King of Bash: Ode to the Captain

Whenever I get a bartender’s attention, I always order Captain Morgan & Coke without fail, sometimes a few for the crew too. Tender’s actions afterwards, behind the bar, aren’t solely judged by the pour, which is important, but also as to whether I have to ask for lime or limes. The lime truly completes the Cuba Libre package. This is one of my favorite owned T-shirts:

With no limes, the tongue curls with antsy anticipation of being deprived of the taste for an extra 20 seconds, sometimes less if lucky, paradise knowingly moments away. Halfway through a cocktail I think about refill, no other quencher comes to mind urgently. Walter, from The Foundation Room, by far makes the best Captain Morgan & Coke. He’s also one of the coolest bartenders around, and I probably say that because he often services me ahead of the other thirsty drunks that loom.

The female bartender below, who really needs to eat some dinner every once in a while, provided quality service by making sure to add limes to virtually every drink.

I instantly fall in love when I see a girl drinking Captain Morgan. I’ve made friends with everyone I’ve ever met that plank walks. I’ve never had hangovers when I pound Morgan, nor do I stray from the usually shrewd common sense. In fact, I think the juice sharpens my sanity, substantially boosting cerebral functions and deftness in communication command.

I have a personal rule of never arriving at any Bash without booze in hand. 72% of the time I arrive with a handle of Captain Morgan, two 2 liter bottles of Coke, six limes, and a bag of ice. Not only do I eternally enjoy mixing drinks for anyone that asks, I also go in guaranteed to get hammered.

One gets pleasure from turning many characters into Morgan freaks, most of them wondering what it tastes like, and after I pour them their first they join the enthusiasm. They’re sucked in forever, entranced by the flavor and corporeal reactions. I even throw out the suggestion of mixing it with 7.

Varvara proved Parrot Bay is a fine addition when deciding to promote a tropical impression, which I usually mix with orange, pineapple, and cranberry juices with a dark rum for a bit of a bite.

Her legendary progression is noticeable, endearing, enthralling in too many ways.

I used to go to Provo for business, volleyball related, and alcohol was nowhere to be found, and of course, our coach knowingly steered us clear of any possible NCAA violations related to drinking. That never stopped the seniors from packing a handle or two of Captain Morgan in their luggage. Provo, at 18, is where my plank-walking fascination began.

Tastes so yummy I could drink it all the time, and really, all the time. When I’m out getting smashed, especially when I bring Morgan to a Bash, I sometimes think I should put a tourniquet around my neck to prevent more booze from entering my bloodstream. More drunk, and I never get ill. Skip claims it’s nothing more than “avarice dominating apparent addiction” as he takes a pull of Morgan.

At bars, women often catch drunken numskulls leering at them, obviously fantasizing about them in lascivious ways, sometimes scarily leading to disingenuous conversations stunted by mental deformities and conventional motifs lacking freshness of wit. Vultures they are, as Amanda calls them, Vulching away on unsuspecting females with terrible form. Morgan drinkers don’t Vulch, unlike these scavengers.