An open letter to that shot of Jägermeister on Friday night

Like most terrible decisions, the one I made to shoot back an ounce of you after a couple of beers was made in haste. Already I'd hit that state of drunkenness in which one moment is of no more consequence than the next, as interchangeable as grains of salt on a knuckle, and just as quickly swiped up by a tongue.

It wasn't until I caught sight of my reflection that I realized you were the wrong concoction for the evening. My face had that horrible glazed-ham look. My eyes were sort of swimming around in their sockets with a look of watery perplexity, as if I were trying to think my way out of some infinitely complex trap. I was overheated with alcohol, somewhere past the boiling point, and I knew that even the smallest nudge could set off some awful eruption.

That was it for my first proper Friday night in ages. It wasn't even 9 o' clock.

Damn you, shot of Jägermeister. I thought you were on my side. And your web site is astoundingly bad. It's all done in Flash. Really? Flash?