The first time I had a Grasshopper was shortly after I turned twenty-one. I was at a Christmas party that was about as classy as you might expect when hosted in a house on Sorority Row and attended by a bunch of recently-legal drinkers.
There was a keg dressed as Santa, guys and girls in fake antlers, and pirated Christmas music blaring over the din of the crowd. And if you could push your way through the tipsy mass of people, one noble student was playing bartender in the corner.
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