Jags wrote:It disheartens me to find out you are a bible thumper. Your writing was exciting me until you had to bring up religion.
You're going to have to brief me on how this could be derived from my little rant, as I am and always have been a stalwart atheist. Feel free to be excited.
hilarious. All you said was "forgive me father." I thought it was pretty funny, but I also liked the m&m's joke. I used to debate religionists on college campuses. In any case there are believers on this board, and We're all here cause we like to get hammered.
"water into wine. Got it?"
"S0briety diminishes, discriminates, and says no; drunkenness expands, unites, and says yes." -William James
I'll take a glass of rye and a High Life to chase it with, please.
CHEERS!
"Man i once bought $101 worth of insect candy because it was free shipping on orders over 100 bucks." -- ThirstyDrunk
"I wanted a shark high on crack dumped into a piranha tank! I wanted college AD's to pull their human faces off, then dive at each other's lizard throats!" -- waahoohah
Jags wrote:It disheartens me to find out you are a bible thumper. Your writing was exciting me until you had to bring up religion.
You're going to have to brief me on how this could be derived from my little rant, as I am and always have been a stalwart atheist. Feel free to be excited.
hilarious. All you said was "forgive me father." I thought it was pretty funny, but I also liked the m&m's joke. I used to debate religionists on college campuses. In any case there are believers on this board, and We're all here cause we like to get hammered.
"water into wine. Got it?"
Yes it was the "forgive me father.". I have a very dry sense of humor that doesn't always convey in the written word. I'll drink for that. Budweiser please, and keep em coming. Oh and some fried onion rings to go with that.
rog_kowalski wrote:New guy. Long time admirer. I am chipping away at a low-tax case of Seagrams 83; all are welcome to enjoy this overpriced corn rye ... while it lasts. Pull up a proverbial chair, and if you can find the place, bring a box of bullets to crack off later in the evening.
I've a brief question to hit this off. How many of us are outside of the city limits? Or for that matter, how many of us first learned the beauty )and bite( of a bottle off a gravel road?
I often feel as though I hit, then lost, my drinking stride many years ago at the ripe old age of 23. Memories have boosted the numbers and inflated the stories, though I cannot help but feel as though when I see a table full of empty double rye-and-waters, I am in the company of my own kind.
Glad to find you all here.
I used to be big city, but now I am rural. Rural as in dirt roads, not a single stop light, it's a ten minute drive to get the mail, I saw my neighbors today, the last time I saw them was three weeks ago. It's rural, but I am not that far from total civilization, a good 30 minute drive or so.
I have a home bar and to be honest with you, I'm happy with it. I know I haven't lost a step, but I am happier here. The pours are tall and I know the bartender better than anyone else in the world.
Wingman wrote:However, to this point, I (naively) had never known a bar that charged more than $2.50 a shot for a cocktail, maybe $3.00 for a beer, and yet I was surrounded many times by people willing to ante thrice or more that, in places that were happy to make one feel as though they were privileged to do so.
During said urban years, I found that in most circles (there were odd and delightful exceptions), pulling out a bottle or buying more than a half a dozen beers was cause for acclaim and the subsequent telling and re-telling of the night's events, however trite. The rural imbiber in me never knew that people actually only bought six beer with the intention of drinking four. Never thought that a fifth would ever be intended to last, unscrewed, for more than an hour or two. And certainly never anticipated that unremarkable, every day bullshit with a beer in hand would be spoken of or remembered as anything other than "the usual course of events". ... In the cities I was an irrepressible alcoholic, the spawn of satan when letting loose in less acceptable times of the day or days of the week. Back home, I was simply another guy who liked to tip a glass.
I think you were in the Wrong City, dawg ...
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TheBigCasino wrote:
I used to be big city, but now I am rural. Rural as in dirt roads, not a single stop light, it's a ten minute drive to get the mail, I saw my neighbors today, the last time I saw them was three weeks ago. It's rural, but I am not that far from total civilization, a good 30 minute drive or so.
I have a home bar and to be honest with you, I'm happy with it. I know I haven't lost a step, but I am happier here. The pours are tall and I know the bartender better than anyone else in the world.
Great words to read. Though I am certain that urban hole-in-the-wall locals in urban areas out-number their folksy counterparts by an order of magnitude or two, country and small-town drinking establishments trump on a per-capita basis. Which, judging by the 30 minute commute, may not take much.
A round on me. Rye and a High Life for Peetie and the wingman, a shotgunned beer for Jesus, and whatever communion wine I can find for jags.
Wingman wrote:now, toss me a highlife, and keep 'em coming."
Will do sir.
I opened with this topic as it broached an ever-increasing gulf in my life: the rural-urban divide. The obligatory backstory: My formative years were spent working on the family farm, and ostensibly, when given the chance to pursue post-secondary education, I dove further into this field. In doing so, I spent several years in three large urban centers while accumulating a few expensive pieces of parchment. In these places, I discovered the theater that is a well-made martini, and learned of the developed and sophisticated palette required for thorough appreciation of Islay malts. All such things were both new and exciting and thoroughly untested experiences for me. All were good times. I met drunkards of every background and color. Of most dispositions and of many vocations. However, to this point, I (naively) had never known a bar that charged more than $2.50 a shot for a cocktail, maybe $3.00 for a beer, and yet I was surrounded many times by people willing to ante thrice or more that, in places that were happy to make one feel as though they were privileged to do so.
I longed for my country drinking roots on many such occasion: The unsophisticated and non-judgmental swilling of a good deal of booze - sometimes of dubious origin - while oiling the social machinery of the countryside. The contrasts were striking. During said urban years, I found that in most circles (there were odd and delightful exceptions), pulling out a bottle or buying more than a half a dozen beers was cause for acclaim and the subsequent telling and re-telling of the night's events, however trite. The rural imbiber in me never knew that people actually only bought six beer with the intention of drinking four. Never thought that a fifth would ever be intended to last, unscrewed, for more than an hour or two. And certainly never anticipated that unremarkable, every day bullshit with a beer in hand would be spoken of or remembered as anything other than "the usual course of events". Drinking back home was never an event. It was what we did. Some might even say it closely mirrored the ethereal "who we were". Coupled with the drinking itself was the divergent attitude towards the drunkard. In the cities I was an irrepressible alcoholic, the spawn of satan when letting loose in less acceptable times of the day or days of the week. Back home, I was simply another guy who liked to tip a glass.
After longing for the green green grass of home for the better part of a decade, the move was recently made to chunk the research profession and get back to the places and people who shaped me as a drinker. Now I may have some better gin in the cupboard, a few more memorable bottles of scotch for the occasions. But you will find me, more often than not, watering down my bottom shelf rye - ice included - and cracking yet another ice cold, horse-piss, dollar-a-can pilsner. Forgive me father, for I don't mind being the common cannon fodder pisser.
You are all welcome to stop by when passing through. I am certain that you will fit in fine.
i like you. i like your style.
my drink types are a cyclical device of life, and thus in line with pretty much every other circle-jerk function that provides timing between one drink to the next.