Dear Drunkard,
Hi, I hope your summer is going well. I know you are probably a little drunk right now, but try to stay with me. This is going to be hard for us both, but I wanted to write this little note in order to tell you that it’s not my fault.
You blame me for many things. You told all of your friends that Tequila made you unable to decipher between Bailey, the hot girl that you wanted to go home with, and Greta, the fatty that you rolled out from under the next day. You said it was Tequila’s fault that you went into the bathroom at Francis’ going-away party to come out 3 minutes later with a brown streak down your leg, giggling and telling everyone that you had just ‘made fudge’ in your pants because you decided that it would take too much effort to pull down your trousers. And by God if it weren’t for Tequila, there is no way that you would have misplaced all of your clothes and jumped into the frigid waters of Clinton Lake, facilitating the acquisition of your new nickname, Wee Willy Wachovitz.
And I hear THIS kind of shit all the time, especially when girls have fallen victim to my savory tangs, and I am tired of it: “I can’t drink Tequila, I get too crazy”, “Tequila makes my clothes fall off” (if I hear this one more time I am going to turn gay, and by gay I mean un-alcoholic), and “I can barely operate my vehicle after a few swigs of Tequila”. Shut. Your. Mouth. Just put me down your throat and shut the fuck up. I am 40% alcohol, just like everyone else—the same as all my friends: Professor Vodka, Mr. Bourbon, Doctor Brandy, and even Captain Rum. And yet I am the one you blame whenever you make an ass out of yourself.
Here is the reason why you do stupid shit after and during consumption of my delectable liquids: I am most frequently utilized in the form of a shot. I am not much of a sipping drink, nor am I much of a mixer. The main use of my natural resource is to pour it into a little glass and deposit it directly into your bloodstream. And when you do that, you get fucked up. So when you say “man, Tequila really makes me do some stupid shit” what you really mean is “man, taking shot after shot of an 80-proof liquor really makes me do some stupid shit”.
Let’s face it; I am the king of the shots. If you need to shoot something, chances are you are going to suckle on my sweet teat. Therefore it is easy to deduce:
A shot night = A Tequila night
A shot night = Trouble
Hence =>
A Tequila night = Trouble
It is simple math, people.
So next Sunday morning, when you wake up with a pounding headache, you are constantly mixing up the letters ‘D’ and ‘B’, and can’t remember where you put your cape (that you were wearing for some reason), don’t blame it on me. Take some responsibility and blame it on your parents—that deadbeat drunk dad of yours or your whore of a mother. No offense.
Your friend,
Tequila
:thepimp:
Topic: It\'s Not My Fault: A Letter From Tequila (Read 919 times)