“I’ve Never Seen Someone Try Dip Without Throwing Up…”

I like to see every opportunity as a challenge. I was born in the YOLO and being friends with mostly men I take advantage of that way too often. Most of the time I learn from my experience and never do it again. This is one of those stories. Kind of.

I was sitting in the apartment of two of my guy friends one night, stone cold sober, when they started talking about dip. They mentioned all of the times they had seen various friends of theirs try it for the first time, promptly turn green, and then shortly after vomit. Growing up north of the Mason-Dixon line I had never seen a single person in my entire life dip in front of me. I was aware that both of the guys I was talking to had tried it (and that one did it with some degree of regularity) but I had never witnessed it and didn’t really understand the concept. As I began asking questions they began to be intrigued by this whole “Yankee’s don’t dip” phenomenon. The more they racked their brains, the more they realized they had never seen someone born north of Kentucky give it a shot. Always up for a challenge I had the words out of my mouth before I knew what I even said.

 

“I know it is a disgusting concept, but it can’t actually be so bad that people throw up from it.”

“I have some in my truck. Want to prove the theory wrong?”

“I mean, I literally have no clue how it works.”

“Its packets, I can teach you in two seconds.”

“And what do I get out of this?”

“Proving us wrong.”

“By not throwing up?”

“By not throwing up.”

“That’s it?”

“I mean you are a Yankee and you are a girl, so technically you would be proving us wrong on three counts.”

“And how long do I have to do this to prove I’m not going to throw up?”

“15-20 minutes.”

“Deal.”

 

Now I don’t do anything half-assed. Ever. So there I stood, empty bottle of gatorade in hand, Grizzly Wintergreen in my mouth, barefoot in the most disgusting kitchen I have seen so far in college, with two grown men staring at me waiting for me to puke in the sink.

 

Ten Minutes In

“You can spit it out now. We really don’t need to see this. You proved your point.”

Twenty Minutes In

“You really might want to think about getting rid of that now.”

Thirty Minutes In

“Really, you are going to turn green any minute.”

Forty Five Minutes In

One of my best girl friends busts through the door – “They told me what you were doing and I didn’t believe them! They said you wouldn’t let them take a picture so I came over. You know it’s disgusting right? You know you can stop now right?”

Sixty Minutes In

“Okay if you were going to puke you would have done it awhile ago. Please, just give up.”

Seventy Five Minutes In

“Want some whiskey, its the good stuff.”

“Fine. I’ll Spit it out…”

 

All things considered, I wouldn’t suggest it. It was definitely one of the most disgusting experiences of my existence and it won’t be happening again any time soon (I have this weird thing about oral hygiene that kicked in immediately after I finally spit it out). I have an Iron stomach and an immunity to nicotine (Despite the fact that I have smoked 1 pack + 4 cigarettes in the span of 6 months, I started by chain smoking a pack of Marlboro Red 100s in a single sitting with no ill effects and no further cravings for nicotine.) However, I didn’t throw up. I swear I was born onto the wrong half of the gender pool…

 

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