Ode To Fireball

A few months back, I discovered something magical. A liquor that I could sip on happily…one that brought a smile, rather than hot tears of disgust, to my face.

Fireball.

Oh, sweet, sweet Fireball. Scrumptious cinnamon alcohol of my dreams.

I know, I know, maybe I’m a little late to the game here, but I consider myself lucky for that very reason. Because, unlike my peers, I didn’t overdue it on this delicious elixir during long nights of wanton youth when I was sixteen or seventeen (tequila did the job there…), and I’ve been able to enjoy it without accompanying visceral memories of sickness and shame!

A friend of mine, who, at twenty-six years old, recently began drinking booze for the first time has been one of the lucky recipients of my enthusiasm on the matter. Easing his way into drinking, he’s mostly stuck to beer so far (a wise, if not slightly boring, choice). But not with me! “Fireballs all around!” I insisted last time we got a drink together. Reluctantly, he agreed.

Shocked and amazed at the deliciousness of it all, my friend guffawed “this stuff is dangerous!” Oh, you have no idea.

Whether its a blast from the past, or a new endeavor, do yourself a favor and drink some Fireball this weekend. You won’t regret it.

Well, maybe you will, but that shouldn’t stop you.

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