At my age there's something a little off and a little shameful about the tradition of plunking down $10 at a kind of seedy Mexican restaurant (albeit one with good chips and salsa) for a fiery shot called the flaming cucaracha.
Maybe there's a little sorority girl in all of us and for a moment she gets to bust out, filled with giddy anticipation of the shots arrival, scrunching up her face after the downing, blatently disregarding her own well being (the straw that you drink the shot throw is burning as you drink through it and, I assume, sending unknown toxins into your body), and the hollering the prescribed “Whoo!” afterwards.
Recently the tradition was broken when we decided not to get a round of shots, so maybe at my age that little sorority is growing up, graduating college after seven years, and getting a job at her dad's real estate office before getting knocked up by her old roommate's ex-boyfriend. And good for her. But the flaming cucaracha will be missed.