The Perils of Jagermeister

A couple years ago (lets say 27) a friend of mine I'll call John (ostensibly to protect the innocent) attended a conference in New Orleans. John and I wandered into the Quarter the first night eager for adventure: me, with a modest appetite for alcohol, and he with an empty stomach, a full wallet, and a Navy-man's appetite for misadventure. I wobbled back hotel-ward about midnight, unable to convince my friend to return with me. Next morning, there was a vacant chair next to me at the plenary session. Wondering what was up, I checked his room at the break. After some heavy pounding and distant groaning the door opened weakly, then he retreated quickly. When he recovered he looked at me sheepishly. "It was the Jagermeister," he said.