Okay, at least I didn't start off by ordering a fucking Corona. Erica, I am talking to you. The Brickskeller has more than 1,000 beers on its menu — the greatest variety not only in Washington, but in the world — and you order the drink of Cubans. Your boyfriend and his Yuengling are no better, but I expect more from you.

I, on the other hand, began what would shape out to be a very long, very fucked up night with a Sapporo Reserve. Those Japs really know how to make a beer, if you ask me. Better than the Mexicans, that's for sure.

After I finished my Sapporo, I segued gracefully to an English double chocolate stout. Delicious. And among a table of Sam Adams drinkers, I still had my pride.

But not for long.

You see, I'm not sure if you've heard of it, but there's a new drink on the market. It's called Sparks, and it is the greatest mother fucking shit ever poured into a can. No one knows what makes it taste so good or appear so orange, but it probably has something to do with its three main ingredients: caffeine, taurine and alcohol. Amen.

The night went to hell the moment I asked the waitress for a can of Sparks. I'm sorry, but these fancy-pants stouts are not for me. I need to keep it real, and if that means ordering Sparks ($1.50 at most convenience stores) then so be it. I love that I can become revitalized and smashed in one pop of the tab. The trashy factor is pretty cool, too, since I imagine Sparks is the preferred drink of people who think Red Bull is uppity.

Two cans of Sparks later, and we definitely got the party started. Observe:

You can see the fire in my eyes. All due to Sparks, people! Be sure to pick some up at your local gas station, and no, I don't work for Sparks.

If you don't believe me about Sparks being the fountain of youthful indiscretions, then check me out before Sparks:

SEE?! (Sparks even got rid of those drool stains.)

And thanks to Jonny for filling in for me during my pregnancy. The baby's pretty much fine — nothing a little Sparks can't fix.