Before we start, this will probably require alcohol on your part. So here, have Bess’s complimentary Bartending School Dropout™ recipe for Sex On The Beach:
- Fill mixing glass with ice.
- Add one (1) shot each of vodka & peach schnapps.
- Fill glass halfway with orange juice, and the rest of the way with cranberry juice.
- Add a dash of grenadine.
- Pour into shaker & shake. OR, if you’re classy bitches like we are (and let’s face it, if you’re reading this, YOU ARE), you can improvise with a wide-mouthed Avengers cup placed over a drinking glass.
- Strain into hiball glass, and garnish with an orange wedge if you’re feeling fancy. And have an orange.
OKAY DO YOU HAVE YOUR ALCOHOL NOW
GOOD. STORY TIME!
So once upon a time I did not give a shit about swimming, thought Michael Phelps was a douche, and hardly knew who Ryan Lochte was.
That time was 72 hours ago. And then I incepted myself with/dubconned myself into feels? We’re...not really sure how that happened. It started with ironically hate!shipping them and then there was a dark spiral that we’re all just trying to block out of our collective memories. (pennyplainknits described it as “like seeing a tiny bb animal brought down by wolves”.) Whoops.
BUT I’M BRINGING YOU ALL DOWN WITH ME. *coughpaperclipbitchcough*
So allow war_kitten & I to introduce you to The Douchebros.
( NOW WITH 100% MORE CUT TAGS, WHOOPSCollapse )
Crossposted to Dreamwidth here. There are comments over there.