The moon comes up and the sun goes down, we find a little spot on the edge of town. Twist off, sip a little, pass it around. Dance in the dust, turn the radio up. And that Fireball Whisky whispers temptation in my ear, it’s a feelin’ alright Saturday night, and that’s how we do it round here.
– Florida Georgia Line
Looks like I’ll be staying away from ’round there.
Hi there. I’m Jared, and I hate Fireball Whisky. I know I write a lot of satire for the site, but I’m actually dead serious about this. Fireball sucks. It blows. It’s terrible.
I’m well aware that thinking Fireball is the worst alcohol out there is an unpopular opinion. Two short months ago, we published “An Ode To Fireball” to positive fanfare from our readers. Not from me, though. I hated it. Hated every last word.
My hatred of Fireball stems from a combination of issues. I’ll be the first to say that one of the main reasons I hate Fireball is because of a completely personal problem: I don’t like hot cinnamon-flavored things. Big Red gum? No thanks. Atomic Fireballs? Gross. My body is predisposed to rejecting Fireball. We’re like oil and water, Fireball and I — a relationship destined to fail from the very start.
Distaste means nothing in college, though. If it’s handed to you, you drink it. No questions asked. It could be motor oil, dip spit, or pimple puss, but if my friends were taking shots of it, I was required by my good faith as a college student to participate. This is one of the largest external reasons why I think Fireball blows — I have never drank it of my own free will. I’ve had hundreds of shots of Fireball, and not a single one was on my own accord. I think it’s disgusting, but it’s literally being forced on me, and I have to drink it. I’m like one of those Jersey Shore clowns jumping on a grenade. The worst part about all that? I know, based on past trends and common sense, that another shot of Fireball will be offered to me soon… But I don’t know when. Take Chinese water torture, but replace the water with Fireball, and the forehead with my mouth. That’s my life.
Is Fireball your favorite liquor? No, it’s not. Because it isn’t a liquor at all. It’s a liqueur, which is the number one girliest word in the world of alcohol. Yeah, that’s right — you nerds are in love with a liqueur. Have fun with your sissy juice, you pusillanimous lowbred gutter trash.
Regardless of its status as a drink for girly girls, with their tutus, tiaras, and tampons, Fireball is the go-to beverage for the guy who wants to showcase that he has absolutely zero originality whatsoever. It’s the drink of the hive mind. The ultimate cop-out shot.
You to your friends: “Hey guys, wanna take shots?”
Your friends, in unison: “Yeah!”
You: “Cool, let’s go! I’ll pay.”
Friend 1, behind your back: “Why does he always announce when he pays for shit?”
Friend 2, behind your back: “He is clearly compensating for something.”
Friend 1, behind your back: “God I hate him, but he’s buying us shots so whatever.”
Bartender to you: “What’re you having?”
This is the crucial point where the kind of person you are is revealed. What a man orders for a round of shots says more about him than any BuzzFeed quiz or police report could ever hope to describe.
You to bartender: “Three Fireball shots, my man.”
The bartender to you: “Coming right up.”
What I would say back to you if I was the bartender: “Oh gee, I’ve never heard that one before, you stale, conventional fuck.”
What Boringtown, USA thinks of you: “Congrats, you’re our new mayor!”
Part of the fun of going up to the bar and getting fucked up with your pals is the spontaneity of it all. Taking random shots with your boys for no reason whatsoever, besides the sport of it, is what college is all about. You take into account the fact that 90% of the time, that “random” shot is Fireball, and part of that wonder goes away. Fireball hasn’t taken all the fun away from taking shots with your friends, but it has undeniably modified it.
I’m going to be frank here. Another reason I despise Fireball is that, for me at least, it’s vomit fuel when I’m already drunk. Taking a late-night shot of Fireball when I’m already 10 drinks deep is like deciding to brush my tongue when I’m hungover — I’m gonna puke, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve puked in many a bar in my life, and almost every time the culprit has been Fireball. The cinnamon, using some sort of wizardry, combines with the saliva in the esophagus to create this burning sensation that lets you know you’re about to do something that’s going to require a subsequent rally. If the earth ever runs out of medical-grade ipecac, I think Fireball is a suitable vomit-inducing replacement.
I firmly believe that it wouldn’t be fair to all you Fireball enthusiasts out there if I spouted out all these words without trying to see your side of things. So, to appease you, I’m going to stay in and get hammered drunk on Fireball on a lazy Monday night.
Getting blasted on Fireball tonight for column research. Life after college is rough.
— Jared Borislow (@DeVryGuy) January 19, 2016
God I hate my job.
One shot in: All I can think about is that the disgusting syrupy substance I just watched trickle into the shot glass is now sitting in my stomach. Also, I did not eat a very big dinner, so this whole operation could backfire.
Two shots in: Worse than the first one, but I gutted it. That mouth burn is so pointless.
Three shots in: Easiest one yet, but still, the burn is just annoying. YOU’RE NOT MEXICAN FOOD, FIREBALL, SO STOP TRYING. Starting to feel the buzz. It’s also worth noting that at this point, I am currently only about two-thirds done with the text that sits above this experiment section, so the final third will be completed as I progress further and further into the stages of drunkenness. Try to go back and determine which parts I wrote while smashed.
Four shots in: Much like fine wine, Fireball has an ideal food pairing: an onion covered in grape jelly.
Side note: before taking that shot, I decided to sniff the Fireball to bring its aroma into my lungs, a time-honored whiskey-drinking technique. I ended up accidentally sticking my nose too far in and snorting some Fireball. It burned. It also taught me that I may be drunk now. At least Fireball can do that right.
Five shots in: It’s getting tough again. I’m not looking forward to the next few. Not at all. I also feel undeniably happier, as if all the troubles in my life have faded into the back of my mind. I imagine that is similar to what an AA entrance speech would sound like, which is mildly troublesome.
Six shots in: I am at that point in the night where re-buttoning my pants after I use the bathroom just seems utterly pointleess. Like what’s the point? wI am not leaving the house again. Who am i trying to impress? Nobody, that’s who. Certainly not some sort of duke or lord or king. I’m a man of the people. Also this shit is so disgusting If I puke I WILL BE happy that my body ridded itself of this putrid sugary cum.
Seven shots in: I just referred to myself as a “male man,” which sounds hilariously like “mail man,” which I most certainlky am not one of. Nothing agianst mailmen, It’s just that describing myself as such is a fallacious way of describing my being. Anyways, yeah that shot sucked. I’m nearing the end of my rope, considering it’s 12:12 a.m. and I have work at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning. I can probably shovel one more heaping load of this devil’s jizz into my gullet, though.
Eight shots in: I put on Pitbull’s “Fireball” to celebrate the final shot of the night. It only made the experience that much worse. I have never been in a more hell-on-earth situation than when I heard Mr. 305 spitting his trademark absurd bullshit as this disgusting liquid slid down into my already poison-filled stomach.
Yeah I amdrunk. For research,
— Jared Borislow (@DeVryGuy) January 19, 2016
Image via YouTube