He sucked down the flamer and spat a few drops onto the tablecloth.

This ignited the cloth. The waiter stamped it out with a water glass.

I think it was Bacardi 151. Strong stuff. A sharp blue flame was dancing at the top. Birthday-boy Stephen had to use a straw to suck up the shot. I don't know what the drink was called, but it was damn firey.

After this brilliant display, the waiters brought over what looked like a Genie lamp. Instead of a wish-granting Genie in the lamp, however, there was something better—alcohol!

A napkin was placed as a bib around Birthday-boy Stephen. The waiter held the lamp above his head and poured a stream of glorious lemon-colored alcohol into his awaiting maw.

From a particular angle, it looked as if the waiter was, uh, draining the reservoir and using an open mouth as target practice, if you get my drift.

All of the men at the table accepted this divine gift from our waiter eagerly. "Thank you sir, can I have another?"

And I mean, "all of the men" in the strictest sense. Bashful-boy Ben ducked into the bathroom, whimpering and arms flailing, when his turn came.

Kudos goes out to Iron-liver-boy Eric for swallowing a very generous stream of that yellow liquid from the waiter as he stood above him on a chair and held the lamp at waist level. I think the waiter was smiling.

And I'll say this about Eric also—that boy can sure swallow. He's not a spitter, no siree. He's a swallower.

After this restaurant, we went back to Birthday-boy Stephen's Upper East Side apartment and downed a few more beers. You see, we were determined to ruin what was left of this fleshy piece of tissue he calls his liver.

I can't say we excelled as well as we should have, though. It totally slipped my mind to make him do as many shots as he is years old.

I suppose one could argue the yellow stream from the restaurant plus all the delicious frozen Margaritas (and when I say delicious, I mean these babies are so damn good you'll be packing 2-3 of these easily before you realize there's alcohol in them) should be an adequate amount of brain-numbing poison for our friend.

But hey, the way I see it, there's no such thing as an adequate amount of brain-numbing poison among friends. And besides, there's nothing funnier than a friend with a handful of brain cells left as he tries to walk with dignity out of a restaurant.

We finally left his apartment late in the night (well, technically, it was the next morning).

As we walked out, he scrambled to the bathroom to pass what was left of his liver through his colon and out of his system.

And with that thought, we all knew that it was another successful birthday party.

. . .

How do you kill your liver on your birthday?