Suggested pairing: Irish Pancake Shot
1 ounce Jameson Whiskey
1 ounce Butterscotch Schnapps
In a rocks glass, combine schnapps and whiskey. Fill second rocks glass with orange juice. Drink shot and chase with orange juice. Eat piece of bacon. Supposedly, this should taste similar to dragging your bacon through pancake syrup. I think it probably tastes more like losing your dignity, and pretty much everything that’s wrong with America.
I like to people watch when I go out. This is likely because my life is not that interesting and my aura of redundancy and farmers hours does not elicit much in the way of stimulating conversation.
For the most part, my dance card is sprinkled lightly with a bottle of wine at home, the occasional familial drop-in and a rousing game of Connect Four. I’m totally fine with that. It may seem like the pathetic mid-life existence that teenagers would choose a violent death over, but I find it to be just what the doctor ordered.
I like routine. I like falling asleep in bed watching Hawaii Five-0. I look forward to the impending excitement of choosing this week’s toppings for pizza night and contemplating a spontaneous addition of wings or poppers.
The craziest I get anymore is wandering through clearance racks at Kohl’s sans child or adding pickled jalapenos to my Bloody Mary. Mundane activities like crossing things off my list make my heart sing. Sometimes, if I’m feeling super excited about my productivity, I even add things to my list that I’ve already completed just so that I can cross them off and delight in my adulty accomplishments.
On the rare occasion that my eyes do see the dark of night and that I break from my self-imposed and satisfying house arrest, I make certain to fuel up with an afternoon coffee, throw some makeup on my face and change into my Sunday best flip flops.
Which brings us to last night’s festivities.
I, in all my antisocial glory, went out for drinks with a friend to catch up on old times and shoot the shit regarding relationships, past and present. I stayed out until midnight last night. Hold the applause, please.
Fortunately for me and my lack of enthusiasm pertaining to all things “night on the town”, my friend has a comparable disposition and affinity for people watching. Our first collective observation of the evening was that there was no way in hell some of the patrons were old enough to drink. They were children that likely had been dropped off by their mommies and were paying their bar tabs with allowance money they had earned picking up dog shit in the backyard. These kids were drinking shitty beer, listening to shitty music, taking fucking selfies and I’m pretty sure were simultaneously engaged in catching elusive Pokémon creatures hiding beneath the bar stools.
But, alas, these fuckers were 21. I’m just not anymore, and I’m beginning to see that more and more with every move I make. But, with every selfie stick and men’s sleeveless shirt I’m gradually appreciating my maturity.
I am aware that every generation that has come before me has posed this question regarding every generation to follow, but I’m going to go ahead and ask one more time. What the fuck is wrong with these kids today?
While gazing at the younger generation at the bar last night and silently pondering their somewhat pathetic existence, I witnessed a party of five imbibing in the aforementioned Irish Pancake shots. Truth be told, I had no idea what the bartender was concocting while I watched in horror as orange juice was served minutes shy of midnight, so I promptly did what any dignified ignoramus would do, and googled that shit on my phone, which is admittedly significantly smarter than I. The search of ingredients yielded this godforsaken recipe and I was forever changed for the worse.
I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life. Furthermore, I’ve done a lot of disgusting shots as well, ranging from Mind Erasers to Jäger Bombs, but this one takes things a little too far. You would have to be some kind of drunk and stupid to drink this, in my humble, crotchety opinion. This is the menthol cigarette of shots. If I want to have a minty fresh mouth, I’ll have a fucking mint but I don’t want my cigarette to taste like one, likewise with my morning meal. Pancakes and syrup are for the hours between daybreak and noon, and plates and forks, not for shot glasses and shitfaced millennials. While I am a firm believer in the gospel of bacon and praise its versatility and all-around fucking deliciousness, this is just breakfast blasphemy and it makes me feel ashamed of all of us and frightened for our futures.
While witnessing this sacrilegious ceremony of bevvies, my friend and I discussed the completely unrelated, yet seemingly appropriate subject of open relationships which, to me, seems more like an oxymoron than a life goal. We entertained the notion that some individuals seek a partnership that is non-exclusive and employs the “have my cake and eat it too” wisdom of those who live their lives in pursuit of the greenest grass. But if you’re always wanting a more luxurious lawn, there’s a damn good chance that you’re neglecting your own beautiful backyard.
This “open” logic is born of the same idiocy that permits fame from sex tapes and glory from video game kills. It isn’t real. It’s a show of circus proportions and an utter insult to our intelligence. If you want to go out until all hours of the night, get drunk and sleep with other people then I do not want to have a relationship with you and frankly no one should, if one could even deem that scenario a partnership of any sort, because you are a jerk. If you want to chase Jameson with OJ, I also do not want to have a relationship with you because you are an idiot and I have better things to do like order Hawaiian pizza and watch Netflix.
That being said, the outlook for the future is bleak.
We live in a world where people are more fearful of others taking gender-neutral shits in gender-neutral bathrooms than the fact that there’s a mass shooting on nearly every morning news program and our best hope for this great nation is left in the small, over-compensating hands of an oompa loompa demagogue or those of a fully functional, Monsanto-funded political machine. I’d much rather feel the Bern, but I’ll take the email mishandling over the hate mongering, little hands down.
Shit is fucked up to the nth degree.
Our blood sweat and tears, our hard work and aspirations are being inherited by a cohort of self-indulgent, entitled, ignorant YouTubers who drink breakfast and chase digital creatures around town rather than pursuing a dream or a goal, or a fucking life for that matter.
They want mansions and sports cars and open relationships. They seek the unattainable, the unproductive, and the unreal.
I am not making a blanket statement here about everyone in their early twenties because I have had the great fortune to meet many a hardworking, go-getting millennial but I will say that there is something majorly fucked up about the direction we are headed as a whole, as a community, as a human race.
Our parents should not have to house us in their basements. Our teachers should not be expected to raise our children. Our government should not be representative of only the top one or two percent. Our suppliers should not be bought and sold by asshole lobbyists, force-feeding us cancer-inducing, genetically-modified food, and overpriced, addictive drugs. Our significant others should not be subjected to the bullshit of an open relationship which, by all accounts is just legalized cheating. And our bartenders, in good conscience, should never, under any circumstance be forced to serve us liquid breakfast.
Sadly, this is the world in which we live and it is looking like it will only devolve and become progressively worse for our children. Fuck.
Amidst all of the hate and violence, Trumps and Kardashians, selfie sticks and shitty, third-grade reading level song lyrics, I choose to appreciate my mostly green grass, my bottle of wine at home and my early bedtime.
We are all in for a disturbingly rude awakening when we realize that the world we have so determinately abused and destroyed does not owe us a fucking thing. That day is coming at us like a line drive and it’s going to hurt like hell when it hits. The day will come when everyone’s front lawn is burnt and brown, and it is on that morning of reckoning that I just may belly up to the breakfast bar for an Irish Pancake shot, a strip of bacon and a prayer.