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Tiki Drinks Suck » Tikisworld

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Jul 17

Tiki Drinks Suck

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Harken back to your youthful years, that summer you spent in the city, interning at that fortune 500 company as just another nameless entity. You strived for more, to learn the necessary skills that would one day catapult you to the top of the heap of corporate America. However, there was nothing more sweet than that Friday, five o’clock release. The freedom, the passion, was intertwined with every fiber of your being. The sun gently caressed your face as you careened through that revolving door that always seemed to spin easier on the way out. What to do? You were young, carefree and completely lacking any and all responsibilities. It was time to get yourself the sweet reward that only the bartender could provide. You met your friends, whom shared your current career status, you pulled up a stool and commenced regaling the horrors of the modern workplace. With so much conversation after the 9-5 lull, your throat became as dry as the Sahara during the arid season. Right on cue the local liquid nourishment and philosophy provider appeared, simply asking, “What would you like to drink.” A question with a thousand answers, but few wrong. It was a hot summer day, the toll had been taken on your body, it was time to refresh. What would it be? Mojito, Margarita, something relaxing and summery… Some form of tiki drink perhaps? Why not? It wasn’t your go-to drink but it was time to unwind. The sensation experienced upon first sip was relaxation embodied, there was no finer way to slip into the weekends gentle embrace than to find out what the bottom of your glass had in store for you. There were no regrets. And then…

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You disgust me. What are you a Pomeranian? I’ll never forgive the male biped for assigning with this tropical label I have been forced to tolerate. I rue the dreadful day I was adopted. You may be surprised that one with the given name of “Tiki” would possess such disdain for the island-themed drinks for which the term is so commonly associated. Surprise, surprise, I am a man dog, and this man dog drinks Scotch. You can have your midsummer fairytale, I’ll take a drunken walk of shame over that watered down, millennialĀ drivel any day. “Oh, but I just want to relax,” you say, “It’s hot out and I just want to unwind.” Trust me, after I polish off a bottle of Crown Royal, wound up is the last thing I could possibly be considered. Real man dogs go out and work a hard day at the quarry, come home, get into an argument with their wives and spend the remains of the day in an incoherent, drunken, regrettableĀ stupor.

Get off your Friendster, your Myspace and pick up a poor-decision-inspiring triple of brown liquor and let the lingering events of the day fall apart like a crystal encrusted, Mai Tai filled carafe, dropped from the currently hottest roof top bar in Chelsea. Real man dogs drink in underground, derelict inhabited, establishments that could barely be classified as bars. I drink in places that are closer to holding pens for the solar averse than the most recent speakeasy serving craft cocktails. Pour Scotch in a glass, if the bartender wants to add a personal flare and make the drink his own, he perchance may add an ice cube (you’re a sissy), boom I just crafted the ultimate cocktail.

 

 

 

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