Back in the golden age of pingas a few eyed off the crown. One contender to the throne was the green mitsi – a super pinga that felt like you were chewing on King Kong’s pineal gland.
While good times were guaranteed, the ride to ping-town was a rocky one. Just like a hug from a creepy uncle, the green mitsi would make you feel nauseous as it held you in its grip for an unpleasant amount of time. Usually, this resulted in the partygoer going full exorcist in the toilet and spraying the bowl with the chunky soup of relief.
After the nausea passes, the reveller began to pull faces that alternated between a concussed cookie monster and a creature that would happily feast on its own young. Resistance was futile, as the reveller happily accepted their fate as the Gurnback of Notre Dame.
Of course, one upside to the 3rd degree gurn was the intense feeling of euphoria that soon washed away any inhibition the reveller was harbouring. Typically, one would hit the dancefloor until their shirt was wetter than a Greek pensioner’s driveway and then migrate to the smoking area.
It was in the smoking area that the reveller would fall instantly in love with anyone that spoke to them and smashed darts like an Asian businessman at an international layover. The green mitsi was a performance-enhancing drug in the sport of making promises with strangers that you’d never keep.
Naturally, the green mitsi wasn’t finished with you until it had sucked up all your available endorphins, so the reveller would party on for many hours, aided by Vicks nose torpedos that could see upwards of 50 different nostrils per festival. Yum.
Of course, the only problem with feeling so good for so long, is you tend to crash harder than a Perth truck driver into the bridge of reality. A lively kick-on would take a turn as the reveller would wonder what the fuck they were doing around all these people. People they had professed their love to 25 minutes earlier.
By about 7am, the reveller had two options, find more, or slowly sink into an existential mattress and hope the sleep fairies visited before the demons of anxiety got to them. Usually a pretty close call, but eventually they could typically enjoy a few hours of horrible sleep.
In the morning, the reveller would be in a bit of a pickle. Their mouth was torn up like Israel Folau’s contract and they would be thirsting harder than an exotic gentleman in an insta-hoes inbox. They could cry, but they wouldn’t have the bodily fluids to spare.
After a few days of scuttling around on the Mariana Trench of low points like a depressed crab, the reveller would get amped for the next weekend to do it all again. Relive all the magic. It was the green mitsi way.
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