No, really, the problem is I have no budget for anything fun lately. I’d better be paid by next Monday, because that’s Packing Up and Moving Into Storage Day, not yet a national holiday, and I am going to need to pay some bills by then, for srs. There’s no point in having all the funds in the world “in invoices” because as far as I know truck rental companies won’t take invoices in lieu of cash.
Nor will liquor stores, and I am going to CLEAR ONE OUT on the evening of the 25th, believe me.
So yesterday I decided I’d been good (god knows why I decided that, but I can be somewhat arbitrary at times) and deserved a treat, and so I took myself to the local filling station, an agreeably-but-not-intimidatingly casual place named after a species of plant which did not, in fact, exist on the premises.
Unless it was hiding, and after what happened, who could blame it?
The waitress was attentive, and sweet, and barely old enough to be out that late on a school night. She asked me what I would like to drink, and I thought about what not-too-exotic-but-still-tasty items might be available in the subarctic regions and said, “Do you have Johnny Walker Black?”
She looked at me with alarm.
“Rum?” she asked.
“…Scotch,” I replied, probably just as startled as she had been. She’d apparently never heard of this exotic tipple. I might as well have asked for a Connecticut Bullfrog, Andover style.
She toddled off to whisper to the bartender. No doubt she thought it was something that was kept under the bar, in case of the po-po.
She came back smiling, and saying Yes, Yes, we have this ‘Johnny Walker Black’ stuff! or words to that effect. So I ordered a double.
“With Pepsi?”
And so concludes our Slice of Life in the Knife for this evening. The following I post here because it is perhaps the finest ten minutes of a bartending god as you will ever witness in your entire life, unless you buy the film The Sin of Harold Diddlebock and watch the whole thing repeatedly, as is your right. Or would be, if you hadn’t downloaded the damn thing from Bittorrent, eh?
First things first: who knew the frozen tundra was absofuckingloutely roasting in the summertime? I guess 24 hours of sunlight and no clouds, ever, will do that to you.
The remedy? BOOZE POPS! I’m wondering what kind of rum I can get at the liquor store to mix into these, because the freezer I’ve got can turn a bottle of lukewarm coke into a coke slurpee in about 15 minutes.
Yeah, okay. Maybe just that one guy dance, and everybody else watch him. And here I thought hipsters couldn’t move in those skinny pants! The fact that he performs this (and you really have to give it more than 30 seconds) in what looks like the setting for the world’s seediest amateur porn only makes the whole thing more fabulous.
Now that we’ve set the mood, the guests have started to arrive. The occasion, in case you’re wondering: a joint party (no puns, I hate smelly, dull people who mumble nonstop about pizza) for the birthdays of Julian Assange and myself. And look: everyone’s sitting down to dinner.
Happy Birthday, Mister President of Wikileaks
Who else was there? Oh, all the top celebrities. And what did they talk about? Each other, of course. And if you click over the jump to the celebrity gossip roundup, you’ll be able to read the whole thing.
Squee! I’m so excited! My new little buddy will be the perfect companion to keep me company on those long northern nights when the sun is never anywhere near the damn yardarm and if it were, it’d be too dark to see it by anyway.
I know, I know, many people have warned me that taking care of a pet is no small matter, and that my life is not exactly a settled one (nearly bought a hippie schoolbus to live in the other day, but am firmly decided on building a houseboat sometime in the next two years, if I don’t get rich and buy Krac Des Chevaliers in Syria and don’t bet against me; have you got any IDEA what’s happening to my shares on Empire Avenue lately?) but still, I am optimistic. He’s compact, omnivorous, self-sufficient, and doesn’t use too damn much vermouth.
Internet Love never works out. Lavalife has a lot to answer for.
Haven’t we all had that experience? The tall, handsome, male charmer online somehow morphs, in between tweeting and meeting, into a stubby, Faces-of-Meth, hermaphroditic, spectrum disorder-having bedwetter. Oh, there may be plenty of fish out there, but YOU try getting one to make conversation over a nice entree.
The Booty Call of Cthulhu
Kate Gosselin will settle for just ANYONE.
Anybody need a stiff drink after that? Apparently I need a Bloody Mary:
If you don’t feel like a drink but have been inspired to take quite a different kind of action, here’s the “what kind of toilet user are you” quiz that you didn’t know you were waiting for.
