I’m a guy. Guys love doing things that make no sense, as long as they have a winner, a loser and someone to call a ‘pansy’.

Case in point: Red Bull.

While up late at The Chart last semester, a few editors were asking important questions like, “What happened to Arsenio Hall and who invented roller chairs?”

Naturally, the conversation led us to the topic of Red Bull.

It wasn’t long before a challenge was set: who can drink the most? These are the moments men live for. What we see as a true test of will, women think is a complete waste of time and money. And it is, but as men, we’re not supposed to say that.

To avoid a possible lawsuit, and to try and get a free T-shirt, we logged on to the Red Bull Web site searching for safety issues. According to the site, Red Bull does two things: it keeps you awake and gives you wings. We figured neither of the two could kill us.

So, in true male fashion, Andy Tevis, design editor, and I bought a small cache of Red Bull for an all-out drink-off.

We wanted to know two things: will we die? And, will we actually grow wings?

The rules were as follows:

Drink as many as possible in 90 minutes.

No breaking the seal (this means, no going to the bathroom and no throwing up. Doing so means you are a wuss.)

It was easy at first. We were neck-in-neck through the first two cans, probably because we drank them faster than Jennifer Lopez went through Ben Affleck.

By the third can, we were feeling the effects. My speech went from hard to understand to incoherent. My eye wouldn’t stop twitching and I could type 250 words per minute.

I pulled ahead on the fourth can.

The effects of Red Bull had reached their apex. We were no longer drinking the sweet, crisp, refreshing taste of vitamins and aluminum, we were now drinking the horrible, monotonous, gut-wrenching taste of vitamins and aluminum.

I kept my pace; one can ahead of Andy. Oddly enough, the effects of Red Bull on my body were overpowered by the effects on my kidneys.

By the seventh can, my body was producing Red Bull by its own volition. My mouth tasted like Red Bull. My sweat smelled like Red Bull. My tears looked like Red Bull and after seven cans I had not yet grown wings.

After a grueling 90 minutes of competition and self-sacrifice, it was time to go to the bathroom. The final score: Me 7, Andy 6.

And what did this contest prove?

I won, and I have someone to call a pansy.