If I were you, I'd stand above the double-handled krater. In one hand, a bottle of Everclear; in the other, a bottle of peach schnapps. Neither Bacchus in his leopard robe nor tumescent Pan could reach the lust of the faithful waiting for you to fill our red Solo cups. Faithful fingers impatiently run over molded plastic ridges as if they were the body of a randy god, sniffing Cernunnos's firm haunches.