I became a reporter for The Lantern fully anticipating that there would be some unique writing opportunities at one of the top-five largest universities in the United States. Though, I never expected to inherit the task of reviewing a hangover cure. Let’s get wasted.
It’s 9 p.m. on a Saturday night. Accompanying me on this adventure of self-indulgence and drinking is Eric, one of my best friends visiting from Wayzata, Minn.
This is not going to be a classy night. We have one goal in mind, for each of us to consciously get hammered and with any luck, wake up the next morning to guzzle down a bottle of formula AM.
The newest cure on the market, formula AM claims to combat hangovers with a unique combination of ingredients — oxygen, electrolytes and caffeine.
There will be no time wasted. We start off sharing a 12-pack of Yuengling at my apartment while watching the Spartans upset the Badgers with a last second Hail Mary pass.
I am already starting to feel that warm euphoric sensation flow through my body. It’s time to make a move.
Our destination is Brothers where I know the cherry bombs flow like wine. I have never left that establishment being able to walk in a straight line, ever.
I spotted the bartender who was wearing what appeared to be painted on shorts, and attempted to maintain eye contact with her to order a round of rum and cokes.
After receiving our drinks, we do the scan that every guy does to scope out all the “attractive” women in the bar. Before we know it, our drinks are cashed.
We each down two more rum and cokes and decide to take a walk around the bar.
We start chatting with two suburbanite middle-aged women past their prime, desperately clinging to their 20s, and evangelizing that we are too inexperienced in an attempt to goad us to try harder with them.
After sharing a couple shots and saying goodbye to our friendly elders — assuring them that they didn’t look a year over 30 — we ordered a couple beers and moved outside to get some fresh air.
Making my way to the patio, I can’t decide if I’m at my local neighborhood bar or a wannabe Arnold Classic. Why do other guys walk around like they have imaginary lat syndrome?
After getting some secondhand-smoke ridden air from the patio, we returned inside and kicked it into overdrive.
Suddenly we were on the precipice of buzzed and drunk, barreling full-bore over the edge. We had achieved our drunken stupor.
Feeling like a couple Fred Astaire’s on an episode of Dancing with the Stars, we stumbled carelessly onto the dance floor. Targeting a couple of innocent female bystanders — to the beat of LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It” — we demonstrated an alternate pelvic thrusting version of the robot.
Before we knew it the lights were on and we were being escorted out of the bar by a couple of thick-necked bouncers, like we had just jumped onto stage at a Ke$ha concert.
The five minute walk back to my apartment felt like we had just run in the Chicago Marathon. I managed to make it to my bedroom, and Eric made it to the floor outside of my bedroom.
We woke the next morning — heads pounding, stomach churning and skin crawling. Miraculously, stumbling and fumbling, we made to the refrigerator door. As I opened the door, it was like a scene from Quantum Leap — lights beaming as the door opened, fog spilling out onto the floor.
I desperately reached for our bottles of formula AM. We cracked the seal, toasted to recovery and slammed our drinks.
Within one hour we felt rejuvenated. Our day suddenly turned around. We cleaned ourselves up and were ready for a productive day — thanks to formula AM.
Nicholas Pavlik is 26 years old, and anyone mentioned in the story is at least 21 years of age.