Jesus and Tequila
This week has been all about celebrating our Big Career Move, and in keeping with our custom of drinking everything in sight no matter what the occasion, we may have overdone it a wee dram last night. Not to put too fine a point on it, but today we awoke in our kitchen, the linoleum shellacked to our apple-cheeked face via a mixture of unidentifiable booze and what may very well have been the juice that sometimes leaches out of our Soul whenever we go at it hammer and tongs. As it stands, at this very moment it feels as though a pig has used the inside of our skull as a lavatory. Moments like these are what make some people stop believing in God.
All that aside, activity around here is going to be fairly sluggish––or even more so than usual––as we presently have all the cognitive skills of Benny from L.A. Law
. More to the point, in lieu of actual drinking, all hooch-related activity will be secondhand, at least until we can nip out for a shot of what we like to refer to as "Daddy's Special Coping Medicine." In the meantime, we strongly encourage you to read this
encomium to the glories of bourbon, by the great Walker Percy. It's the best writing about booze we've seen in a while, although that Kingsley Amis thing is a hoot as well.
Note: Our three loyal readers––Aloha, Dikembe! Cheers, Bryce! Hullo, Myron P.!––often ask us what the deal is with the first person plural. While it has become a pox on the ruddy fundament of the Blogosphere, we like the curious distancing effect the royal "we" provides and believe that it's a nifty way of conveying that whole "the lights are on, and the only people who are home are shoving otters down their pants" voices-in-our-head kind of thing that we sometimes suffer from right before lunch. So the we stays.
Oh, and a word about last night. While wild kitchen incongruities are a matter of course for people who drink too much, the thing we whipped up when we arrived safely home in the wee small hours is one for the books. (Specifically, our autobiography, likely to be found in the horror section of your local bookseller.) So anyway, a pre-dawn sortie through the fridge revealed little of actual sustenance, other than the inevitable sixer, which prompted the quick and joyless consumption of two (2) TUDs, or "Totally Unnecessary Drinks." The food issue didn't go away with the introduction of beer to our system, so, long story short, we weaved around the kitchen as if on the deck of a frigate, throwing together what can only be described as a culinary abortion. Here is what we made:
A clam and lettuce omelet.
Go ahead and take a moment to consider the ramifications of our menu. We're almost proud of ourselves, if only because it tops our previous all-time most horrific kitchen misstep, which was a little number we threw together in college called Hot Dog Fried Rice.