It’s midnight. You’ve been drinking for 8 hours and you’re at that perfect level of wasted. Sure you’ve been fucking #29 grinding your dick off, but you haven’t tried to close any deals yet, because I mean, come on? It’s only fucking midnight. By trying to hook up with some slam piece now, not only will you miss out on the next 3 hours at the bar, but you might end up having to face the fucking sum of all fears and actually talk to her for an extended period of time. Bros realize the best time to pick up their fuck buddy is 30 minutes before the bar closes, thus talking time is limited and she’ll have the perfect excuse to tell her judging fat friends that she “wants to get another drink” at your place.
Anyways, just as you’re looking for your next ex-slam piece, you see someone pointing at you. You barely recognize him in the dark bar, but then he screams out, “DIAHRREA MAN” aka your nickname he created after seeing you eat Wendy’s Chili one time like 3 years ago. “How you been man! Still getting fucking diahrrea?” he screams. This guy's a fucking tool. You tell him you’ve been great, just getting fucked up and banging strange. That’s when it happens, you realize you’ve got jack shit to talk to him about and he's gonna try to hang with you all fucking night. All you can remember is the story about his roommate catching him beating off to some Suzanne Sommers infomercial, but you don’t really think you can bring that up right now. So you say those four little words that every bro can believe in: “Let’s do a shot.” Boom: A cheers to “slaying some pussy” and two Jack Daniels later, he’s fucking gone and you’re back to surveying that dance floor like you’re George Motherfucking Washington. You could have had the “Step-by-Step beater” clinging to you all fucking night but thanks to shots, you’re back in the fucking game.
Now don’t get me wrong, I pussify my drinks just as much as the next guy. Whiskey Sours, Jack and Ginger, Rum and Cokes, they’re all fucking money. Outside of freshman girls trying to save money/calories by taking 10 shots of Aristocrat Vodka before they go out, nobody in their right mind would ever drink only shots all night long. But there’re special occasions when chugging a beer will not do the situation justice. It’s at these times that when someone asks you “Wanna do a shot?” You better fucking say yes. But why shots? Let’s take a look!
Unites Us: Bros love #121 fighting. It’s such a fucking rush. One minute you’re minding your own business, the next you’re in some guy’s face screaming “IS WEARING THAT AFFLICTION T-SHIRT PART OF YOUR SEX-OFFENDER PAROLE AGREEMENT??” Sure it’s fun as shit to #40 get kicked out the bar, but you know what else’s fun? Staying in the bar. So, sometimes, you gotta play peacemaker and what better way to do that than taking a shot of liquor together?
It’s also an identifier for landmarks in the night. Nothing fucking beats trying to piece together the night’s activities when suddenly you remember, “OH FUCK, I was taking shots with Brooks last night!” Shots not only unite, but they validate bros’ relationships. It’s like pledging a fraternity – sure it’s fucking painful for a little while, but that shit’s worth it when your Blacked out and grinding on a fucking dime piece.
Gets You Fucked Up: Even bros have off nights. While for most people in society, this would constitute a normal night out, bros don’t just go to the bar to sit in the corner and stare at other people. We shred the bar to fucking pieces. However, every once in a while it just might not be happening. Our buzz might be weak, the girls might be fucking busted, the band might be shitty – I don’t know, sometimes there’s just something off about the night. That’s when any true bro knows the cure: some of Granpappy’s Ol’ Fashion’d Cough Medicine. Nothing bad ever happens from taking shots. If you just screamed out “YOU COULD GET YOUR STOMACH PUMPED OR DIE!!” Fucking relax, we’re bros, not some 75 lb. 14-year-old girl with a death wish because our parents won’t let us go to some fucking Glee concert. Additionally, being able to tell everyone the next day you had like 10 shots and still picked up some #59 Chi O is fucking bro as shit. Who cares if you puked all over her closet? The important thing is that she gave you a #145 blowjob after knowing you for half an hour.
Back in the days of the Wild West, do you think the cowboys saddled up at the saloon to chug a cold beer after a long day of killing Indians? Fuck no. It was liqour that was so strong it could double as gas for a fucking car (according to Back to the Future III). Sure today we’re not trying to settle land or bury our children who died of dysentery on the Oregon Trail, but I say fuck it - we’re cowboys, too. And no better way to honor our forefathers than throwing some fucking shots down our throats.
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