How could something as innocent as Bros Icing Bros hurt so much?

It’s with a heavy heart that I announce my retirement from Ice-ing, effective immediately. (Or at least until the next time I get Iced as retaliation for announcing my retirement.)

It was the end of May, or the beginning of June, I’m not sure. I’m a shell of a human being. It was a simpler time. I had just read something in a dark corner of the Internet about a silly little game called Bros Icing Bros. Apparently this was something of a national craze.

I had to know more.

I visited the (now-defunct) website brosicingbros.com to learn the rules and launched a vigorous pro-Ice-ing campaign among my closest friends. It seemed like good, harmless summer fun. I also liked the girl-power angle of appropriating a supposedly boys-only game (SORRY TO GET ALL FEMINISM 101 ON YOU). Everyone was on board. Our future was bright.

Let me take you through a standard Ice-ing. There are three basic steps:
1. The ambush

"We've just been iced! Let's eat Ho-Hos." — Anonymous

2. Take a knee.

So upsetting.

3. Chug!

Can't wait until I run for public office!

Here lies the problem, friends. Getting Iced is painful. I’ve never had a bigger headache, or felt more betrayed, the morning after being Iced. I don’t think it’s the alcohol content (5.6% ABV, which is why I’ve Iced bros on their way to work with no regrets). More likely it’s that a regular, no-frills Smirnoff Ice tastes like the Mountain Dew of my nightmares, and probably has a chemical makeup that rivals Britney Spears’s Curious perfume. (Nailed! It!) Another issue is the runaway popularity of Ice-ing (at least among my immediate friends), such that an overzealous group can get totally carried away and end up Ice-ing each other multiple times over the course of several hours. There are double-cross Ice-ings, defensive Ice-ings, outdoor Ice-ings. It’s more than I can bear.

Why didn't we just keep watching "Kourtney and Khloe Take Miami"?!

After spending a very unpleasant train ride in NYC with Carly, sweating out a Smirnoff Ice (Just one! One is all it takes!) with a half-eaten bagel stuffed in my purse, unable to rise to our usual level of comedic genius (Carly was singing “The Rainbow Connection” to me and we talked about kidnapping a child loud enough for his father to hear, causing our other seat-mate to move to the other side of the car) I decided that I’m getting too old for this shit.

So. Retire my jersey. And other sports metaphors. (That’s literally all I’ve got. I’m not a miracle worker.) My brief love affair with Ice-ing has ended.

This face is not good for the world.

On the bright side, this will probably make my Twitter feed a little less cluttered with Ice-ing shop talk. On the not so bright side, the countdown until Kristie issues me a regulatory Ice-ing starts NOW, so this whole post was probably for naught.

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