Thursday, March 02, 2006


Mexican Coffee

I like to write about my bad ideas, because they are infinitely more entertaining than my good ideas. Sure, I’m proud that I changed the fuse all by myself without causing a county-wide outage this time, but would you rather read about the time I screwed up, or the time I didn’t? It’s the same reason that you rarely see happy stories on the news. Bad news sells, and people are inherently tuned so that we like reading about other’s mistakes more than their successes. It makes us feel a bit superior, that we didn’t kill our husband with a chainsaw. In other words, I’m here to make you feel better about yourselves. I’m like a mildly insane counselor with booze and fireworks.

Speaking of booze, I’m sure most of you have had Irish coffee before. You know, it’s a cold night out, so you want something hot and boozy to drink. Microwaving a beer doesn’t sound appealing (although I’m incredibly surprised that I’ve never done it,) and you’re not sure exactly what goes in a hot toddy, so you go the safe route – make a pot of coffee, and spike it with liberal amounts of Irish Cream (and by liberal, I mean most of the bottle). What happens when your guests need a refill and you’re out of Irish cream? Well, I’ll tell you.

Maybe you haven’t caught on, but on a day to day basis, I’m a fairly normal guy. However, when the first drop of alcohol touches my lips, my IQ goes up to a number that rivals the great Steven Hawking (I won’t post the actual number here, because I don’t want to embarrass anyone.) We (Tex, Lato, and I) were sitting around drinking Irish Coffee on my back deck one night. We needed refills, so I went in to make another pot. Problem? Out of Irish cream. Solution? Look in the liquor cabinet to find an acceptable substitute…and all I have is tequila. Any normal human being would just tell them he was out of Irish cream and go back to drinking beer. But that’s not how I roll. I decided it couldn’t be that bad, and besides, we were half lit anyway, so they probably wouldn’t notice. I’m not sure how much more wrong I could have been (we’re talking weapons of mass destruction in Iraq wrong). This stuff was awful. That didn’t stop us from drinking it, but it was awful. Actually, and this is proof of our sheer brilliance, we made an agreement – if Tex would put four matches out on his tongue, I would finish the pot of Mexican Coffee. He did, and I did. I’m not sure who felt worse about his decision the next morning, but it’s safe to say that neither one of us could claim the title of “winner.”

I believe I was actually wearing pants that particular evening
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