Whiskey makes me shit, which works out great on weekends when we have our pre-noon shots, but not in sweaty bars with no bathroom but a hole in the back, piss and cum-crusted flushless. Pre-noon shots. My wife rallies the house every Saturday and Sunday, bellowing the countdown down the hall. "Twwooo minutes!" Sometimes her folks join over the computer. Out west they're pre-nine shots.
Thing about waking to a shot of whiskey is it hits me right in the bowels. Followed by a cup of coffee, it's the perfect recipe for regularity. Some call it alcoholism, but I'm living proof it's an entirely regular thing to do, like drinking prune juice or shoving a garden hose up your ass to get things going.
And not only's whiskey great for the back end, it's a cure-all for the gullet. Hell with solids. You know how many muscles it takes to chew and swallow? A shit-ton, and who wants shit in their esophagus? I sure as hell don't. Whiskey's a wash. Alcohol cleans cuts, burns, gums, and what's the key in whiskey? That's right, alcohol.
Consider common mixers:
Lemon juice – sour citrus cuts the smoke
Vermouth – respect it, keep it cool like wine and it compliments oak kindly
Water – chilled and distilled makes the finest blend or single malt blossom
Ginger ale – only the purest unfiltered offers a pleasant bite to the buzz
Orange juice – freshly squeezed, please, with breakfast only
And Robitussin – when sleep’s the only option
Coke, on the other hand, ain't natural. What the hell's it come from? Cocaine? No, or I'd drink it by the case. It's corn syrup. That's it. Moonshine. Gut rot. But enough of that. This is a love letter, and like every love letter it's dripping with hate, because one day I'll detest the fact I wrote it and whiskey will hate me for drying out, or the other way around. All I'll have to get things moving will be coffee. Not a cup of joe, a cup of blood, because every sip will make me crave my real weekly laxative that much more, like a vampire sucking donor bags instead of some Betty's neck. Every day Monday through Friday, backed-up in the workweek without weekends to blow 'em out, my ass will suffer the same.
Needless to say, that's not an option. How un-American, denying the national spirit for the sake of myself. Might as well eat bald eagle, wrapped in roasted flag. In fact, for the United sake of America, I'm gonna expand the pre-noon shot to weekdays. That's right, whiskey as my witness, I will not spend another hour of my life constipated on the toilet seat of sobriety, because it's always pre-noon somewhere, and what's so regular about drinking away the only days we get to ourselves anyway?
Whiskey first appeared in Having A Whiskey Coke With You, Vol. 1 Iss. 2, August 2011
Download a copy here: http://havingawhiskeycokewithyou.tumblr.com/
Thing about waking to a shot of whiskey is it hits me right in the bowels. Followed by a cup of coffee, it's the perfect recipe for regularity. Some call it alcoholism, but I'm living proof it's an entirely regular thing to do, like drinking prune juice or shoving a garden hose up your ass to get things going.
And not only's whiskey great for the back end, it's a cure-all for the gullet. Hell with solids. You know how many muscles it takes to chew and swallow? A shit-ton, and who wants shit in their esophagus? I sure as hell don't. Whiskey's a wash. Alcohol cleans cuts, burns, gums, and what's the key in whiskey? That's right, alcohol.
Consider common mixers:
Lemon juice – sour citrus cuts the smoke
Vermouth – respect it, keep it cool like wine and it compliments oak kindly
Water – chilled and distilled makes the finest blend or single malt blossom
Ginger ale – only the purest unfiltered offers a pleasant bite to the buzz
Orange juice – freshly squeezed, please, with breakfast only
And Robitussin – when sleep’s the only option
Coke, on the other hand, ain't natural. What the hell's it come from? Cocaine? No, or I'd drink it by the case. It's corn syrup. That's it. Moonshine. Gut rot. But enough of that. This is a love letter, and like every love letter it's dripping with hate, because one day I'll detest the fact I wrote it and whiskey will hate me for drying out, or the other way around. All I'll have to get things moving will be coffee. Not a cup of joe, a cup of blood, because every sip will make me crave my real weekly laxative that much more, like a vampire sucking donor bags instead of some Betty's neck. Every day Monday through Friday, backed-up in the workweek without weekends to blow 'em out, my ass will suffer the same.
Needless to say, that's not an option. How un-American, denying the national spirit for the sake of myself. Might as well eat bald eagle, wrapped in roasted flag. In fact, for the United sake of America, I'm gonna expand the pre-noon shot to weekdays. That's right, whiskey as my witness, I will not spend another hour of my life constipated on the toilet seat of sobriety, because it's always pre-noon somewhere, and what's so regular about drinking away the only days we get to ourselves anyway?
Whiskey first appeared in Having A Whiskey Coke With You, Vol. 1 Iss. 2, August 2011
Download a copy here: http://havingawhiskeycokewithyou.tumblr.com/
