Dear Jager Bomb,
You may or may not remember me as the 30 year-old gal who, on an uncharacteristically warm February day, went to a late lunch/early happy hour with her parents at the oceanfront. I remember you, unfortunately.
After 5 hours of seafood tapas, wine, cucumber mojitos, a walk on the beach at sunset, stargazing, wine from a thermos (don’t judge. 5 hours is a long time), you and I finally met. It was about 9 p.m. when I, in a moment of poor judgment and peer pressure (if you can call parents pleading to go to a seedy karaoke bar “peer” pressure), caved and agreed to enter an establishment called, “Grumpy’s.” Grumpy’s, as you very well know, is a converted Pizza Hut, circa 1989, frequented by the very same patrons as Wal-marts in Arkansas, Bone’s biker bar, and Super Cuts, so you can, I’m sure, imagine the attention we received when my father plunked his polo shirt-wearing self down in our red-vinyl-padded booth, followed by mom and I, what with our groomed eyebrows. Awkward.
I’m not writing you, however, to recount those early moments of embarrassment, but rather to thank you for helping me to quickly overcome my self-consciousness. It had been awhile since last we met, see, so I had forgotten the special powers you possess. Powers I don’t intend to tap into again anytime soon. Once my fear of perception was gotten over (read: once I had chugged you), not only could I relax and enjoy those participating in karaoke, but I could also:
- Approach a man and tell him how much I admired the embroidery on his jeans. Such patchwork creativity! “Harley Davidson” stitched right across the rump. I was told the jeans had been made in the 70’s, so I then applauded his ability to fit into said jeans.
- Assist as back-up singer to, not one, but ALL karaoke contributors, resulting in loss of voice. When you don’t have a mic, you sing reeeeeally loudly. Who knew I could remember every word to Bobby McGee and Tupelo Honey?
- Rub the DJ’s bald head for luck. (5 times)
- Style that tall guy with the long hair; meaning I commanded him never to wear jorts, a Hawaiian shirt, or white socks with white tennis shoes for as long as he lived. Then, I fluffed his locks. You know who I’m talking about.
- Begin conga/dance trains (3 times) around the entire bar, taking care to weave graceful figure eights around the pool tables and their players.
- Dance to Margaritaville with jorts-man. Of this, I am not proud.
We were encouraged to hear our new friends’ cry of disappointment when we got up to leave. Apparently, we had introduced some new behavior to the regulars. Hurrah.
Anyway, all this to say, it was, from what I recall, a pleasure to see you again, but please don’t expect to see me again anytime soon.