Imagine taking the worst parts of Napoleon Bonoparte (his mentality, face and violent legacy) and the worst parts of Hitler (his mentality, moustache\face and violent legacy) and combining the two to create one super shitty person. If the Ring of Fire shot was a person, it would be Napodolf Hitlaparte.
I’ve been scouring the globe (aka Orange County) looking for the worst shot of alcohol the world has ever known. So far, none have made me vomit on the spot, and I feel like the worst shot of all time should be bad enough to make that happen, right?
I walked into a bar in Long Beach, CA called Ashley’s On 4th. There were two or three people seated on stools, and no one near the pool tables or dartboard. My kind of day-time emptiness. We walk up to perform the traditional meet and greet with our bartender, Courtney.
She mentions an old douchey guy that tried to impress a bunch of girls in the bar by purchasing the Ring of Fire for them. Suffice it to say, old man pervy balls went home alone that night.
After flooding our ears with terrible stories about this shot, Courtney begins cheerily pouring the Fireball into the shot glasses, and had no qualms with blatantly filling that shit to the top. I’m normally never one to complain about getting every bang for your buck, but this is one buck I’d rather not bang.
Courtney fills our glasses and my mouth instantly begins salivating, but in a bad way, in a “here’s some saliva to coat your mouth with so you can taste as little of this hot shit garbage as possible.” She calmly grabs a bottle of red Tabasco sauce and begins all-too-generously dumping it in each of our shot glasses, shaking the bottle like a cartoon criminal shaking a victim upside down by the legs until all of their gold coins fall out of their pockets.
She slides the shot over to us, we cheers, and down the hatch they go. Almost immediately my body goes into vomit mode. My face muscles move involuntarily and begin cringing on their own. I get an immediate urge to sit on the ground and I have no idea why. I guess being closer to the floor makes me feel safer, and yes, this shot was so bad that my body instinctively reacted by activating its safety protocol. That’s about the time I fell to the floor and hugged my knees like a father hugs his estranged prodigal son. Tightly and shrouded in emotion.
At this point, I can hear Hayley talking to me, but my brain struggles to process and comprehend what she’s saying because I’m concurrently trying to quell the evil spirits (pun intended) being harbored in my mouth and throat.
While not the worst shot I’ve had so far (see the “shoot the dog” shot from two weeks ago), it came at the end of the day after I’ve already had a bunch of other shitty shots, so it settled in a particular troubling part of my stomach. Still, I kept it all inside. So far that’s eleven poop shots I’ve taken so far, and none have bested me.
Sean – 11
Shots – 0
Bring the muthafuckin’ noise, bartenders.