In an idiotic turn of events, Ezra somehow talked us into drinking the entirety of his left-over liquor supply—on the day before we move... on the day before our office will be CLOSED. So it's not like we're BUSY or anything, right? Or have to stay sharp and on our game, right? But on the other hand, FUCK IT. What could happen right? That's why after spinning the Mercury's almighty Wheel Patrick Harris (Sorry Joneser, I don't like that name) and landing on Ezra's bottle of Blast (by Colt 45), I decided to live blog the experience for your enjoyment.
NOTE: Malt liquor and I have never gotten along very well. While tequila may give me magical powers, and whiskey makes me incredibly strong, malt liquor generally just makes me MEAN. Like, really mean. Meaner than usual. And I'm usually really mean. My last adult fist fight was preceded by 40 ounces of malt liquor. My then roommate asked me to give him a haircut, but I was feeling mean and shaved his head instead. Unsurprisingly we tried to beat each other up, but the fight ended with us in a tangled mess on the floor, drunkenly and homoerotically weeping.
BUT THAT'S NOT GONNA HAPPEN TODAY, RIGHT? The BLAST LIVE BLOG begins after the jump, and ends when Alison Hallett is in tears with her golden locks on the floor. (Kidding. Maybe.)

1:30 pm: Okay, so now I'm looking at the label on the bottle for the first time, and I'm pretty sure this whole "competition" is an excuse to poison me. The label looks like some first semester goth kid at the Art Institute made it, and notably says, "TEST ONLY, NOT FOR RESALE." What am I? Some sort of fucking guinea pig for Colt 45? This is bullshit. It's billed as a "Premium malt beverage with natural flavors (I FUCKING BET) and FD&C Blue #1 & Red #4D added." YUMMERS! However, it does contain 12% alcohol per volume, so it can't be all bad. I'll open it, and be right back.

1:45 pm: Sorry that took so long... I forgot that some asshole already packed all the bottle openers and I've been asking all the office alcoholics if they had one. (Thanks, Brad—turns out it was a twist off.) Anyway, I decided I haven't eaten enough today, so I'll be drinking this thing while eating a Voodoo Doughnut—one of those purple ones with the weird orange shit on top. THIS IS PROBABLY A GREAT IDEA! Okay, let's have a taste... hmmmmmm... all right, all right. Yep, tastes pretty much like you'd think: grape-flavored gasoline. Not all that bad actually—though the aftertaste is pretty metallic and lodges itself inside your septum. Weird, and I'm not joking about this... my left hand just went numb. GOOD THING I MASTURBATE WITH MY RIGHT, HEY-OHHHHH!!
(Oh, man. This isn't good.)

2:00 pm Just edited Nex's "Superbrothers: Sword & Sworcery EP" geek out column, and didn't understand a goddamn word of it. This is not because of the Blast—it's because videogames are for babies who have enough time to waste their lives. (Not you, Nex! You make money off it, so that makes it okay.) My arms and everything from my nipples up are tingling.

2:15 pm About a quarter of the way through the Blast (I'M TRYING TO MAKE IT LAST FOR YOU GUYS, OKAY???) and on three separate occasions I've left the room to get something, stopped by Alison's desk, and then came back to my office because I forgot what I originally went to get. Alison's kinda smirking at me about that, I think. Wonder what she would look like BALD? Oh, and here's something... okay, TWO things that really piss me off. Actually, just one, I'm too bored to write the first one. The second thing is... GODDAMMIT! I FORGOT WHAT I WAS GOING TO WRITE!!

2:30 pm Just edited Marjorie's review of some Vidal Sassoon documentary. Sounds dumb and boring. Halfway through the Blast, and OH! I just got an email from some dickhole crying about why we didn't put their stupid Quiz Night in our pub quiz roundup. BECAUSE WE DIDN'T WANT TO, YOU FREAKING CRYBABY DINGALING. Maybe if you'd do a little less crying and little more taking responsibility for making your stupid quiz night awesome, you'd be more successful. Besides, quiz nights are for people who are too insecure to use their brain during their day jobs. (Not sure what I mean by that.) So SORRY, next time we'll be sure to include all 50,000 Portland quiz nights in our roundups, and make sure every listing gets exactly the same amount of space, and rename our newspaper THE PORTLAND NOTHING BUT BULLSHIT QUIZ NIGHTS MERCURY. GOD! Will people please stop asking me to WORK? I've got some fucking packing to do up in here!

2:45 Nobody will make eye contact with me. I walk into a room, and everybody scurries like fucking little cockroaches. That's not how you WIN, people. You WIN by staying... in... the... room! That sounded like Charlie Sheen. WHERE'S MY BLAST?? Oh, there it is. So the numbness is either gone or spread through my body to the point where I can't tell the difference. NOW, ABOUT WHAT I WAS PISSED ABOUT EARLIER: So that stupid wheel we concocted? It's stupid. And janky. And Wheel Patrick Stewart is the stupidest name ever. But it's not Joneser's fault, it's stupid Ezra's fault for making the stupid decision to choose the stupid fucking name. Anyway, would you like to build a stupid janky wheel of your own? Here are the ACTUAL INSTRUCTIONS used by Scrappers to make it, and I am not bullshitting you!!

Jesus Christ. Is it any wonder print media is dead? I gotta go pick my car up at the mechanic. I'll check you butt-fuckers later.

3:30 pm or whatever Okay, so $450 later, I'm back—and for those namby-pamby's out there screaming, "OH, THE MIGHTY EDITOR OF THE MERCURY WAS DRIVING DRUNK!!" Well, fuck YOU, prick whistle, because actually I biked there. Then I drove back. While I'm on the topic, I put some sweet ass racing wheels on my bike, so if any of you fixies out there want to try taking me down? You can suck on my sweet DICK. Which will be easy for you, because my dick's 20 feet long, and you'll be 20 feet behind me. So what else? The Blast is now finished, AND I FEEL LIKE THE FUCKING MARTIAN MANHUNTER, BABY. Now I'm gonna finish packing up all my shit, take a crap in the corner, and say "Hasta la buttfucker to you old office! I'M OUTTA HERE!" (I'm still available for haircuts, btw. Sarah Mirk's hair looks like she fell asleep under a lawn mower.)