Tuesday, September 29, 2009

My curriculum for alcoholic enrichment turned to beer recently, specifically how to chug down the foul grog while appearing to enjoy it, and I have findings for you, dear reader, deep insights borne from a need to imbibe, rather than a desire to do so. Lesson One of my education delved into the world of cocktails, and I’ve emerged with a basic vocabulary: mojitos are the reliable standby, with Vodka Red Bulls on backup for barkeeps who refuse to stock their wares with frickin’ mint leaves.

Certainly I could expand my portfolio further, but I think I’m in a good place. Sangria? Gross. Jack and Coke? Hold the Jack. Bloody Mary? But I don’t even know her. No, I’m content with the Mo-Vo setup, and I must now turn to more bitter beverages. There are times, I believe, when ordering a mojito makes me seem like a little bitch. This is what I’m trying to remedy. You may interject at this point about sticking to my guns and disregarding what other people think, but we’re talking about alcohol here. Social lubricants, as it were. And when we’re talking about society, people–and what people think–are at the very heart of the matter.

Beer has always struck me as a soda gone bad, though this doesn’t change its status as the everyman’s drink. Whereas a mojito is comparatively high-maintenance, like a cat, beer is like a dog you never have to feed or take on walks. Mainly because it poos on the carpet, then eats the poo, but that’s neither here nor there. I’ve found that by spinning the beer-as-rotted-soda thought into a full-fledged narrative, I’m able to trick myself into consuming bottles of the vile brew. Tonight, for instance, a whole Bud Light went down the hatch when I told myself the earth’s supply of Sprite had magically fermented. This packaged swill was the only thing left in the whole wide world. And for 12 grim ounces, this was exactly what came to pass.