Jager Bombs & Tanning
A lot of people say that meditation is a great way to really center yourself and come up with introspective ideas. Well, I don't do that shit. Now I have nothing against meditating, in fact I'd love to be the sort of balanced and disciplined individual that could benefit from it. I've just found overtime that I get my best material from two particular sources. And those would be Jager bombs and tanning.
Now I know what you're thinking. I'm almost certainly a douchebag. And the Vegas spread on whether, or not I'm gay, is a little disconcerting if you happen to be my girlfriend. But allow me to plead my case.
Tanning in the Arizona climate is essentially forced meditation. Think about it. It gets so fucking hot here, that there are literally warnings telling you to not go outside. Airports shut down because the runways melt. Electricity bills become second mortgages. Lizard people crawl back under their East coast rocks for months at a time. Children spontaneously combust I heard. You could fuck around, take a walk to the corner store for Jager, and wind up dead on the sidewalk from heat exhaustion just from the sun exposure. That's nuts. But, when life gives you lemons, you flip that shit into some 126 degrees of inspiration! See I like to lay out a few times a month when it's like that. Not too long, just enough to briefly go delirious. Allow my mind to wander away as it prepares itself for almost certain death. I come up with some wild ideas, let me tell you. It's like fly fishing for bullshit while your boat is on fire. It's a small gamble, but it pays dividends.
Today, it wasn't that hot. In fact it was fairly cool, but the sun was out and I took this opportunity on my final day of vacation to lay out. That's the nice thing about Arizona. We had about two weeks of winter, and have coasted between 70 and 85 ever since. We may have a plethora of racists and transplant rejects from other states, shit politics, and some of the worst educational systems in the country - but I can develop melanoma faster than any of you other vain mu'fuckas. I even stepped my game up and started in February. You may laugh now, but when some of you dumb fuckers are outside fumbling with your sunscreen and sweating your asses off in July, I'll be inside crispy and golden writing something else equally as retarded as this. Which brings me to my next muse.
Jägermeister. More specifically, Jager bombs. What are Jager bombs you ask? The classic Jager bomb is 1.5 oz of Jägermeister poured into a shot glass, and about 4.5 oz of Redbull poured into a pint glass. From there, young degenerate, you drop the shot of Jägermeister into the pint glass of Redbull, and chug it. It's fucking disgusting. And I don't even abide by these ratios. I've been taking Jager bombs for so long, that I've honed in on them like a chef that eyeballs how much salt to use. Fuck salt bae, I'm Jager bomb bae. To really make an effective Jager bomb that will get you both fucked up, and wired just enough so that your heart doesn't explode by the end of the night, you want to do about a three second pour of Jager followed by a two second pour of Redbull. Same glass. Cuts out the bullshit of washing extra glasses. Plus, who needs the risk of a shot glass chipping your front teeth in their life. Think smarter, not harder. You didn't suffer through all that tanning just to have some fucked up teeth.
This makes ordering Jager bombs in bars difficult. First of all, you have to do what is essentially the verbal walk of shame by asking if they even have Jägermeister. If they do, they look at you suspiciously. If they don't, they look at you with a hint of disdain as they vomit out "no." Rightfully so, given how you were about to order those Jager bombs. You sound like a needy bitch when you ask for the Redbull can so that you can mix it yourself. You're basically telling the bartender that you have zero trust in them. But it's not them, it's you. You just know the short cut. Make sure you specifically ask for the Redbull can on the side by the way. If you ask for light Redbull, you'll just end up with sugar free bullshit. If you thought Jager Bombs tasted like licorice ass already, just wait till you try the sugar free variety. And be ready to do at least two rounds, because that bartender was already nice enough to waste a can of Redbull on you. You should be able to get at least five bombers out of that can. Don't waste. Don't be a selfish dick. Tip well for these disgusting gems of a night.
Anyways. Despite how undeniably disgusting Jager bombs are, they're culturally rich. They're freeing. They're a symbol of a lack of fucks to give. Jager bombs are the closest I'll ever get to cocaine. I'm 27, apparently. I say apparently on the account that I told a table I was waiting on last week that I was 28. Realized three days later what I had said. I guess 27 is just that fucking irrelevant. And once age starts becoming blurry like that, you don't want to jump into a cocaine habit. Too old for that shit. But what you can do, are Jager bombs. The delicate dance between Jägermeister and Redbull leads to some bold fucking ideas at three in the morning. Gives you nearly all of the false bravado and bullshit concepts as coke at a fraction of the cost. Ever been unfortunate enough to read something of mine and enjoy it? Guess what it was fueled by. That's right. Jesus. And Jager bombs.
Jager bombs are also the closest I'll ever get to feeling black in a super market. The level of judgement when you place a bottle of Jägermeister in front of the clerk is on a hundred, thousand, trillion. You for sure get profiled. They are absolutely positive that you're up to no good. You could be standing there with a fist full of cash and security will still inch toward the door. They will without a doubt say something fucking stupid and cliché along the lines of "Oh ho ho, Jager, one of those nights eh." Fuck you, it's a Wednesday. I saw you on Monday and you said the same bullshit. Scan my shit and kick rocks dork. I feel borderline criminal buying it. People in line stare at you. Mothers will cover their children's eyes. The health junky in front of you will push their #GTkombucha closer to them. You could be 65 and they'll ask for your ID, just so that they can google your name later to check your criminal record and live vicariously through you while ripping off your culture and everything you stand for. I mean, I know there are stigmas attached to all liquors. I know it's probably not as bad as those sociopathic Gin drinkers experience - granted they don't have feelings, so it's somewhat of a moot point. Can I live though? Can I get the same nonchalant silent purchase that Vodka drinkers get?
First world problems, I suppose. Fuck it. Jager bomb.