I drank some bad gin tonight. Pretty much all gin is bad, really, but this was bad in a different and irritating way. You see, itís not doing what itís supposed to.
Hereís the thing with gin: thereís only one reason to drink it; thereís only one thing itís supposed to do.
You drink a strawberry daiquiri, you might be doing it just for the taste. Thatís why they make things like virgin daiquiris. Daiquiris are pretty damn tasty, so you can see the reason for drinking them even when they contain no alcohol.
You know what they do with gin-tasting things that donít get you drunk? They make toilet cleaner and those pine-tree air fresheners that they have in truck stops. Thatís how good gin tastes.
I once made the mistake of buying Seagramís lime-twisted gin. I made this mistake in November of 2006. I am still paying for that mistake tonight.
It was just sitting there, where I had ostracized it so very long ago. I was already one drink in, and decided that I might as well finish off this Seagramís crap. I grabbed the bottle, poured out a measure of gin, and then blew the dust from my fingertips. Iím not even playing, manóthis crap has been sitting around so long that it has a layer of dust on it.
If you know anything about me or my drinking habits, you know that for a bottle of alcohol to last more than two weeks around my house takes something special. And by ďspecial,Ē I mean that it has to taste like complete shit. The last time I had a bottle of something that lasted this long was a bottle of Absolut Currant. That was back in 2001, if I remember correctly.
Long story short, I drank a shit-ton of this piss-miserable stuff tonight, and I have nary a buzz to show for it. Whatís worse is that Iím now committed, you know? Iíve invested so much time and sacrificed so many of my taste buds; I canít just quit. If I stop drinking now, the terrible gin wins.
And nobody wants that.
So Iím going to keep drinking, and while I do, Iím going to tell you something:
I was at a stoplight today, waiting behind aÖhm. I donít know what theyíre called. Mail car? Mail truck?
I was at a stoplight today, waiting behind a mailmobile. I was doing that thing you do at stop lights, kind of looking around, killing a little time, whatever. Out of boredom, I began to read all the crap written on the back of the mailmobile.
ďTurn your computer into a POST OFFICE!Ē It proclaimed.
ďWhat a shitty, shitty idea,Ē I muttered. Why in the world would I want my computer filled with impatient people on cell phones who are all talking about how slow the line is moving? Or oh yes, please make it so that my computer shuts down for a break every five minutes, leaving me only one window open. Can you make it so that I have to wait until five oíclock in the afternoon each day to get my email? Or maybe you can make it to where my computer runs extraordinarily slow, and when it finally does decide to do something, it snaps at me with a surly attitude, making it seem like Iím the one whoís wasting precious time. Thatís all I need, is for my computer to be apathetic and bored, and to constantly make me feel like Iím either an incompetent child or a terrorist trying to mail letter-bombs.
You know what? I donít want that. Instead, why don't I leave the treating everyone like AIDS-infected bum shit to you people? Iíll use my computer to get things done.
I had more to say, but the batteries in my keyboard are dying (yeah, baby, wireless keyboardóhow bad do you want me now?), which makes it damn near impossible to type with any sort of coherency, so I guess that signifies the end of tonightís rant.