The Poopzilla Philosophy

The Poopzilla Philosophy

It tasted like a mixture of gasoline, rotten limes and the stench of a fart that lingers in the room long after it’s been unleashed. We had sipped it and gagged, our eyes watering with the effort of holding back the dry heaves battling to make their way up our throats. After two minutes of heavy breathing to make sure our stomachs stayed where they belonged, we laughed and took two large gulps of the liquid in our cups, finishing it off. It burned on our throats and we all knew that everyone had the same grimace plastered onto their face. We were used to the burn of alcohol, but we had never tasted a mixture so devoid of any semblance of welcomed flavoring. For some reason, the masochists hiding inside us all forced us to mix another and finish it off as well.

In our half drunken states of euphoria, we decided that a drink this potent was deserving of a name. Many names came to mind: The Shitter, Crap in a Cup, Simpy Poop. One of my friends suggested the name, The Poop King. I immediately picked up on the reoccurring theme forming. “This drink is bigger than a king of poop,” I slurred. “This is like…a poopasaurus or…Poopzilla!” The name ultimately stuck and between our laughing fits at the gag reflex this drink seemed to induce, we had unknowingly created a drink that we learned to both hate and cherish. Though this drink was not the strongest, we downed it quickly in an effort to reduce the time we spent tasting its bitter putrid ness in our mouths and thus reached our goal of letting loose and getting drunk in record time. From that night on, whenever the urge to get drunk crept up on us, we used Poopzilla, the foulest tasting drink we’d ever encountered, to get us there.

Though Poopzilla has long since been retired, I still look back on its glory days and think about how such a monstrosity of a drink had managed to weasel its way so close to our hearts. Maybe I loved it so much because it brought back memories I shared with my friends, or simply because we all enjoy getting drunk and Poopzilla was the first drink we’d ever drank together. But subconsciously I began to understand that Poopzilla, as ridiculous and idiot-spawned as it really was, had become a philosophy that I’ve been trying to live by to this day.

In the fall semester of 2004, I failed three out of the four classes I was taking and forfeited my chance of becoming a junior the following fall. I stopped going to classes, started staying up until six in the morning every night, and eventually wore myself down with the struggle to keep from regretting my decisions. Halfway through the semester, I had decided that college wasn’t for me and I was done with it. I didn’t want to move back home, so I just sat in my room and ignored the fact that I was missing tests and failing classes. College had gotten too hard and I didn’t want to keep up with it anymore. When things get hard, I have a tendency to quit. What I didn’t know then was that the hardest thing I’d ever have to do was to explain to my parents why I wasted their money and why I was giving up on something I worked thirteen years to achieve. So when they would ask how things were going, I’d say fine and leave it at that. I don’t like to work towards things, I’d prefer them to come to me.

It took my parents, both my brothers, and countless family friends to convince me that quitting college now would be the biggest mistake I’d ever make in life. Over the Christmas break, I had to make a decision. Would I go back to school when break was over or would I stay home and find a job? I was on the line, leanings towards going back, but I needed something extra to push me in that direction. That something extra came in the form of a single sentence said to me by my Dad. “I think I’ve failed with you.” It was the most hurtful thing that has ever been said to me. For a couple of days, I was numb, didn’t know what to do. For as long as I could remember, my parents had always been proud of me and had always doted upon me. Never had they ever said that I was a failure, whether my own or theirs. I thought about dwelling on that hurt and making that statement true. But I didn’t want that to be true. I didn’t want them to feel like they failed. So I used that hurt, that pain, to reinspire myself.

Whenever thoughts of giving up started to whisper in my ear, I’d use that pain and mold a boot to stick up failure’s ass. Failures don’t admit to what they are, and I wasn’t going to admit to being what my Dad had obtrusively said I was. I knew the moment I admitted to that statement being true, it would be. All of my motivation, my goals, my drive, my enthusiasm towards life and school, it would all crumble down if I admitted that I was a failure. So I used that pain to fuel my energy towards it all. The more I tried to get away from it, the closer to my goals I headed.

Come spring semester, I found myself back at school with a new major and a new motivation nipping at my heels every time I started to fall behind. Though the work was hard and sometimes became painfully aggravating, I decided it was worth it. The struggle was worth not having to admit to being a failure. My goals started to form themselves into coherent shapes of graduation and careers. I had to work hard for those goals and if I ever thought of giving up again, I had a nasty slave driver pushing me forward with the threat of defeat, of failure.

Through it all, I am reminded of Poopzilla. That beautifully nasty drink has a way of putting band-aids on my motivation whenever it breaks. I think of all the burning, gagging sips we went through to reach that blissfully drunken state and realize it’s the same in real life. Poopzilla is the embodiment of my driving force. We suffered through it to achieve our ultimate goal. My goal has become clearer in my efforts to stay ahead of the biting failure that is following me closely. Though it’s hard to get out of bed in the morning and it hurts to turn down friends when they come knocking at your door, wanting you to play four square or Thunder because you have to write a paper, it’s what must be done. Concentrate on those goals, be aware of your motivation stalking you quietly behind, and eventually you’ll reach whatever goals you set for yourself. There’s not a force in the world that can take away the feelings of achievement when you reach your goal.

No pain, no gain. That’s the essence of my Poopzilla philosophy. A philosophy that states: You may gag and choke trying to get it all down, but once it’s finished, you can sit back and bathe in the riches. Just watch for the occasional hangover.



Author's Note: This essay is being published later this summer. More information will be known at a later date.