What Whiskey Does To Me

Oh my God, wordpress, what the fuck did you do?  You ate big parts of my post.  I thought I had done something the first time, but this time I knew I didn’t.  Damn you, wordpress.  I will try to see if I can recall the first part.  I’ve saved the latter part.  Must be a comment from the computer gods about the content.  I’m steaming fucking mad, though.  Speechlessly mad.

I prefer my whiskey with an “e”, like my favorite bourbon, Ancient Age, spells it.  (God, I’m so fucking mad; I guess I’ll have to write in fucking Word and fucking paste it from now on.  I prefer Notepad but it fucks with the spacing in the transfer.  Back to the fucking story, what’s left of it.)  Every good alcoholic needs a little AA.  Tonight’s a school night, so one or two is plenty, and most nights it’s none, or part of one beer.  I’m only a half-assed alcoholic, but about 10 days ago there was a weekend and I was bored.  And thirsty.  I’ve heard tell that some compare whiskey to cocaine, in that one can get wired up and fired up on whiskey, just fine.  In fact, “Poor Man’s Speedball”, which is a pot or two of coffee followed by about that much whiskey (or beer) is a powerful and pleasurable way to spend a late weekend afternoon and long weekend evening.  Not the healthiest thing ever, but the endorphins that are being released do your body a world of good, so fuck it.   Good times.

Ice from the freezer, whiskey from the freezer, in a big to-go cup on the back mini-deck.  Good times.  Still ice in the last cup in the morning.  I’m a wuss, no sour mash straight out of the drawer for me.  Has to be really cold.  As the night goes on, the drink gets browner and browner as less water is needed.  Been scientifically proven.  As neighbor Dave says, after a while you’re just pouring, not drinking.  So here’s my great contribution to literature as dictated by me, and Ancient Age, to my hulking old monitor on my actual desk, from some weekend night earlier this month:

——-

Comic Routine

“I can’t see why people think they need pills and deodorant to get them more testosterone.  I think we need LESS testosterone, I mean, have you seen some of the ugly shit that passes for babies sometimes?  Don’t get me wrong, all babies have cute ways and should be nurtured.  And loved. And given a chance to grow up and become well-adjusted, sweet, productive, loving, UGLY MOTHERFUCKING ADULTS!!

“You guys have been great, thanks.”

Or how about this later gem of a thought, which I say has nothing to do with what any person looks like, but does have to do with continuity.  And whiskey.  Well, and maybe with things that are exotic, so that’s okay, I think.  We shouldn’t have to apologize for what we write or say, when we’re exploring the world of A A.:

“I like my whiskey and my women cold and brown!”

———–

Beep beep fucking boop: “Cold” as in cold-hearted, not as in cold under the trailer, for Christ’s fucking sake.  That’s a joke, when I write about the pallet load of lime being delivered to me.  I’m going to quit writing and take up woodworking.

You guys have been great, thanks.

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2 Responses to What Whiskey Does To Me

  1. H.E. ELLIS says:

    When I am this pissed I say I’m “Rumpelstiltskin mad.” Makes me sound all literary-like.

    I wish alcohol released anything other than vomit in me. I’ve been doomed to a life as a designated driver.

    And did you ever notice that two ugly people will produce the most gorgeous children? It’s sort of like math, I guess. Two negatives equaling a positive. People tell me how beautiful my children are all the time. I don’t know how to feel about that.

  2. I always thought you was one a them literary types.
    You may be the lucky one, to not have to deal with drinking. Your own, that is. No wonder you’re always the serious type. 😉
    Yeah, what is up with that (homely folks having beautiful kids)? You want to ask if maybe there was at least one “outside partner” involved. Not to worry–a lot of nice-looking kids have nice-looking parents.

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