For many in college one of the major rites of passage is participation in what's called "The Century Club." This game, if we may call it that, is usually played when you have a keg, or some other prolific source of beer aka "food for frat boys." The rules are simple: take one shot of beer every minute until you reach the century mark. The simple fact is Century Club changes you in some fundamental way. Whether it's for bad or good, I don't know. But what I can tell you about are the Ten Stages of Century Club.

Ten Minutes - At the onset there is an electricity in the air. Everyone probably knows this is a "college tradition," and the players are proud to add another notch to the "I'm a cool big-time drinker" resume. Over the first five minutes/shots expect everyone to have a couple one-liners about how easy it is to "do it with beer" as opposed to the liquid nuclear waste that's usually being poured into shot glasses.

Twenty Minutes - At this point that initial energy has worn off just a tad. Reality is setting in, and the participants prepare to focus on the task at hand. It is the first hint of realizing that this journey will not be all giggles and crème. One of the life lessons learned from participation in The Century Club is any task, no matter how intriguing initially, can become "work" if you no longer want to be told what to do, and when to do it.

Thirty Minutes - That first hint of realization has now turned into a full on revelation. Around the twenty-five minute mark it hits you that you're already pretty tired of taking shots of beer, but you still have a long way to go. This will be when you get your first round of quitters. They are the wise ones, getting out while sanity is still in their grasp.

Forty Minutes - At this stage all those mental realizations start transforming into physical reactions. Everyone's getting a little hotter, now gritting their teeth with each swallow. That minute between shots, which seemed like an eternity during the first stage, now seemingly passes in a few short breaths. The strong-man competition has commenced. Participants look at each other for signs of anyone coming to their senses and calling it off. At this point the meatheads in the group will step up and apply enough peer pressure to make sure everyone keeps their head in the game.

Fifty Minutes - Sleeves are now rolled up as everyone is past the point of amusement, but the task is only half complete. Most of the participants by this time have foreseen the inevitable consequences of their actions. They have started removing valuables, external clothing, and have gone to retrieve extra garbage cans. The bigger the better. Things are about to start getting messy and everyone knows it.

Sixty Minutes - We should have the first batch of pukings starting somewhere around the hour mark. There is a junior-varsity version of The Century Club, it's called the Power Hour. It would end here.




Seventy Minutes - Once the seal is broken on the vomiting, things start getting real loud and unsettled. There's a lot of shouting. In fact, it's basically all shouting. But everyone has lost control of their conversation filtration device, so people are yelling whatever they want. Unspoken truths, slander, racial slurs "¦ it's all good at this stage of the game. No one cares. Everyone is basically out of their head at this point. Most everything from here on out will be lost in the abyss of drunken incoherency, never to be remembered again.

Eighty Minutes - Voluntary participation in the retch-o-rama ends here, we've now reached the involuntary projectile hurling stage. Whenever anyone talks or moans the only thing that comes out is beer-puke, and it's flying everywhere. Everyone's face and torso is covered.

Ninety Minutes - The finish line is now in sight. After the peak of the barfathon passes, there is a calm before the final storm. The big concern now is that whoever has been keeping track of the time and shots may be in serious danger. There are two possibilities, one, either they are also drinking and are therefore out of their mind and unreliable for remembering time, numbers, their name, or anything. Two, if they have been abstaining from drinking, the remaining participants could turn on him. At this point none of the participants are in a "good" mood. And they will all be claiming to have finished their hundred shots, or that more time is needed, or that this isn't beer they're drinking it's "devil-urine." So this is basically the time where the timekeeper needs to tread carefully and watch his arse.

One Hundred Minutes - The final stanza. Everyone finds a garbage can, or toilet bowl, or sober person's mouth and prepares to deposit all of the contents of their body. With each final shot everyone trembles in sync. No one is standing. No one is able to speak in their native language. Everyone is secreting beer out of every pore and orifice on their bodies. People are shedding tears of beer. People are peeing beer. People are shitting beer. People are putting beer deodorant on. Guys are cumming beer. Girls think they have their period, but it's only beer. People are seeing dead people. Smelling old people. Chaos. It's like The Day After Tomorrow. In fact some people may be watching The Day After Tomorrow and unintelligibly claiming it's a good movie.

After the final shot everyone collapses on the spot, most likely in their own personal pool of beer and bodily fluids. Some will live, some will die. No one will be seen for at least the next 72 hours.

But those new members of The Century Club know that it's all worth it