When Satan appeared in the middle of a meeting of goodr’s Board of Directors we were all actually quite pleased as it was a nice respite from the awful powerpoint presentation that Rob was droning over. After making brief introductions around the table, the Prince of Darkness got down to brass tacks: he wanted our souls and was willing to give us almost anything we wanted in return. Before we could start negotiating, Rob blubbered something about his immortal soul being worth far more than any earthly reward and then tried to run out of the boardroom. Luckily, one of the board members had tied Rob’s shoelaces together (as is tradition), so Rob promptly tripped, hit his head on the side of the boardroom table and then lay mercifully unconscious while the rest of the grown-ups got back to the business at hand.
After discussing Lucifer’s proposal amongst ourselves, we decided that a simple exchange of souls for Satanic promises was not very sporting, so we made a counterproposal that we would instead make a bet. Well, when the Devil is down in Georgia he may challenge the yokels sitting on hickory stumps to fiddle contests, but when he’s bargaining with the folks at goodr, he knows the way to our souls is through a few alcoholic beverages.
With that in mind, Beelzebub quickly proposed a drinking contest: the 7 members of the goodr board of directors vs. the Father of Lies himself. If the Abaddon won, he would get our souls. If we won, we would get a dinosaur shrunken down to the size of a house cat.
Being the courteous hosts, we of course allowed the Angel of the Bottomless Pit to choose his drink of choice. We were pleasantly surprised when he produced several bottles of Bulleit Bourbon (10 year); a sophisticated, yet unpretentious choice. With the whiskey selected, all parties shook hands and the contest began. The Adversary would take a shot, and then one of our number would take a shot. And so it proceeded for 4 hours.
On his 42nd shot, the Accuser tipped back the whiskey into his gullet and almost immediately placed his hands over his mouth. His cheeks puffed with demonic bile and his eyes began to water. We all held our breath as the Morning Star attempted to swallow his shame. But just as it seemed he might pull it together, another convulsion wracked the body of the Lord of Hell and the vomit spilled onto the floor (and Rob, who was still unconscious).
We gave a hearty cheer and exchanged several high fives. The Beast quietly cleaned the vomit from his face and graciously bowed, indicating that we had indeed bested him. Not wanting to be ungracious winners, we declared that we would name our black sunglasses “Whiskey Shots with Satan” as a commemoration of this most epic of contests. We also offered Rob’s soul as a sort of parting gift, which none of us felt particularly bad about because Rob had subjected us to that awful powerpoint. The Dark Lord gracefully accepted our gifts and disappeared in a puff of sulfuric smoke.
It had been a hell of a board meeting and we all agreed pina coladas were in order.