"Let's Do Some Shots!" Part 2

NOTE: Since birth, roughly, I would estimate that I have done somewhere in the neighborhood of nine million shots. Give or take. Here now, the first chapter in an ongoing attempt to recall every single one. Which I realize is sort of an exercise in self-defeat, seeing as how I'm trying to remember the individual varieties of the very things that have most contributed to my Swiss-cheese memory. It's like rain on your wedding day, huh?

Nonetheless, let's get this party started! LET'S DO SOME SHOTS!!!

Jagermeister - A lot of people regard Jager as an evil drink and I must concede... they have a point. Weird, herbal, like something from off an old shelf in a castle in the Dark Ages, it has been known to cause doughy, middle-management types to behave like Kimbo Slice, challenging bouncers to fist fights that predictably end with their neckties securely knotted to the bumper of a moving SUV. Shots of Jager can also... and this I've seen with my own eyes... make a twenty year old girl vomit up a full Mexican combo platter in a manner so spectacular that it defies all description (think "explosion at the chili factory" and you're mostly there). However, despite all this evidence of it's wicked ways, I have exceedingly pleasant memories of Jagermeister and they all stem from one very unusual evening spent drinking shot after shot after shot of the stuff with the father of an old roommate. He was a German immigrant, and he showed up at our apartment to visit his daughter with a full bottle of Jager in tow; gotta love that kind of foresight. We stayed up most of the night, drinking and chatting and building bridges between our cultures and only going to sleep when it became clear that the evening was about to devolve into the singing of our respective National Anthems. I don't remember a lot of what was said that night (because, obviously), but I do know that it has forever cemented in my heart the wonder and the glory that is Jagermeister. It heals, kiddos. It is magic. But seriously though, be careful with that shit; it will sneak up on your ass like a Bed-Stuy mugger.

Blow Job - Oh haha, it's a drink named after a sex act. Can the cleverness of Spring Break bartenders reach higher heights? Wait... wait... YES... they put whipped cream on it! Like it's jizz!!! Oh my god, they've topped themselves; I am forever humbled, you bunch of community college drop-outs with tattoos of a pot leaves covering the entirety of your collective backs. But yeah, the Blow Job isn't a shot, really... I mean, it is, but it tastes like a candy bar and has dessert toppings on it and it's only drunk by extremely stupid people in extremely stupid situations. It's like if sorority girls and bachelorette parties controlled the world's alcohol supply. And it should be noted that the ONLY reason I've had one is because someone bought it for me as a joke. I swear to God. It had nothing to do with curiosity or experimenting in college or anything like that.

Cinnamon Death - Or something like that. I had this one in, of all places, Disneyland. I was there with my girlfriend at the time, "Sarah," and we had grown bored with the rides and the costume characters and all the silly, kiddie shit and just wanted to get plowed in the happiest place on Earth. So we headed over to Pleasure Island or Adultsville or The Part Of This Godforsaken Theme Park Hell That's Actually Got Booze or whatever the fuck it was called and were immediately upon exiting our water taxi greeted by a supermodel holding a tray of glowing test tubes. "They're shooters," she said in a voice somewhere between Edith Bunker and an eight year old dicking around with helium balloons, "try some... these are Cinnamon Aneurysms!" Or whatever. They tasted like a melted pack of Big Red chewing gum, mixed with the propellant they use to gas up the Space Shuttle, and it left me wandering from theme bar to theme bar with the distinct feeling that my head was hovering two feet above the rest of my body. In other words, Mickey Mouse can make a fucking shot and isn't that handy knowledge to have in your back pocket? Two of those and a trip on the Matterhorn and you're set for life in the fun department. Take the next forty years off, dude, and just chiiiiiil.

Ewok Teabagging A Mexican Trying To Cross The Border At Midnight - Okay, so technically I've never actually experienced this shot. And, truthfully, it sounds kind of gross... it appears to consist of whatever booze was just lying around the dorm room when it was dreamed up (including something called "Hpnotiq," which can't be good based on it's spelling ALONE). Still though... a name like that... well, it's retarded, obviously, but you got to give credit to the group of racist Star Wars-enthusiast alcoholics that at least made the effort to broaden our drunken horizons.

Mind Eraser - This was mentioned in the comments last week by our old friend Big Daddy and it is a shot only for the pros (of which I am one, doye). The thing about the Mind Eraser is that the stuff in it isn't all that special... it's just vodka and Kahlua and I think there's maybe some fizzy water in there, but not necessarily... it's the way you drink them that quite literally erases your mind. See, you layer the liquids; first the Kahlua, then the vodka, then the fizzy shit (if you're using that, you weenie). Then you stick a straw in the bottom of the glass and suck the whole affair down. Now, drinking liquor with a straw? It will fuck you up like a car crash. I'm sure there's some sort of science behind it, but I don't know what it is and I wouldn't care if I did... all I know is that it delivers the booze into your system a lot faster than normal and WHOOPS, there goes all your problems and your ability to walk in a straight line without veering off into a series of somersaults and soon you're asleep in the back of someone's van, dreaming and peeing and living life to the fullest.