“SHOTS.” Ugh … shots. There’s no better way to turn a celebration into a conflagration than with the public vocalization of those five letters. The thought of shooting hard liquor calls to mind the self-inflicted shame of younger times. If “SHOTS” doesn’t lead to fisticuffs and/or the sudden dissolution of lifelong friendships or semesters-long relationships, it will inevitably throw oneself a curve ball or six. ‘Who broke my car? What is this putrid golden foam all over the rug? When did I lose one of my shoes? Where are my keys, and more importantly why is my front door missing? How did I fall asleep behind the toilet?’
The answer is, invariably: shots.
Nobody seems to know where these particular shots originated, and nobody should care, because, SHOTS.
The Breakfast Shot is half Jameson and half butterscotch schnapps served in a shot glass, with a chaser of orange juice. It seriously tastes like pancakes topped with maple syrup. Some people/places apparently include a “garnish” of bacon or sausage to round out the breakfast experience.
The Dead Nazi is the best kind of Nazi, because it’s the only Nazi that won’t irrationally hate you for being born. Half Rumple Minze peppermint schnapps and half Jägermeister, the refreshing flavor when downing a Dead Nazi is like brushing your teeth to their purest whiteness possible, removing all the impurities and detritus akin to the vermin that is the untermen … ahem. Excuse me, I’m not entirely sure what happened there. Dead Nazis taste like toothpaste. Uh, cheers?