Ah, the Irish Car Bomb, the ol' glass of
blackout. My
bartender makes it this way: two-thirds pint of
Guinness, a shot glass of
Bailey's and
Kahlua with
Jameson floated on top. Patrons at my
bar drink this, all too frequently, in the showy way, dropping the shot glass into the pint glass and
chugging.
I do not drink this most dangerous, hateful concoction. At least, not often.
There are nights, alas, some nights, when a well-meaning drunk will strong-arm me into this manner of public misbehavior.
Normally I sit there, not offending anyone, just drinking six or seven beers, joking with a drunken lawyer, Vietnam veterans, and paroled felons. Normally, no one gets hurt.
But then there are those nights. Someone who's missed the glaring fact that college is over will buy the wretched car bombs. Why my good barkeep continues to make them is unknown...perhaps he enjoys the spectacle.
They taste good. Like root beer, almost. Malty, smooth, they go down quick. And that's all she wrote. You wake up on your floor (your floor, if you're lucky) with minor cuts and abrasions you don't recall getting. Your mouth tastes like an army marched through it, your head remains floaty and unstable all day. People glare at you.
An Irish Car Bomb, in my experience, is never a good idea. But then, it's an idea that comes up too often, so someone is supporting the movement. I reckon it's my enemies, sensing my secret weakness.