One all-encompassing question - the type that has scholars, poindexters, ragamuffins, graybeards and the very lads at your local secret society scratching their dandruff noggins’ and poking holes in their less than herculean brawny brain matter - continuously circles the globe in search of an answer. Thousand of theologians, tutor, thinkers, tacticians, taxidermists, taxi-drivers and thinking-cap twits with their less than tenacious tomfools turning over and taxing the third degree to that terrible topic that trials and torments terra-firma’s terrestrials tourists:
“On what do the Gods, the deities that govern our lives, the mucked-mucks head honchos… On what do these beings get s@¢tfaced on?”


A brain teaser if ever there was one. Luckily, thanks to some fine investigative reporting. The ever trusty push and swagger of a predisposed press reporter, and the prodigious promise of premium prizes - bags of coins, sacks of cakes and an all exclusive trip to that crimson dollhouse that has gained fine embellishment on its wares and its acrobatic notoriety - that particular belly busting riddle can now be laid to rest. All it took was a mix-match whimsical play, with the ever available frayed wire and a gainfully hydrated metal bucket to zoom right up to the proverbial horse and get the 411 from his equine mouth… and by horse, I mean the BIG bronco up in the breezy firmament.
Godly drinks for Godly stag parties… An expose on the comings and goings of divine dinners.
“I was somewhere around Mykonos on the edge of the ocean when the Ambrosia began to take hold,” and with that statement, I was smacked over the head by some gonzo like delirium of an ersatz Johnny Deep; trademark infringement being the only drug the ghost couldn’t muster.


Leave it to Greeks and that bolttossing patricidal maniac, Zeus, to come up with a drink that not only grants immortality but introduces itself into all banquets prone on the alluring palms of nymphs. In Homeric tradition, this magnificent mezcal was brought up to Olympus’ filigree strung halls by wild doves. Then, as Zeus and his randy siblings and rambunctious kids were once more - a nightly happening - debating which mortal to “Prima Nocta” that sundown and what ingenious animal to masquerade as, for that rowdy affair, a nymph happened to stumble in drunk into the bestiality-laden paraphilia parley
Ares turned around, Hermes dropped open his mouth, Poseidon tucked away his trident and Athena, that nerdy hedonist, voiced her intellectual appreciation of the statuesque beauty: “look at that hot-momma!”


The doves were instantly shoved in the freezer and prepared for that afternoon’s midday snack. The Gods had discovered, what all mortals already knew, that there is nothing more alluring than a buxom bar wench with an innate ability for serving up drinks. Something about pulling on a long tab that I simply can't get my Freudian finger on.


The party had begun!
The pernicious Pantheon tossed into the background all thoughts of earthly Elysian hanky-panky and called up DJ Calvin Harris, ordered up casks of Ambrosia and checked if the Trojan machines in the baths were dully stoked. The nymph meanwhile slinked into an outfit two sizes too small and told her roommates: "by next week I'll have the down payment for that beachfront condo in Key West. Just wait and see."
Revelers of omniscient togas and godly kegs started frolicking about in the periphery. Divine matches of beer-pong with pious acts of wanton celestial copulation springing up like weed in the saintly brash blowout. Real life renditions of classical Renaissance fooder circulated like horny hares around the dance floor.


A quick fact, picked up by this author as he sat down for a close interview with Zeus’ rather peeved wife, Hera.

“Once, Athena, and this is all hush-hush, had a Hollywood Hill inspired encounter with Penelope. Her words, ‘so that when she appeared for the final time before her suitors, the effects of years had been stripped away, and they were inflamed with passion at the sight of her.’ Ambrosia is the aphrodisiac inbreed child of dark-cholate and fresh oysters,” the salacious pagan God dishing the dirt on a colleague.
A clamor by the door, followed by a welcomed bang. Demeter, that free-wheeling hippie Jehova, heaved into the circus. A bit of holy excess courtesy of her wanderlust ways tucked under her arm. “Hey, guys,” she proclaimed, “primo Indian export!”


In came Sikhism version of Ambrosia: Amrita. A bit of a downer, the screeching bats weren’t up to snuff. "Too mellow," Artemis declared. Pablo Escobar by the hunter's side handing her some of his best; a Colombian white watermark few drinks could aspire to.

And so, the night persevered. Demigods doing conga lines around the Mana fountain. Vikings, and vicars from the land of vicious victors crashing the shindig. Welcomed with open arms once the flasks of Iðunn and its fertility apt prognostications came into the Oscar Wilde inspired insanity. Drastic measure taken when Zeus japed: “we are almost out of wares.” A faun figure almost fainting from fright forging a fast fix; Dionisis opening a vein, ichor swelling out with intoxicating inhibition for all merrymakers to partake. Madness, lunacy, aberrations in every corner, an epic affair. An appalling partaking of the pleasures of the flesh in an overall manner that lacked moderation and temperance; partying of the most mythic heights raised to an art-form.The seal of approval given by Charlie Sheen: two thumbs up.

“Is he dead?” Asked a quizzical author gazing out at the Two And A Half Men party animal.
“Quantum Physics, spacial ambiguity, tears in the fabric of space and the ever-prevalent idea of pseudo-cosmic matter manipulation,” went John Lennon. “Charlie sort of materializes into being whenever something of this nature comes into existence.”
“Oh, makes sense,” a cordon of prevention instinctually forming around Martin’s Sheen salacious spawn. John Belucci taking off his Blues Brother’s hat and bowing down to his idol.
Throughout the cheeky binge, a few more interesting facts about ambrosia dropped into my alcohol soaked lap... then they sort of trickled down by my equally upturned pants and onto a sticky floor; half an hour later I managed to pick the tangible duplicate off the boards. Twelve fact were jotted down, only three managed to escape the every hungry event-horizon of the cocktail napkin; English, rapidly becoming my third language... Fluidity in Latin and Klingon quickly obtained.
Among the soapy scribbles, black ink blotches, and what I hope is red-wine and not blood stains, iotas and smudges of worthwhile liquor.com info were hastily excavated.
One: The second you become a divine being, there’s a barkeep standing next to the heavenly gates with a cup of ambrosia. Think Saint Peter by way of Cheers.
Two: Modern ethnomycologist, such as Danny Staples, is rather certain that ambrosia has more to do with Mario Bros., than with the Greek Myths. He states that this nectar is In essence the pressed sap of the hallucinogenic mushroom Amanita Muscaria.


Three: And, finally, if ambrosia or the Woodstock sponsor fungi are not in your remit or stores then supplant it by the true fruit of the grapevine; e.g, wine. An export from Italy that was no doubt inspired by this nectar of Gods.
After a staggering, energy drink financed bacchanalia I was unceremoniously tossed off that lofty mountain. Caught red handed doing an “in depth” investigative conference with that Monica Bellucci like deity Persephone did not help my standing among the revelers.
Down the cliff I went into the mortal plane. Cartwheeling with the precision of Homer Simpson over the Springfield Canyon in that now-classic episode.
Reaching an edge, inertia arrested midway, only for that muttonhead Hades to come up and give me a swift propulsion forward; by way of the equally swift kick in the rump.
The things I do for a pint of happiness and a paycheck.