Light and fruity, just like Mickey Swarsdon, that kid in middle school who you ridiculed mercilessly for his lisp. And who you then stalked just as mercilessly, secretly dreaming of his touch while you sat in the bushes outside the Round Table where his family ate after soccer games.

Your night will be sexually charged and confusing, followed by a touch of resentment at a life repressed, with some light afternotes of morbid nostalgia. You will make one too many subtly homophobic jokes, and in defending yourself, you'll only make it worse. You will be quietly shunned by the rest of the table.

Who You'll End Up Fighting

An old man telling war stories to the bartender just a bit too loudly.

But don't assume you'll win: He once did for sixteen Japs with their own gat dang machine gun.

His eyes will be glazed over as he alternately reminisces on the camaraderie and regrets the atrocities of wartime. Something about his cadence of speech will remind you of your grandfather and the confusion you felt at his passing. You will headlock him by the dumpsters when he steps out to smoke, and that will go swimmingly for about two minutes, but then the drunk will turn on you and you'll end up internally mixing a cocktail of familial grief and childhood sexuality. They'll find you partially inside a trash can, half-hugging a scared old man while sobbing something about Mickey Swarsdon's beautiful little hands.

A she-male. She will steal your wallet, but the joke's on her: Those cards are long maxed out, and your debit card only links to an account with seventy four dollars in overdraft charges. That's her debt now. Score!

Finish

The conflicting excitement and shame of childish sexuality. And some banana.

Notes of vanilla and rye, with just a touch of hobo (but the good kind of hobo: Like that old Asian guy who's always yelling about young love to passing couples on the street, not like that big black dude that stabbed you in the calf last winter when you stepped on his hand).

Palate

A sharp, sour alcohol impression followed by a dark, burnt, oaky smoothness.

The Argument You're Going to Get In

Your night will begin jovially enough: Joking loudly and crassly with your co-workers at a familiar dive bar. Eventually, a friendly argument will sprout between two of your fellows concerning what, exactly, belongs on top of a hamburger. It will quickly turn ugly when you manage to turn what starts out as a hilarious, quirky diatribe against onions into a cruel and biting rant about the state of the black man in America. It is a segue that surprises even you.

The bartender (he's black, and he fucking loves onions).

Who You're Going Home With

The bartender again. Because this is the kind of beating that's going to last a long, long while.

That this is the first place your mind goes for "black bartender" is kind of the issue, really.

You have inadvertently sparked the kind of racial blood feud that could only end amicably if you somehow saved his life while trapped in a basement with two hillbillies, a gimp and a samurai sword.

A sickly sweet vanilla, which, incidentally, will be the bartender's pet name for you over the coming weeks.

You're not going to get in any arguments, largely because of the ball-gag she put in your mouth about two hours ago. You met her downstairs, in the lobby bar of the Ramada Inn that your shitty office supply company put you up in for this two-day conference. You would've argued against the trip when you were younger, but these days you leap at any chance to get away from your ugly wife and hateful children. You got to talking to some pretty blonde over drinks, where you were utterly charmed by her sultry, forceful ways; she was presumably wooed by how much you know about printers.

Oh, nobody! Nobody at all. You're handcuffed to this radiator so tight, you can barely move.

"Beat me! Belittle me! BURN ME! I've been so nau-wait, do you think this might be getting a little out of hand?"

You'll just have to do whatever you're told. Whatever

Who You're Going Home With

Shit, you might never go home again if this girl keeps working it like - is she going for your stuff? She is! Oh yeah, the belt. The belt, baby. Or...the wallet? You guess that's uh, that's pretty good too. It's leather, at any rate. If she rears up enough, maybe gets a running start, you could leave a pretty good mark with a wallet.

Finish

A peaty, mellow burn, which will go nicely with the burning shame you'll fell as you give your statement to the police the next morning, naked save for an emergency blanket and the perfectly knotted tie you had her Double Windsor around your junk before she made off with your clothes and petty cash.

Sweetness, followed by spice.

Palate

A bit of sourness at first, but you adjust to it quickly. It gets easier to drink by the sip. Easier and easier and easier.

The Argument You're Going To Get In

You didn't even want to go out tonight, but hell - this is great! Just you and the boys at that little place around the corner, there's a decent bar band playing (but not so good that you feel bad talking over them,) it's just like the ol' college days. You're really getting into the swing of things. You're swinging the hell out of things!

Okay, now you're just taking swings at people: You try to backhand Steven, your next door neighbor who blasts fucking Snow Patrol every night - you get it, he misses his ex-girlfriend, but some of us are trying to watch re-runs of Cold Case, Steve. You try to uppercut that guy in the Red Sox hat - because really, fuck that guy. You know he only bought it after they won the Series. He wasn't a true fan, down in the god damn trenches with you back before it was all golden shits and diamond giggles. Then you try to jumpkick the barmaid, because she was standing by the guy in the Red Sox hat and you got confused. You're basically taking on the whole god damn bar, and as soon as you manage to actually land a punch, they'll know it.

But that's okay: The whiskey says you can take 'em all, no problem.

Surprisingly, a cute little redhead. But that's only because she couldn't correctly decipher the drunken spinning of your fists, and admired the spontaneity and balls it took for you to try to start a solo mosh-pit for a Creedence song. She's just a little too eager to suck a dick, but hey -- that's a problem for Tomorrow You to worry about. That guy sucks anyway, and besides, there's like eighteen hours before you even have to think about grabbing a cab to the clinic for an STD panel.

Finish

Chlamydia. Now, a lot of people are going to swear Chlamydia doesn't have a taste, but you know better. It's like cigarette ash and those Fun Dip candies, you know with the powder? And something else, like moldy br - you just, you know better, okay? Let's leave it at that.

Orange and vanilla, with hints of tea. Both dignified and robust.

Palate

Slick and oily, with cream, cinnamon, and exotic spices. Redbreast practically screams prestige and subtlety. Screams it right in your god damn face until you start crying.

The Argument You're Going To Get In

It will be a scholarly argument, but one made no less passionate by virtue of its civility. Mr. Preston Humboldt, being his usual, stodgy self, will argue that the only way to effectively shatter the hold of that military Junta in the colonies is through trade embargoes and sanctions. He doesn't understand, of course, that these savages are only temporarily installed leaders, and that they rarely maintain power long enough for the consequences of diplomacy to take hold. Any fool can see that,

Who You'll End Up Fighting

A man in a top hat and little else, having been possessed of the strange urge to strip himself of his clothing in direct proportion to his rage.

Like this, but with all the dignity replaced by dongs.

When you insisted that his trade embargoes where the political equivalent of cowering behind his mother's skirts, he stripped off his waistcoat and flung it to the ground. When you implied that his reluctance to approve a campaign of precise sorties on key supply routes was due to an unseemly concern for his own public face, off came the shirt. When you called him the black sludge that leaked out of his father's anus after a night of coital role-reversal, the congealed puddle miraculously given life solely to teach his parents the consequences of perverting God's sexual will, he threw his underwear into the fire and came after you with a cast iron hat rack and a fury-erection.

Preston's mother. She is of an unseemly age, to be sure, and was likely no prize even in her salad days, but you have a point to prove to dear Preston, and a point to bury in his haggard matron.

Finish

Surprisingly mellow.

...

Until you cross it.

You can buy Robert's book, Everything is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead, or follow him on Twitter and Facebook or you can just drink until you're likable. Hey, it's bound to happen one of these days.