You've been invited to a party with your office coworkers. You need to bring food or alcohol. You spend a couple of hours making Peanut Butter Rice Krispy bars, but then you remember Allain has a peanut allergy. You curse his stupid fucking name and its stupid fucking spelling up toward the kitchen lights. You're back at square one. What do you do? You don't even enjoy being around those dipshits. You hurry to a nearby liquor store and begin your search until you realize that those idiots wouldn't know Rye Whiskey from a Mike's Hard Lemonade.
Then suddenly you see the answer to your dilemma...
--Now That's What I Call Alcohol--
It's got just about everything (and then some) from which humans get drunk. Now That's What I Call Alcohol is the only beverage to be endorsed by people who say they go to house parties and spend the entire night petting the owner's cat.
Now you're at the soirée. Everyone is having a great time eating 5 Guys burgers that Randy picked up, listening to The Chainsmokers (Whitney's Spotify), and drinking your red Solo cup mystery brew. Allain places his hand on your shoulder and thanks you for bringing "the good stuff". You smile and tell him you knew he'd enjoy it. Ten minutes later Christa is spinning around. "Tequila makes me dance!" she screams, followed quickly by a "woo!" and spilling half her drink down her chin. Roger, the guy who only drinks domestic lagers, has found himself making an exception tonight, but that doesn't stop him from telling you how many beers it takes for him to even feel buzzed. You leave the party hating your coworkers even more, wishing you'd brought the killer peanut butter bars instead. Oh well--there's always next year.
Sold wherever coffee is sipped from yellow Minions brand mugs--semi-ironically, of course.