Adventures in Excess

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I awaken in stygian darkness, disoriented, confused and full of a thick, viscous sickness. My mind reels from side to side in a Frankenstein-esque search for its bearings. A thin crack of light beside me sheds just enough illumination to cast a faint glow on a rising column of dimly reflecting porcelain. I'm in the bathroom. On the floor. Good. I lean my head over the toilet and shake with the deep, coal mine blasts, of the dry heaves. From somewhere in the submerged recesses of my brain, a faint glimmer of consciousness registers the fact that I am miserable.

Now cut to me reclining in a high backed chair behind an imposing mahogany desk. Looking authoritative and relaxed, I begin to wax philosophical.

From somewhere in the submerged recesses of my brain, a faint glimmer of consciousness registers the fact that I am miserable.

If you've taken the time to read the bible, or just took the path of least resistance and watched a few big Hollywood flicks, you've heard that the devil stalks mankind. He waits in dark corners to exploit our weaknesses. He sends his minions out to wreak chaos and havoc. He schemes to use our human flaws to bring us to ruin. Kind of like the scientologists, I think. Anyway, my fellow nomads, I'm here to tell you that I've stumbled upon one of Satan's insidious snares, and managed to live to tell the tail.

It's a game, you see. That's the beauty of it. It's fun. It sucks you in, exploits your darkest urges, then chews you up and devours you. I speak, of course, of a devastating drinking game called Cross the Tracks. Not wanting to be a pawn of evil, I'm not going to explain exactly how the game is played, but here's the awful gist of it. You've got a number of cards laid out, and in their midst sits an alcoholic drink of some kind - your choice, sort of. As you work your way through the cards, you encounter said drink when you reach the midpoint. You must drink it before you can pass, then you refill it with as much booze as you want. Herein lies the awful beauty of the game.

You see, depending on how the cards go for you, you might get through clean and your little gift will be left for the next player. However, sometimes bad things happen to nice people, in which case you'll be reaping what you sow and drinking that thing yourself. Here there be dragons. You are presented with a lucrative opportunity to screw your friends; you can fill that thing right to the brim and whoever "crosses the tracks" next, must drink all of it. Just remember though, my hasty friend, that the bell just may toll for you. And it may toll more than once.

Jump to a brightly lit, suburban kitchen. My gritty toned voice-over, a-la Fight Club, fades into dialogue as the action picks up.

I first encountered the game at a birthday party. It's Monica's birthday and Reece decides that he wants to play drinking games. He introduces Cross the Tracks, a game that he hasn't played in years, not since a friend wound up drinking an entire 26 of whiskey in one game, then spent the next 24 hours throwing up. The game sounds intriguing, so we pile in. However, having a normal shot glass in the middle limits the opportunities for screwing each other, so it is quickly replaced with a six-ounce version that provides titles according to how full the glass is. A full six-ounce shot is called a Pirate. Very soon, all present have reluctantly become pirates and before we know it, Monica has inadvertently drunk a glass of curdled milk. The game is an instant hit.