Bottoms up, he tilted it to his lips, and the foul concoction oozed towards his mouth, then broke free like a falling glacier, and splashed on his lips like diarrhea hitting a toilet bowl.
He chugged it down to the sludge in the bottom, then projectile vomited all over the bathroom sink. He was turning a little green, but I impassionately noted that the bet was he had to finish it all. So he slurped the fetid waste out of the bottom of the glistening Tropicana bottle, and then vomited again.
He turned green, curled up in a fetal position, and passed out for the night. For some reason, he didn't want to come drinking with us that night.