For the last two years, I’ve been working in the illustrious bartending field. Slinging drinks to help drown the sorrows of the downtrodden, depressed, and occasionally the pathetic. During these past two years, I have accumulated a wealth of stories, some funny, some scary, most entertaining.

A few years ago, around the holidays, I had a “first” experience. It was a busy night, the bar was packed. It was that magical frenzy time between Thanksgiving and Christmas, the time when retail pressures and family dysfunction are at their peak. A couple of military types saunter into the bar (I know they were military b/c of their short haircuts, drill sergeant walk, and Government Issue ID’s). They proceed to imbibe copious amounts of Bud Light and Jager Bombs.

For those of you blissfully unaware of what a Jager Bomb is, it is a shot built on a base of Jagermeister, a liquor that tastes like a blend of cough syrup and black liquorice, which is served chilled. Added to this vile liquid is Red Bull, that sickly sweet, bull testicle hormone “energy” drink. This concoction is then thrown down the gullet and chased with a beer, mainly to scrape the overwhelming sweetness remaining on the back of your tounge.

Now, these lovely, salt of the earth military boys drink several Bud Lights and Jager Bombs throughout the night. They are getting tipsy, but behaving, so I continue to pour. They order two more, I pour, serve and liberate them of their $12 (yeah, 6 bucks a pop!). I return with their change just as they set their shot cups on the bar. One of the guys looks at me funny. I see the pale green color creep into his cheeks and I jump back- 2 seconds too late. He returned that Jager Bomb, along with a few beers and some semblance of chicken or pasta. All over the bar, and yours truly.

In shock, thinking about all the nasty bugs you can catch from the body fluids of others, I hose myself off, then bleach down the bar. Meanwhile, lines are beginning to form as other bar patrons have guzzled down their own drinks and are impatiently waiting for refills.

I finish wiping the bar down and the vomit comet asks me, very politely, “Can I get two more bud lights?”

Bewildered I look at him. “No, I think you’re cut off now”.