KABOOM!
How I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb
P
ortions of life require catalysts as extreme as the trials we often endure —
chemical fuses to ignite our ambitions, explosions to hurry forth the entropy
cycle. This is why we have the bomb.
Not the type that ruins cities, guides diplomacy or hides in the sneakers of some
religious fundamentalist ready to detonate himself after take off. Not the type of bomb you
drop fi rst thing in the morning, post Raisin Bran, magazine in hand, air freshener within
reach. We’re talking the type of bomb you drop on a Friday night, when you’re out with
your friends, looking to skew linear thought — shots in pint glasses, bang for your buck,
civilian casualties.
At fi rst, I was unable to see the merit in dropping bombs. I’d dabbled in pacifi sm in
college, and was somewhat opposed to this type of violence. Who in their right mind would
think that soaking their system with a fl ash fl ood of booze in a short period of time is an
excellent idea? Who wants to wake up face down in the bathroom of their chosen watering
hole, unaware of what discharged?
I was skeptical of such behavior, though not above it, and to gain a true understanding
of the bomb I assembled a small committee to investigate.
This coalition of the willing made its way to Cowfi sh because, while places such as The
Old Pad and Sushi Ya can bust out the ordinance, the Fish has a wide variety of bombs in
the bay.
“It’s not the experienced drinker who comes in and orders a bomb,” says Patrick
Campbell, bartender and liquid explosives expert. “It’s usually the newer bar patrons, or
people who know they aren’t interesting in general and are looking to get interesting fast.”
With this said, the investigation continued as Campbell presented the committee with
bombs for consumption and consideration, two of which managed to make their way into
my own personal testimony.
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By Dante Zuñiga-West
The Vegas Bomb
Only people of undiluted masochistic character would do this to themselves. In fact, bar
owner Brian Hebb speculated that this drink is “perhaps the greatest evidence that we are
a herd animal more likely to follow the ass of our fellows into a chasm, than trust our own
good sense to stand aside.”
The Vegas Bomb involves Crown Royal and Malibu in a shot glass being dropped into
peach schnapps and Red Bull. The committee was shocked and awed, appalled that anyone
could do this to his fellow man. It didn’t taste like that sinful hellhole in Nevada, but rather
like a shipwrecked night on an abandoned beach, when a man fi nds himself wretched,
alone, assed-out and sandier than a wounded seagull.
The Springfield Car Bomb
In sheer contrast to the Vegas Bomb, this drink is as smooth as it is terrible — Oakshire
Stout, Bailey’s Irish Cream and whiskey combust to blow you away. Whereas one member
of the committee referred to the Vegas Bomb as tasting like a “date rape gummy worm,”
other members speculated that the Springfi eld Car Bomb was “the chocolate milk he
always wanted.”
In the end, we stopped worrying and concluded that not all bombs are bad, though
the people who drop them are of questionable character to say the least. Please bomb
responsibly, and mind your collateral damage. ■
Note: All references to bombs, explosives and shit that goes “kaboom” are intended to be received within the context
of drinking. If for some reason this article were to fall into the hands of an agent from the Department of Homeland
Security, we would urge that agent to have a stiff drink.
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