If you saw us right now, you would think we were lunatics escaped from a high-secure asylum.
And why not?
With ridiculous gestures, manic expressions on our faces and in varying poises, we looked every bit ready for someone to strait-jacket us.
You’re probably wondering what the hell I am drawling about. Well it all started with Burpy Ben claiming that he knew a fella who could hold 10 ice cubes in his mouth for a minute.
We rubbished and called it a blasted lie equal to the theory of crop circles made by aliens. Like, why would aliens even ASSUME that we morons were intelligent enough to decipher their agri-artistic codes? Absolute tosh we said.
Burpy Ben unfortunately didn’t see it as we did, he never does, and proceeded to bet that he would prove it to us by doing it himself.
We strongly objected as it would be a waste of the ice cubes in his mouth rather than in our glasses of rich whiskey.
Burpy Ben steam-rollered us and started stuffing his wide oral cavity with ice cubes. He always had to have it his way, the dratted old bumblehead.
He gurgled something after 5 ice cubes were in, and pointed to his watch when we gave him weird looks. Nosey Nick translated it to the rest of us dimwits that Ben was asking us to begin the timer.
Jaggy the Joker started the stopwatch and gave the go signal to Ben who stuffed his mouth with 5 more ice cubes to complete the set.
We then watched as he bravely tried to keep them from falling out. As was tradition among guys, we heckled, poked, and called him names while he looked at us with a bloated mouth, unable to spout off his choicest words at us in his usual way. We were enjoying ourselves thoroughly – Ben at our mercy! What a laugh!
A few seconds through it though, Jaggy the Joker halted our entertainment saying that he had just pretended to start the stopwatch, and he had no idea how much time had passed.
Curses and foul words were shot at him. Ben joined in by boinking Jaggy’s head with some of the ice cubes from his mouth.
After we finished with Jaggy, Ben said we had better take this seriously because he mighty well did. We sat with a solemn air as he re-stuffed his mouth with ice meant for our evening drinks.
This time Rude Ron managed the stopwatch, showing it all to us that he had in real started it and not pretended to like some crazy nutcase in the room. Poor Jaggy received glowering faces at this. We would have continued glowering at the goose were it not for Ben who had started to tap-dance all of a sudden.
We turned our heads to witness this new spectacle. He soon started flapping his arms around, his eyes grew bigger, and he seemed to be doing some type of squats at the same time. It was confusing yet vaguely amusing for us audience.
Before we knew it, the ice cubes had cannoned out of Ben’s mouth and hit us in unmentionable areas; areas sacred to us.
We pounded him and jostled him to the floor. In his defense he said it was the ice who did it and not him, and that if we were half as brave as him, we wouldn’t be able to keep the ice in for even a second.
Our egos were mighty bruised. Burpy Ben telling us that we were the greatest funks in the history of the world couldn’t be let go so easily.
We each grabbed ice cubes and crammed them amidst our teeth and tongue.
Soon we were grimacing, inventing new dances, and jumping around like wild hybrids of kangaroos and monkeys.
That’s when our wives entered and beheld us thus behaving, in their terms, like absolute “sozzled to the bone bozos with sense the size of a thimble.”
(If your memory is a level higher than my “can’t remember what happened a minute ago”, then you’ll know that you caught us at the same time as our wives did.)
We were in for a rough time. Apparently our act had confirmed our wives’ suspicions that we were pea-brained, frog-hopping, pig sty stinking dingbats that they had the utmost misfortune of being married to.
We never ventured to do the ludicrous stunt ever again. Not because we lacked dare, pluck, courage and all those fancy terms that describe a man of men! We didn’t perform it because we had alert eyes following our every move. Eyes that threatened the worst – depriving us of our drinks – if we ever resorted to such dotty antics.
Those eyes were the eyes of our dear, sweet, sane wives with a saucepan ready in their hands to whack us on the heads at the slightest instance of mischief.
And that was the sad end of our Ice and Men dare.
P.S: Jaggy the Joker tried talking us into slipping sleeping draughts into our wives’ teas but we vetoed it, not having enough dare to go against the strong feminine army.
This post has been written for the fortnight long #BarAThon challenge organized by Blog-A-Rhythm.