I have a Jägermeister* machine in my house. That’s a good thing most days, but sometimes it’s a problem. For example, when my girl is upstairs waiting for me in the bedroom and the loud bzzzzp sound of the dispenser sells me out. It’s not something I like to share, but on the night of my fortieth birthday, after every guest had left and the house was finally quiet again, I thought, “Fffhuck it, one more shhot befhore I go tuh bhed.” There I am, on my knees, head tilted back, sucking the nozzle, holding the dispense button in, gulping a river of Jäger. In my peripheral vision I see Mayte, just standing there, shaking her head, with her arms crossed, watching me. Busted. I say, “Hiii bahby.” She says, “What are you doing?” I say, “I thinhk I drhopped mhy kehys over hheare... sohmewhere. I’m just down hhere on the flhoor luhhking for them.” She looked at me and said, “Happy Birthday, baby. I’m going to bed.”

Never mind that story, the point is that I know what to do with Jäger-meister. What I don’t know is why my better ideas haven’t been put into action yet. Jäger goes with everything, please believe. Jägermeister coffee is a personal favorite. Just whip up your usual coffee and hit it with a shot of Jäger. You won’t regret it. And there’s more: You can make Jäger desserts: Jäger root beer floats, Jäger chocolate sauce, Jäger ice cream sundaes. And I’ve got plans for the hot dog stands. Dodger Stadium needs to know that every dude in that whole place would kill to buy a Jäger Dog. They could make the Jäger into some funky jelly paste and shoot it into the middle of the dog back in the factory. When it gets stuck on one of those hot dog merry-go-rounds, it’s on. It won’t be as cold as I like it, but it won’t matter because when dudes bite into one of those doggies and snap the weenie skin, BOOM! There’s three shots of Jäger right down your throat. It’s self-contained—there’s no mess because there are no shot glasses to clean.

With the state of the world as it is, it wouldn’t surprise me if I found Jäger fruit punch in little juice boxes at the store. The label would probably suggest serving it at those times when your kids have had too much sugar to turn the volume down on the little guys. They’ve got all kinds of mood-altering drugs for kids already. I’m sure we’re not far away from Flintstones chewable Prozac. Jäger is made from poppies, right? That shit’s natural.*

I mean, fuck Jell-O shots—have you ever had frozen Jäger? The colder the better, trust me. Why are there no Jäger pops in my freezer right now? That’s a Jäger to go. It’s the Jäger you can take anywhere. And your girl can suck on it, all the way down to the stick. And on those nights when you’ve had too much Jäger, that pop will have your back. You and your girl have dessert and a dildo... all in one frozen treat!

I want to take it further. Jäger potpies, that’s what I’m talking about this winter. A Jäger broth, carrots, peas, potatoes, and meat marinated for days in Jäger. Forget the after-dinner drinks. Why wait when you can have them now? Jäger tastes like cough medicine, so it’s got to be good for you. Listen, Meister Jägermeister, we should collaborate on some of this shit. You got my number? You can find it in your frequent-flier program files—I’m enrolled. Whew, damn, all this writing has made me tired. Actually I feel kinda sick. I feel like I’ve got a cough. I’ll be right back. Time for my medicine. Bvvvvvvvvvvvvvzzzzup.