29 September 2013


Drinking in the morning is tricky business. If you're not careful you could end up standing in the kitchen at 3pm waiting for a mug of beer to answer your questions. And the 120 Minute IPA takes FOREVER to reply. Only a seasoned third-shifter can pull off a good pre-noon drunk.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Yada, yada, yada.
You've been drunk during the day before. Big frickin deal, you think. We're all proud of your impending alcoholism, Joleen Doreen, now move along to the moral of the story.

Joke's on you, asshole, I have no morals.

I used to have them. 
I traded them for lifetime supply of bad decisions.

A large number of bad decisions should be called a gross. My 14-year-old likes to say my life is "Groddy" but I'm certain she does it more to irritate me than as an actual term of measurement. Gross seems more appropriate.
Bulk rate bad decisions at a bargain!
Gross never looked so good!
C'mon down to Joleen Doreen's,
We got 'em by the barrel!

My poor choices have been oak-aged. In that, I grew up in the woods. (Look, it doesn't have to make sense, ok? Don't see me poking holes in your origin story, do you? Just accept the inevitable hillbillying of the moment.)
My judgement is not always sound.
My judgement is sometimes sound.
My judgement has never been sound.
But I never expected it to be, what with the noise in my head and all. I turned it all off once. The racket. The ringing. The static. The silence was more than my creativity could bear. The stillness gave me cancer.

Of all of my flaws, the melody of my mind is the most beautiful.

Feels like inspiration.
Let's do shots!
I poured three. We'll assume that you guys had at least the first two that I just drank. After this, we stop counting. There's no telling who drank what. Nobody likes snitches.

I don't regret much. But when I do, it's a chorus of rioting stupidity. The only thing that can block the rampage of a stubbornness such as mine is a very thick blanket of booze. The alcohol needs to permeate the air of mystery surrounding why I do such dumb fucking things.

Time to throw cat shit out the window, or whatever you flatlanders say.
(editor's note: the daughter informs me that the phrase I'm looking for is "throws caution to the wind." Seems foolish to me. The wind is going to blow that caution right back in your face. Nope. It's definitely better to throw cat shit out the window.) Whatever.
Time to drink.

Sure, it gets rowdy from time to time. But every once in awhile you need to toss back the booze at the asscrack of dawn and let the shitface shine. Every now and then again you gotta get tuned before noon. Here'n there you should slosh'er up with the mornin light. Because how else are you going to forget all the dumb fucking things that drinking got you into the night before? 

And the sober things?
I still ain't ready to talk about those. Those are the ones that we brew our own beverages for. My resistance to making good decisions is 100 proof.
Scratch that, it's 190 proof.
Doing dumb shit is as American as Apple Pie.