Skoal and Hershey’s White Chocolate Just Don’t Mix

It was the first year of middle school, 7^th grade, and the Donk had turned over a new leaf. You see, in elementary school I was a minor dweeb of sorts, an image I unfortunately did nothing to dissuade by participating in the school Chorus and playing the trumpet in Band; I probably deserved most of the beatings I got. But I had decided middle school would be different. All of the local elementary schools emptied into one big middle school, so I had a chance to re-invent myself as the studly jock I knew myself to be.

So far it was working. The hundreds of new kids I was thrown in with had no idea that I was actually a dork on the inside, and I further pulled the wool over their eyes by joining the wrestling and track teams. My plan was in full effect.

One day, at the end of PE, one of my newly acquired jock friends approached me with a twinkle in his eye and a bulge in his lower lip (you thought I was going to say pants, didn’t you?). Pulling a can of Wintergreen Skoal from his back pocket, he casually offered me some. Now, the extent of the Donk’s experience with tobacco at this point in his life was “smoking” those little candy cigarettes you got from the ice cream man, but, clinging desperately to my kick-ass new image, I said “Hell yeah I’ll have me some.”

He opened up the can and I saw that it was the kind that came in the handy “packets” (I dont even know if they make those anymore). I took one out and placed it under my lip, trying to look like a seasoned chew-veteran.

There was an extra little bounce to my step as I walked to my next class, Math. God, I was cool. I was like Jesus combined with Fonzie – I was THAT fuckin cool. I nodded at chicks and strutted my stuff, trying to ignore the fact that the packet, which tasted like Wintergreen-flavored Dung, was burning a hole in my lower lip.

Above: Skoal – The flavors of Mint and Human Feces, all in one little can!

When I got to class and sat down, I realized I had a little problem – I had nothing to spit the juices into, and even if I HAD, I couldn’t risk using it, because the teacher, Mr. Cooper, had notorious eagle eyes and was a real ball-buster. Gracefully adlibbing, I decided I’d just swallow the brownish, liquid-fire spittle down, thus solidifying my perch atop Mt. Coolmore.

Everything was going just great, until Mr. Cooper spotted the bulge in my lower lip.

“What’s that you have in your mouth, Donkey?” His inquisitive eyes peered at me from atop a huge nose and sloppy moustache.

Shit, I was fucking busted. My dad, who could turn bones to powder by sheer mind power alone, would surely use me as his own personal Stairmaster when he caught wind of this. I was fucked – or was I? Thinking quickly, I gulped down the offending packet.

“Nothing, Mr. Cooper,” I managed to choke out as all of my bodily functions threatened to shut down on me. I even managed to open my mouth, thus proving my innocence.

Mr. Cooper was still suspicious, but what could he do? I had outsmarted his ass.

About an hour later, I began to realize the extent of my mistake.

It was after school and I was at track, running sprints. I just didn’t feel right. My head was spinning, I had cold sweats, and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Finally, I excused myself early and headed inside to the cafeteria, where I made another classic blunder. Still in denial that the massive wad of packaged tobacco in my stomach was the source of my problems, I bought a HERSHEY’S WHITE CHOCOLATE BAR and chomped it down, hoping beyond hope that I was just hungry.

Big, big mistake. The white chocolate mixed with the Skoal, creating a pungent cocktail that would have surely put Hersheys out of business if it were put on the market. I began to realize just what a huge problem I had on my hands. I was so dizzy that I could barely stand, and yet I had a 5-mile bike-ride ahead of me in order to get home. I trudged out to where my bike was, but when I got there I collapsed in a heap in the dead grass. Every time I tried to move, the world spun and my stomach jerked spastically.

As the minutes passed, I had time to reflect on just how awesome I was. Yep, I was on my way to the top of the middle school food chain. Then I puked up what seemed to be my last five meals. And then I felt better, right? Wrong. My symptoms stayed the same, and I kept puking and dry heaving over and over again. Man, was I a hardass or what? I soon realized there was no way I was riding my bike home that day. I somehow made it to a payphone and called home, telling my mom that I had a case of the stomach flu and needed to be picked up.

15 long minutes later, my sister Claire mercifully arrived in our family shit-mobile (that’s another blog altogether) and drove my ass home, where I lay all night trying to recover from the toxic mix of Wintergreen Skoal and Hershey’s White Chocolate.

To this day the smell of chewing tobacco makes me gag, and just the thought of white chocolate loosens my bowels and sends a tingle through my spine. But hey, it all worked out in the end because 1) my parents never did find out the true reason I was sick, and 2) neither did any of my friends, meaning that my quest to fool an entire 7^th grade class into thinking I was cool was still very much a possibility.