Autumn vodka cocktails are the best way to spend an autumnal evening with your friends. Vodka is the alcohol of warmth and satisfaction. There’s nothing like sprucing up your Halloween party with a tongue-bonfire. These eight drinks signify eight parts of your identity. Mixology is astrology for your taste buds. Your car wishes it could guzzle a gallon of these amalgamations. If vodka had a voice, it would tell you how many great choices you’ve made while imbibing Dionysius’s perspiration.
You search through your cupboards for nearly 20 minutes, looking for all of the Autumn vodka cocktails’ ingredients. Set the timer for 20 minutes. You find your apple cider and cinnamon. Where’s the vanilla vodka? You look everywhere and cannot find it.
Drive one car to the store. Add one bottle of vanilla vodka to your cart. Purchase.
You’re complimented on your choice of vodka. You recoil from the cashier in disgust, saying that anyone who likes you for your choice of vodka is a “fool!” The person in line behind you becomes visually confused and angered by the cashier’s question, thinking that—if any liquor would determine a personality—it would be schnapps. The customer behind you files a complaint.
Following up, you find out that the employee has been terminated.
This recipe has us using apple cider, vanilla vodka, and cinnamon whiskey.
You can’t stand the debate between good and evil: some people pronounce it caramel and others caramel. A lack of consensus rips the country apart. You, all the while, silently sip your caramel appletini, watching as the cities are razed by the wolves whose jowls glow with the power of 30 grams of plutonium.
This recipe is where you’re going to replace the traditional sour apple schnapps with apple vodka.
Your insatiable desire for bacon slowly grows. Everyone may or may not be born a vegetarian, and for many years, your appetite for the pigs goes dormant. As soon as this drink hits your tastebuds, it all comes rushing back. The hurt from the realization that you can’t remember events as well, without bacon.
You’re at a gas station just north of your hometown. You see a familiar face and remember that they owe you money. You get your money. Bacon Me Revenge can only be washed down with Bacon Me Angry.
The main ingredient here is bacon-infused vodka. If you don’t have that, fret not: there are ways to make bacon-infused vodka.
The maddening thujone levels consume you. Bootleg absinthe was a bad idea. Never trust a traveling salesman who only sells promises. You enter into a state of terror that’s brought on by the placebo effect. This effect’s cause is none other than propaganda and unreasonable regulations.
You realize that the thujone was in your heart all along. You come to the conclusion that the salesman has pent up rage that he expresses through the art of lying.
This one requires you to fly, drive, or sail to Canada.
You abhor slasher films but take refuge in the fact that this drink has nothing to do with your fear of an entire genre of movies. Everyone at the party asks you why you haven’t had one of hors d’oeuvres. You say that slasher films have ruined movies for you and that you’ve sworn them off for good.
Several hours later, you admit that you are not actually afraid of slasher films. Everyone sighs in relief. One person decides to leave the party, having had enough.
For this drink, you have to travel to Canada, again. There’s no way around America’s arbitrary liquor-tincture laws unless you traverse through Canadian-pirate-infested, international waters.
Poltergeist is one of the scariest loan words of all time. The other one is Existentialism.
Your house becomes haunted with the inescapable feeling that you forgot to lock the door and turn off the stove. You check them. They are fine.
This recipe might be the tastiest one on this list.
You walk into the dining room, and there’s Karl, playing poker with your 24 other best friends. You start kibitzing the weak hand he’s been dealt.
He stabs you with a tiny, cocktail sword. A donnybrook ensues. There are now teeth on the floor. They disappear, which concerns you and 25 of the best people you could’ve ever asked to be your friends.
Set the clock for 30 minutes. Count the number of teeth everyone lost. Look for the teeth.
The teeth are never found.
Half mixologist, half chef—you move from padawan to autumn vodka cocktails master, with this drink.
Bram Stoker isn’t dead. As the grandfather of vampire fiction, it’s no surprise that he is a vampire himself. He has entranced every vampire author, ever. The entire genre of vampire romance novels has been Stoker’s inception. This was all planned out when he was born in Mesopotamia, thousands of years ago. We learn that Dracula is semi-autobiographical.
You feel your neck and realize that you’ve been bitten. The tooth fairy—who is capable of story-travel—also extracts crocodile teeth as a second job. While you’re distracted by the toothmarks, the tooth fairy has stolen your cash, phone, and the hand-me-down sterling spoons you received as a mismailed wedding gift.
Here’s the recipe.
Take every drink we just went over, take the ingredients from all those, and dump them into a steel drum that once contained something other than water. Grab a broom-shaft. Stir it until you’re satisfied.
You haul the barrel to an unmarked location and upload the geocache coordinates onto a sketchy website. Hours later, around 900 people show up. They all fight for the right to call the cylindrical container their own.
One emerges victorious. It’s you. It was you all along. Plant your name-flag in the ground and call it a day.
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