Happy St. Patrick’s Day! Whether you’re Irish (I am) or not, today is a day when people will wish you top o’ the morning and will also potentially offer you a beer at 9.30 am (I am not). Today I’m looking back at a post from ten years ago wherein Mills Lane mediates a melee between a beer and a cocktail. Read on to find out who wins …
“In this corner, bringing a bevy of boluses and carbonated carbohydrate content, wearing Gold Shorts and a lime wedge, weighing in at about 12 oz is the mysterious new challenger, La Corona!”
He raises his fists in the air and burps.
“And in this corner, The Titan of Tight Control, the A1c Ally, weighing in at about 9 oz and made up of cheap vodka, cranberry juice, and a splash of Tropicana orange juice – the reigning champion, The Mighty Madras!”
Madras also pumps his fists, holding tight to a thin, red straw and a test strip.
“Gentlemen, this is the title match. Nothing below 50 mg/dl and nothing, nothing above 250 mg/dl – do you hear me? I want a good, clean fight. Now let’s get it on!”
“And the Corona lurches forward right away, fists flailing! Look at those carbs, folks! The Mighty Madras is backing off a bit – I can hear those ice cubes clanking against the side of him! Corona reels back, swings out and oooooh! A solid hit to the jaw of the Madras! He’s falling back! He’s staggering! Could he be out already? Is this newcomer going to knock the ol’ Tried and True out of the ring?
The Madras is leaning against the ropes … he looks exhausted! Only a few minutes into this fight and the Cold Corona definitely has the upper hand! This could be it! …
… But wait, what’s this I see? Yes, the Mighty Madras is on his feet! He’s taken out a blood glucose meter from his pocket. He’s looking to test Kerri – judges? Are we allowing this? Yes, the judges are allowing a blood test. And Kerri, after having two of the icy cold Coronas, is up to 253 md/gl! Her bolus was grossly under estimated! They’re flashing the results across the marquee – indeed, Kerri is high and the Corona can’t stop staring at the number!
And – ooooh! – the Mighty Madras has snuck in a jab while the Corona isn’t paying attention! He’s now pummeling the Corona! There’s lime juice everywhere, my friends … this is truly a gruesome beating!”
Corona is leaning against the ropes, exhausted from the beating. The Madras reels back his fist, angry that Kerri didn’t measure correctly for her drinks and is now high as a kite. He knows he would have been easier to count. He knows he could have let Kerri enjoy steadier blood sugars and a night out. Why did she pick Corona? Was it the price? Was it the fact that “out having a beer” is what she preferred over a more pretentious mixed drink? Madras didn’t know. He didn’t care. All he knew is that the Corona was horning in on his woman and he wasn’t standing for it.
“And the Madras has brought out a bottle of insulin!! And OH MY GOD he’s cracked it over the Corona’s head! Corona is out! It’s a knock-out, dear viewers! This fight is over! Over!”
Corona falls flat against the mat, out cold. The ring smells of sweat and insulin. Mills Lane grabs the championship belt and thrusts it into Madras’s hand, declaring him “Winnah!” Madras, bleeding profusely from the eye and crying, raises the belt to the air and yells, “Kerri! Kerri!” Kerri comes running from the stands, meter in hand, and stands in front of him as she tests. “153 mg/dl. I’m coming down. I’ll be more careful next time I drink high-carb beers, O Mighty Madras. I promise!”
They embrace. The “Rocky” theme swells in the background. Kerri decides that the next time she wants to have a beer, she needs to measure more carefully and bolus with more precision. She also discovers that she has run this storyline into the ground.
Mills Lane wipes the tears from his eyes. “I love a good fight.”