JAGER BOMBS

Jager (Or, Jägermeister, as it is pronounced in it’s native tongue) has the unique ability to taste like licorice and death at the same time. It would be a magical nectar of the gods, if there were Gods of Vomiting, Slurring, Embarrassing Phone Calls, and Date Rape. For me, when I take a Jager Bomb, I know that whatever plans I had for that night are fucked, unless I was planning on stumbling around like a ether-soaked moron and telling every attractive girl in a five foot radius that I love her, then throwing up on a cop car in the parking lot of the dive bar I go to because they serve double shots for four dollars, and who the hell would let me go to a place like that? I mean for fucks sake!-… Um… anyway, Jager and I are like Steve Rogers and Johann Schmidt… enemies, is what I’m getting at. And yet, its slippery, throat-coating embrace is a siren’s call every time I’m at a bar. If you have a shot of Jager and a half-can of Red Bull, you have a Jager bomb. Easy, clean, beautiful in it’s simplicity. If you have two shots of Jager in a half-can of Red Bull, you have a Jager-Nuke. Then If you double-fist two Jager Nukes, you have a Jager-Pocalypse. Then when you have three of those in the first half-hour, you end up sleeping in a shrub till 1 in the afternoon the next day, being woken up by a scared child walking with her mother and asking “why is that man covered in dirt and tears?” and the mother saying “because he didn’t have parents who loved him like I love you. You don’t want to end up that way.” Then the Jager, which has congealed into a small boulder in your gut, punches your brain in it’s dick and now it’s time to go to work 4 hours late smelling like a garbage can because I’m the kind of guy who drinks like it’s a bachelor party on a week-day… Wow, that one got kinda deep…

RATING: (Fills Me With) 94% Remorse

         (+ 82% Vengeful Sobbing)