Douchery

Not certain if that's a proper word, but as a title for this post it's apt.

As a fitting end to DfV, I need to relate some hilarious circumstances that Mackey and I were privy to last evening. Now admittedly, DfV started strong but tapered off towards the last couple of days due to circumstances beyond our control. Shit happens. Fortunately we were able to make a suitable rally last night at The Hill.

The Hill, like many such places, has a challenge for patrons regarding its wing sauce. Nothing new there as I said, but last night was a real gem. Towards the higher end of the Scoville Scale, you will find a nasty little bastard called a Ghost Pepper. This vile nuke is beyond my taste buds, and I'm a hot sauce fanatic in general.

Anyhoo, we are enjoying a tasty meal, cold beverages, and in my case a large glass of delicious bourbon...the bar was not packed by any means, when some young folk at the bar decide to fuck up their evenings completely by participating in the challenge. To be brief, what started as a night of modest drinking ended in a gastro-holocaust for these two. One guy began in earnest, consuming three before breaking out in a sweat, drooling, and eventually puking in a hastily provided trash can. No amount of water, and later-milk- could help. The kitchen staff came out to scorn this well-meaning young man(read: laugh their asses off) before he put his head down in defeat. The kicker is that his friend looked upon this goddamn farce and decided "Hey, I want some of that." Set upon this course, he at least made it to the bathroom before puking all over the damn place. They went down faster than a cheap whore on check day.

Folks, these challenges...from large steaks, to hot sauce consumption...are invitations to defeat. Much like a casino, the house usually wins. These two defeated warriors slinked off with their friends to an evening filled with heartburn, hallucinations, and toilet paper usage. Even now I suspect they still have a 'lava tube' effect going on.

To sum up, these kids(clearly students) probably learned a lesson...and they'll remember that more than any exam or test during finals week. Welcome academic probation!

Efficiency

As in uptight German efficiency, but you know, with beers. Also, the Krauts* are big on revenge so it fits with the season. That's pretty much the end of the correlation though.

We pride ourselves on attaching useless numbers and values to our drinking. For example, we prefer to boat on a craft with a high BPH quotient. What's that? Why Beer-Per-Hour value of course. The performance of the boat itself is meaningless if you can't get drunk in a hurry and remain shitfaced for hours on end. A speedboat that may haul ass is thus useless if it cannot support enough cooler space for the thirsty passengers. Conversely, a lumbering cruiser is useless if it takes too long to get back to dock for more beer** even if it can otherwise maintain a large number of boozers for a set time. A few years back yours truly and venerated compatriot Sweet Tooth tried to knock back the little 8 oz bastards of High Life...thinking that they would get colder faster and not have the lukewarm dregs we all face towards the end of a longneck.

Big. Fucking. Mistake. We went through two full packs of those little bastards before taking the first turn out of the dock. Turn back around, try again. Conversely, drinking tall boys on the lake is also disrecommended. Takes too long, beer gets warm, and the BPH suffers accordingly...to say nothing of how dumb a koozie looks on them.

Back to the last night. We are, of course, mug club members from waaaaaay back. Drinking on Tuesdays at the Brewery is cheap and you get loaded on IPA pints. Add the four ounces extra from the mug and you are getting the best deal in town. That's the truth. You can roll out of there for right at ten bucks(tip them well though) and be quite polluted.

Beerficiency is not a mere matter of ounces though, timing is also key. Every sound drunkard should be aware of specials and where to get soused on the cheap. Turns out that Wednesdays at the Brewery are quite good as well. Two-dollar pints(same as happy hour) for club members. Still the best deal, but the added 50 cents*** reduces the beerficiency accordingly.

Also timing is key. A new club member these days will have to wait for the bartender to fetch their mug...depending on how new you are, that is akin to Herakle's labors. Whereas we old fucks have ours on the low rung and the employee can get it, fill it, and you drink it quick as Pan. Beerficiency is a tricky thing, so I encourage each reader here to ask: "Am I really making the best use of my time and drinking dollar?"

For purposes of this action, I'm not including drinking at home in this formula...sure it's cheap to drink a twelve pack, but that's not entirely the point. Ridicule is also a part of this science. You can tell your dog or cat at home that you are shitfaced on Southpaw and they won't care. Smugly reminding the aging trollop with the nine dollar appletini**** that she's needlessly wasting cash is something else entirely. Mockery and pettiness are driving factors here at DK.


* The ones driving Panzers, not the pussies of today
**Buying boat dock beer is for fucking idiots
***Be certain to point out the outrage of paying the extra 50 cents
****Appletinis suck beyond belief and therefore you for ordering one

Self-diagnosis

I'm not talking about groping tit or nut to feel for the Big C. Nay, my concern is the dreaded and highly disturbing fear of empty glasses-Cenosillicaphobia. Sure there are larger and more complex issues for the beer-drinking body politic, but none more personal than this demon. While we drink with a vengeance, let us prosecute the war against this scourge.

Many times I get a feeling of unease as I gape at a rapidly depleted pint. Dear Lord, what if it goes dry soon? Where is the bartender? Am I expected to fill my own mug, thus confronting my worst nightmare? Awful.

When I first came to grips with my illness, I was just out of college. Before seeking gainful employment, I decided that during the interlude I would two-fist frequently. My mind recoiled in horror at the obvious problem belied by this otherwise noble effort. Should I sip both at the same time? Is it cheating to chug one and concentrate on the other? These rotten questions were pushed aside as the bottom came closer and closer...mocking me...blah, blah, blah.

Fortunately, upon the advice of charlatans and witch-doctors I discovered that the best way to end this crippling and debilitating fear by closing ones eyes and then gulp your way to metaphysical bliss. Speak proudly to the barmaid for another. Tell your asshole friend to get his shit to the kegerator. Stroll proudly into the store for more booze early in the morning. Don't judge me, retiree, I've got an illness and I'm out of beer. This is post-modern America after all, everyone's got some baggage like this.

I would propose a therapy group, but honestly I can't help any of you. Recommend instead you go to the Brewery tonight and let those $1.50 pints salve your battered soul. Explore your rich inner landscape and spear your inner demon right in the taint.

Drinking for Vengeance Preview

Ah yes, this is more like it...the mini-season DfV set squarely between Drinksgiving and Whiskey Season. Consumption at a brisk and unrelenting pace, wielding the heavy hand at local bars, and resulting in a great deal of pain the next morning.

A big word of thanks to Preservation Pub, Back Room BBQ, and Urban Bar. You saved our asses on Thanksgiving proper simply by opening your doors. My sour ass found refuge in your Lowenbraus, Newcastles, and Yuenglings. Mackey and the Royalty put on a clinic in Jager and Jamesons.

Most places close down so that their weary employees can enjoy the holiday with family and loved ones. These few joints buck the establishment and provide a necessary outlet for those of us that desperately need a ennui-killing mini pub crawl. Thanks folks, you came through in a pinch. So with that, let DfV begin...

Quandary

While the majority of the world continues along bleakly towards economic ruin, I find myself in a much more important pickle.

Last night I was 'awarded' a $5 comp card/coupon/crudely drawn note for being on a winning bar trivia cabal. Yes, I realize that is quite a sum to command. Thanks to my knowledge of NFL quarterbacks and 1980's shitass action films, I proved myself a valued member of said team. It was also almost entirely composed of womern so that was also a plus.

On to my question: would it be prickish of me to use this bounty of bar cred on $1.50pint night? Drink three and slam the sumbitch down? Do the stride of pride out the front door?

I mean, its not like the bartender would care...I'm not such a skinflint as to not tip them properly. Besides, at this point they already know I'm an unpredictable lunatic.



Your asinine comments are welcome.

The Kiffman Cometh

Okay, okay, I realize the picture above is of Monte Kiffin not Lane...the boy-man who will soon be announced as the twenty-first head football coach at the University of Tennessee. Still, the authors here are quite excited that the new regime will replace 3rd and Chavis with one of the sharpest defensive knives in the drawer. Out with the wretched Mustang package and in with the Cover-2:

During DfV, we here have examined the early implications of the new staff, and while Lane Kiffin was not our first choice, he certainly wasn't the worst potential coach. His assistant coaches will be his strength, and that is something that the outgoing staff was woefully lacking. Some of the Fulllllllmer dead enders will cling (see: Stockholm Syndrome, trauma bonding) to the inbred notions of keeping the defensive staff intact, but those folks are fooling themselves. While John Chavis and staff were quite able on 1st and 2nd downs, they were positively criminal in their schemes for 3rd down. It is tiresome for the defense to play well for two downs only to give up the conversion and repeat the awful scene. It tires out the line(thin during recent years) and causes all the usual detriments when your team is on the short end of the TOP stick. You exhaust your athletes, and let's be honest without Eric Berry and the opportunistic secondary this year's defensive stats look much worse. John Chavis is a good enough coordinator to find suitable employment elsewhere. Best wishes.

The offensive staff needs to get the Hell out of here. That's the worst shit I have seen in my life, and I played on some rotten offenses. Nuff said.

I realize that some on you might wonder why we give attention to football so much here on what is primarily a boozing blog. Well, while it would be a filthy and odious lie to say that this season drove us to drink, it certainly caused a dangerous spike in drinking to the point of catatonia and throwing up. Who among you can think of InCrompetent without wanting to knock back seven Patron shots, two double Makers, six IPAs, and a single Lowenbrau?

That's what I thought.

Drinking for Vengeance

Ah...with the passing of Drinksgiving into the ash heap of history, we welcome the coming of another of our smaller seasons known as Drinking for Vengeance. DfV always starts the Saturday following Turkey Day and runs for about a week. Fueled by the noxious sobriety of family members, this small precedent to Whiskey Season gets the blood up and purges the body's various humours of well...humor. It is not a time of mirth but determination.

We start this DfV with a home game...the merciful end to a rotten football season and the swan song for Phil Fulmer. The contest itself is inconsequential, and I suspect that both teams will flop about in a proverbial holocaust on offense. We will be attending to insure that Fulllllllmer does in fact, leave.

Well, time to get this shitstorm rolling. A nice drop of wine to set me up for the day is the first order of business...