By Ava Devana

Alright gang, time for a little Drink, Chug, Fuck! The rules are simple: I give you three beers, and you gotta choose which one you wanna drink, chug, or fuck. Now I’m sure you’re reading this going, ‘Okay.. Drink, Chug, Fuck, that doesn’t sound too hard, lay it on me Ava!’ Well how bout you shut the fuck up right there and just LISTEN TO ME!!! Jesus fucking Christ, this isn’t as simple as Duck, Duck, Goose or some shit! This isn’t a round of Fuck, Marry, Kill with Roseanne Barr, Cleopatra, and John Kerry for Christ’s sake (Fuck Roseanne, Marry John Kerry, and Kill Cleopatra, obviously). This is mother fucking Drink, Chug, Fuck people!! Have some respect!!! 

When you choose a beer to drink, you wanna choose one that’s pure. Innocent. Something you wanna caress with your tongue, gently, then tilt your head back so your eyes stare into the turquoise horizons, and you can contemplate the concept of hedonism, and whether your pursuit of well balanced hops warrants scrutiny because it’s an extension of your privileged narcissism. 

When you’re selecting a beer you wanna chug, you want a brew that will allow you to dissociate yourself from your senses and consciousness as much as possible, so you can watch over yourself as you conflict self harm and enter a higher realm of inebriation that will bring you closer to your natural, primitive instincts.  

And when you’re thinking about which beer you’d wanna fuck, close your eyes. Think about the person, animal, or object you want to fuck the most that you haven’t fucked yet. Maybe it’s a fawn, or your neighbor’s cashmere leggings, or Brendan Fraser. Let that desire consume your awareness, until your neurons are overcome with violent carnal intuitions. Now stop resisting your deviant impulses. Nothing can deny you from fucking the one thing you want to fuck most in this universe. You can and will fuck anything you want, when you want, how you want. Your sole purpose in this existential dimension you have now inhabited is to fuck. In fact, fucking is not a verb, or a desire, or even an activity one can observe. It is, simply, everything. Fucking, just… Is… Now open your eyes. Pick a beer. 

A potent porter has the carnal capabilities of an untamed Brendan Fraser

Now you understand?? Do you see??? That’s how you play mother fucking Drink, Chug, Fuck, capiche?? This ain’t no Tic Tac Toe you Trick Ass Ho. This is Drink, Chug, Fuck; a revered and extolling tradition, with origins tracing back to the Tiberius Empire in 42 B.C. Rome. Peasants would flock the public squares, desperate to catch a glimpse of decorated war generals, returning to Rome after years of desolate battle with the cutthroat Carthaginian civilization, who were honored with a ceremonious choosing between three exotic nectars: one to savor, one to guzzle, and one to ravish… 

So my reader… Now that you understand what’s at stake… Are you ready to fulfill your destiny? Are you willing to furnish your palate as a sacrificial gesture to those who have Drank, Chugged, and Fucked before you? Are you able to allow your perceptions of taste and flavor to devour your ego, rationale, and morality so you can truly participate in this hecatomb ritual that will test your limits of cognizance and ultimately leave your brain void of the notion of survival because you have already experienced and surpassed the boundaries of subsistence and rapture? Then tread lightly weary wanderer… For where you’re going… Time is an adversary, choice is deception, and remorse… Is the only instinct you can trust… 

Roman Emperors engaging in their annual Drink, Chug, Fuck ritual.

Leinenkugel Summer Shandy / Sam Adams Boston Lager / Red Stripe 

Ah, we start with a test! An assessment of your proficiency of all that is piquant! You gaze at your options and grow confident of your gauging; defiant in your appraisal. You hear yourself nearly utter your decisions out loud, because you are conditioned in your naivety. But ah, ah, ah, not so fast! Doomed is the mind who seeks logic while immersed in a thicket of treachery. Your heart begs you to drink the Red Stripe, Chug the Boston Lager, and Fuck the Summer Shandy, but have thou not been betrayed by an eager heart before? 

Your lustful naivety amuses me.

You silly serf. You only perceive what you feel is expected of you. Those well endowed in the ways of wisdom will seek sanctuary in the subtle sipping of Sam Adams, belligerently gulp the Shandy to subdue its sourness, and yes, invade the orifices of the exotic, imported Red Stripe, brewed with the bellows held by calloused, experienced hands, waiting to receive your tender, throbbing member. 

Guinness / Sierra Nevada Pale Ale / Blue Moon

Well now. It appears the child’s play has ceased, has it not? Gone are the queries of facile concoctions, replaced with a challenge of considerable toil. Your heart beat flutters with the yearning to penetrate the citric wonderment of Blue Moon, but your loins tremble with temptation at the sheer thought of mounting the mosaic hops of a condensing bottle of Sierra Nevada. And yet, there’s still that old familiar, dark-legged harlot named Guinness, frothing in anticipation of your lips caressing its carbonation.

Never trust a Vestal to do a Whore’s job.

Unfortunately my dear confidant, this isn’t a contest of Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. Chivalry needs to be initiated with one of these enticing elixirs, and despite its promiscuous presentation, the Sierra Nevada Pale Ale lacks the lascivious urge and experience as its aforementioned companions. You must drink the Pale Ale, under the guise that many moons from now, its lust will mature, blossom, and be prime for plucking. As for who to Chug, one would assume a coin toss could determine a salacious solution… BLASPHEMY!!! I CRY BLASPHEMY!!! The Blue Moon sets tonight, and wanes in darkness as it swirls its way down into its acidic tomb. Which leaves us to fornicate with an experienced, yet classy cocotte, who’s just as proud of its sexual incontinence as it is of its Dublin heritage. Just be sure to expect to awake alone, as platonic companionship is an oxymoron for this dark and dry dame. 

New Belgium Fat Tire / Deschutes Fresh Squeezed / Lagunitas Lil’ Sumpin’ Sumpin’

Ssshhh… You hear that? It’s the silence of ten thousand urges inside of you being suppressed of their prurient nature. You see, lust is the definitive compulsion we’ve inherited from our forefathers. We tolerate cordiality in order to obtain a tranquil habitat. Nonetheless, it would be a disdainful display of irreverent ignorance to outright spurn our debaucherous interpretations of intimacy. Hence why we must balance our carnivorous libido with the applicable composure of Drink, and by meeting in the middle with the hostile, yet chaste, gobbling of Chug.   

Cheeky little thing, isn’t she?

From afar, the New Belgium Fat Tire seems ripe enough to approach and dismantle into seductive submission. However, its tang is meeker than its appearance may suggest, which catapults it into drink, or dare I say, chugging territory. As for the Lagunitas Lil’ Sumpin’ Sumpin’, don’t let its smutty title tickle your ardorous zeal. Its hefeweizen origins suggest a finish that’s susceptible to be tamed; almost too lucid to deflower. These conclusions beg the question: is the juice worth the squeeze? If Deschutes is the juice and fucking is the squeeze, then squash away young brethren. Escalate your grip until your palms burn with passion, and have your way with this lively, malty body. As for the others, a Fat Tire seems like the ideal opportunity for casual consumption, aye? Prolong your libation by Drinking New Belgium, and relish the Lagunitas by relaxing the tonsils and forcing a savory cascade to descend in your internal digestive passage. 

Bud Light Lime / Bud Light Platinum / Bud Light Lime-A-Rita

Oh, this one’s easy: Drink Bud Light Lime, Chug Bud Light Platinum, and Fuck Bud Light Lime-A-Rita. Yup, that’s what you do. That’s how you do it. Thanks for playing!  

Oh yeah, Fuck the Lime-A-Rita, for sure.