Drinks at the Gold Spike

We laugh and laugh.
The waitress, who is also a dealer and a middle manager,
has brought back the girliest drink the hidden artist of a bartender could make:
hilarious pink froth (a “Pink Squirrel” we surmise)
presented with a thick straw flanked by cherries and topped
with a dollop of whipped cream in sculptural representation
of a penis. (Only at a small casino like this, and one struggling to cater
to the curious class—to we aging hipsters exactly—
could we order by adjective this way.)
We attack the pink drink gleefully in the photos.

The unmet mixologist sends a green version next:
tropical-frog maraschinos to match the swampy shake.
Call the first drink the “Caucasian Boyfriend”;
the second “Pistachio Casanova” or “The Incredible Fulk.”

Stevie orders something “sinister,”
and out comes an opaque, burnt umber shot.
We pass it around for tasting. The first impression:
Jagermeister at room temperature—evil enough itself—
but then the attack of rubbing alcohol—
maybe 151 rum or straight ethanol (if that’s legal),
and a hint of absinthe and maybe vinegar,
but who is tasting anything at that point?

In a series of photos, we take turns grimacing horridly,
glass of syrup in hand as the scant mouthful
sears lips, gums, tongues, throats, larynxes, esophagi
and stomachs. It's like eating a despair sandwich,
impending loss on sourdough (not good sourdough).
It drives the soul to the wrong side of an unknown town
where morasses of formless fears coagulate
into the secret twisted spine that makes what’s wrong, wrong.

And a few hours later, out comes a startling fart—
quick, loud and superheated.
That’s a drink I would call a Cluster F,
a Neitzsche in Hell, a Gulf Spill, a Character Assassination,
a Hubris, a Hoarcrux, a word that means
"an indiscretion that turns into a total disaster."

But Ari won’t end on that note. Remember:
it’s only a drink mixed by a comedian/bartender
for aging wiseacres on their most recent farewell tour.