There's really no excuse, Jack. We know you make bank off us. We know you're one of the most popular drinks ordered thusly: "Can I get (I'll have/take) a ________ and coke, please (the please only sometimes)." We know you're probably partially at least responsible for the liver failure of frat boys all across these fifty nifty United States (and Guam), that you seep into the stomach lining of our golden youth, dilute their judgment, impair their spatial reasoning. We know you help stoke the blazes of many a dying fire in the loins of guys and dolls all over. So, please, with all the money you pilfer from us so that we may fuck up our lives with your manly juice, invest some back into your Gentleman Jack. Or should I say, Gentleman Whack! This shit is the most whack ass different bottle same great taste, stupidly obvious consumer whore corporate whisky wanna-be upgrade on a "great American" product I've ever experienced.
And we fell for it. I might as well have pissed on my forty dollars and stuck it to my forehead and proceeded to go out in public wearing a shirt with George W. Bush's chimpanzee ass face on it and some text below that reads: "Miss me Yet?"
Whatever. We got drunk, rode bikes, made vegan chick'n burgers with fresh avocado, tomato and spinach and fraternized on a dizzying journey back from one of the most productive trips I've ever made to San Francisco. Oh yeah, and we now have ice cream cone cups with twisty straws attached! liek omigosh.
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