What freedom being spontaneous and bat-shit crazy must be.
Earlier in the year Drew suggested that we take a week off from school and head to the Yukon. Specifically, to a hotel bar that proudly serves their drinks, not on the rocks, but with a preserved human toe.
“Ok, but hear me out,” he said, challenging my protests for him to leave. He dove into the story of the Sourtoe Cocktail Club.
Sometime during the 1920s, in the wild, ice-covered northwestern Canadian territory, there was an accident involving bootleggers and a frozen toe that had to be cut off right away. It inexplicably was kept in a jar as a reminder of that magical night.
In the early seventies, it was found by one of the local inbreds, who thought it would be a fun idea to put the toe in his cocktail. Well, hilarity ensued and everybody wanted a gangrene toe in their drink!
Drunk from toe juice, they decided to create an official brotherhood of toe drinkers, and would even present homemade diplomas to their new members. Think joining this sacred club is easy? Think you know how to get around the toe? Think you can just sip your drink and avoid the toe completely? Ha!
Before going out to eat their young, these fine folks sat down and established a group charter. Crucial to belonging to the fraternity: the drinker’s lips must touch the toe.
Nowadays, the only way to deal with the burden of my regrettable decision not to French kiss a ninety-year-old toe is to imagine myself there, cheered on by my future Sourtoe brotherhood.
I order a single-malt scotch on the rocks with a toe topper, and today, proudly display my diploma in the most esteemed spot in our house: the downstairs guest bathroom.