Setting: Triangle Fraternity, somewhere in Michigan, sometime in the 80s…
Enter a brainy co-ed, wearing a peach-colored shirt from Contempo Casuals and that awesome pair of Guess jeans with the zippers at the ankles. You know what I’m talking about.
Well, the brainiac wasn’t so smart that particular night, as she was also packing a pint of peach schnapps. Even though the engineering fraternity usually had an open bar at its parties, it was sometimes inconvenient to interrupt a heated game of 8-ball or Twister to get a fresh fuzzy navel. So she brought her own, alternately taking swigs and reapplying her frosty Clinique lipstick, the one she got as a gift with purchase.
You know what happened next.
Wildly drunk, she had the walking spins, was flirting madly, bent down to pick up something and accidentally got kneed in the eye, yacked, and mercifully, finally passed out after Maria or someone got her back to South Quad.
The next day was not pretty, and not only because of her black eye.
To this day, the less-than-brainy graduate can suss out that treacly syrup in any punch (Jared’s new year’s concoction, to be precise) or cocktail. Just a soupçon of that peachish smell brings on da acid reflux, brings on da funk. During a brief stint at The Body Shop, she was immediately nauseated whenever someone dabbed the decay-scented oil on the wrist.
What's the deal with fruit-scented stuff that doesn’t actually smell or taste remotely like the real thing? Peach schnapps gives peach a bad rap. This will not do. It’s time to defend the honor of stone fruit everywhere and punch the evil that is peach schnapps in the schnoz. Better yet, I'm going to pour it into a vat near Fraternity Row, set it on fire, and let co-eds get that warm, fuzzy feeling without the threat of puking.
What booze has your body rejected?