Taste-Test: Phrosties
Megan | May 27, 2014 | 11:00AM |

The government is ruining Phrosties, you guys, but honestly, the below taste-test will remind all of us why that’s probably a good thing, because #HORRIBLETASTE.

“This tastes like teenage regret.” (A very accurate summation of the Phrosties experience made by my friend Alex.)

Let’s rewind a minute to make sure everyone understands what is meant by “Phrosties”; you may have read this article, in which an office decided to take Phrosties (alcoholic deliverable slushies) for a test drive, and drunkenness ensued. A lot of people angrily commented on the review, because apparently Phrosties were like, some underground phenomenon that had (until now) been mostly on the DL. Well, to all of those angry commentators, I’ve got your back…I’m here to say that PHROSTIES PHUCKING SUCK, LEAVE THE PHROSTIES PHANS ALONE AND DO NOT HOP ON THE BANDWAGON.

In order to acquire a ┬ámulticolored Phrosty, you have to call or text the number associated with their private Instagram account and tell them which flavors you want. Delivery time varies, but we (meaning my friends and I) were told it’d be an hour for the delivery to arrive at our West Village location. It took slightly longer than the hour long estimate, and we could barely sit still the entire time because we were SO OPTIMISTIC that Phrosties would be amazing, even if we somehow died from drinking them because QUESTIONABLE ORIGINS / LEGALITY.


As we impatiently waited, I imagined a boozy version of the Kool-Aid Man crashing through the door, tossing us all brightly colored, slightly hallucinogenic and/or poisonous frozen beverages, but that’s unfortunately not what eventually ended up happening; a┬ánormal-looking-non-Kool-Aid-Man guy showed up with our order in the trunk of his car (we requested fourteen of them to split between seven humans, by the way, because obviously…), and he admitted he didn’t have all of the flavors we’d asked for. He ended up giving us a few extras because he felt bad about it, which was nice, but (as we would soon find out) it was a completely unnecessary gesture as they were all fucking disgusting. But we’ll get to that in a second.

We spread the plastic bottles out on the coffee table (only mildly ironically juxtaposed above a Martha Stewart Living book) and decided which we wanted first. I (being the patriotic motherfucker that I am) selected the red, white and blue AMERICA flavor, which is actually called HERO, but SO WHAT WHO CARES. Others in the group went for the volcano-something-or-other and tropical-this-or-that, and we all prepared to have our minds blown / risk blindness / death / etc. (ACTIVATE STRAWS, ACTIVATE SIPPING.)

And this is right about the part where I became Kirsten Dunst in Melancholia:

It was very, very not good. Actually, it might be good if you think this would be a solid idea: imagine placing cherry cough syrup, Popov vodka, a coconut air freshener and sadness into a blender with some ice. Does that sound good? If so, you will enjoy your Phrosty experience. If not, you will not enjoy your Phrosty experience, because it is exactly like that. And (as previously mentioned) has a robust aftertaste of teenage regret.

While the drinks are definitely booze-filled, nothing crazy happened to me. One of us (who shall remain unnamed),of course, ended up stealthily power-puking in the bathroom; upon returning to the living room, the blorcher in question informed me that it was a lime-green tinted experience, and I can only imagine that this is now the permanent color of my insides post-Phrosty extravaganza.

BUT, as far as everything else was concerned (minus a weird impromptu RENT singalong and some PG shedding of clothes), no one lost hearing or sight, there was no internal bleeding (that we know of), and no one tried to eat anyone’s face. Not that I’d have wanted any of those things to happen in the first place, but if I’m going to be forced to drink something that tastes like gummy bears crawled out of Putin’s ass on a cold day, I AT LEAST want it there to be a good story afterwards. Which is why (apart from the Instagram-able-ness of the bottles), Phrosties (at ten dollars a pop) are kind of the biggest ripoff in history. (Also, they were probably made in a dirty bathtub, let’s be real.)

Bottom line: please don’t order Phrosties. They are really dumb and they taste horrible, and you would be much better off using that ten dollars a bottle to buy other kinds of non-shitty alcohol that don’t take over an hour to be delivered. (Or just like, buy shrooms or something, you know?)

(Until next Taste-Test, here’s to teenage regret.)