 shots of vodka, spewing the other .5 all over my desk, and scaring the living hell out of every body part involved in this rude awakening.

My brain immediately went into shock, which I believe was a natural defense mechanism because it kept me from concentrating too hard on the taste, and allowed me just enough time to keep from vomiting as I ran to the sink for what I hoped to God was still a non-alcoholic tap. As I rinsed my mouth out, I put my hand over my heart and took what amounted to an unofficial 165 heart rate, the same weekend resting heart rate as the late Rick James.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a taste of my own medicine.