Unmarked wormholes
An article in yesterday's New York Times entitled
"10 Things To Scratch From Your Worry List" included, at #10, this:
"Unmarked Wormholes". See, a wormhole is allegedly something you'd "fall into" or somehow "enter", and it would take you instantly to some kind of alternate universe.
Apparently people are worried about this?
Unmarked wormholes? I'm more concerned about fully-on-display assholes. I work with some, I've been married to two, I live next door to an entire family of them, and I just extricated myself from a bizarre, unrequited and contentious relationship with one
.
Yes, "S", I'm talking about you, you lying, scheming, using, promiscuous, amoral rigazza bint; I know you read this blog, so wallow in it, pus oozing hose sucking fuckwit that you are. It's good that
I finally see you for the total tramp you are, you slagheap magnolia candy ass fetus eating cum bucket twat whore anal warts sucking deluded useless hunk of protoplasm tainted semen receptacle warm bowl of fuck eating total and complete slut. Your useless life proves, without a doubt, that feces can walk and talk. Bitch. Go fuck yourself--but take a number, first, 'cause the whole world knows that there's many already in line; though you don't know their names or anything about them, your legs are spread and ready for 'em, right? Get to it, sweetcheeks; KY up and get juicy, you goddamm c***.
Wormhole? You'll allow any worm in yours. And here's a tip, darling: if you're gonna go for anything that moves, at least get fucking paid for it. You're not even smart enough to figure that out.
And I'm thrilled that you
got yourself a new tattoo for your birthday today, age 38 now, and happy birthday! Sure, you look like you're only 22, and since all your MySpace friends are 23 or younger, I'm sure they're into it, too, 'cause they're bad boys and girls. Right? Sweetums, you could have killed a couple birds with one stone by having the word "Enter" etched on your inside upper left thigh and the word "Here" tattooed on your inside upper right, with an arrow above each. It'd save a lot of time for the host of mildly retarded rednecks you seduce who need directions accessing your overly-used vagina.
Finally, I'm sure your six children are proud of their mama, including your oldest daughter. All of what, 16, and she's already posting available to the whole world to see MySpace shit like challenges to visitors to begin comments with "yeah, so I fucked her, so what?" on her page? Nice job there; you win the Mrs. Cleaver award for wholesome parenting.
Not that I'm angry, or anything.
Fully-on-display assholes. Worry about them, and
forget about unmarked wormholes.
Pissed off about depression
I just took one of those
goddamm interactive online tests--this one to determine if I'm "depressed".
Well, if I wasn't before,
I sure as flaming bloody hell am now. Thanks, msn.com. Now I'm supposed to "call my doctor immediately" because I occasionally think that
checking out wouldn't be such a bad thing. But then again, who doesn't think that every now and then? Or maybe a couple of times a week? Or perhaps once a day? I know I do.
Plus, I've
lost weight recently. Well, THAT'S a fucking sign of depression, according to the test. BUT SO IS WEIGHT GAIN. Other tell-tale signs: I have trouble sleeping, and I have no interest in doing things. Let's deal with those two, shall we?
Trouble sleeping: the old Craftmatic adjustable isn't what it used to be at my house. But the main reason is because I can't turn my oily heap of shit brain off at night. Plus, it's addled, mostly with Sambuca and lager. It needs time to...relax. Ergo, your Nigel is an insomniac. Ironically, SLEEPING TOO MUCH is also a sign of depression, according to this test. So you can't win.
No interest in doing things: 30 years ago, I coordinated the Orientation program at the University of Minnesota. 12,000 students over 6 weeks. One of the things we made the poor shlubbie incoming freshmen do was to take a test--the
"Strong Campbell Interest Inventory" -- and in order to know what the test was like, I had our orientation staff take it, too. Then, a research staffer from the U of M Hospital came over to one of our pre-session meetings to help interpret the results.
Now, this test was the typical "Would you rather
be a banker or a shepherd?" kind of test. Hundreds of questions designed to pinpoint areas of interest and with that info, assist the student in initial selection of a major.
I scored negative on every single index; I had no interest in anything, according to this thing. Without revealing my personal results, I posed a hypothetical to the researcher. I asked her what she'd recommend for someone who scored negative on every index, and she unhesitatingly replied:
"psychiatric help".
So, dear reader, you can see that at least
I've been consistent all these years.
Tv series worth checking out, maybe
Shlubbies, I don't as a rule watch much TV -- at least, TV shows -- I watch a LOT of movies, TCM, IFC, HBO, but series, not so much.
But there are three shows out now that have caught my attention and I think they're pretty amazing. Two are on TNT, and one is on HBO.
The TNT shows:The Closer. Kyra Sedgwick stars as some kind of a police person, solving crimes. One scene in Sunday's episode featured her wandering around in her underwear, and for God's sake this woman is 43 years old, but she has the body of a 19 year old. I mean, I don't wanna get all "typical male" here but she is breathtaking. If she'd let me (and if hubby Kevin Bacon was, say, on vacation somewhere by himself), I'd happily provide her the most disappointing 25 seconds of her life. Seriously, though, a very well written show, strong woman, interesting plots, compelling. I love me older women who look great and who have strong personalities. Watch it.
Saving Grace. Holly Hunter stars as some kind of a police person, solving crimes. Another really well written program. Her character is amazingly complicated and Hunter is an absolutely astonishing actor, truly, truly. She has the ability to appear vulnerable and tough as nails all at the same time. Plus, how is it possible that
she's gotten better looking as she gets older? I love me older women who look great and who have strong personalities. Watch it.
The HBO show:Generation Kill. Iraq war drama, well written, compelling, well acted. I like how the show has slow, boring moments which are punctuated by sudden, intense violence...and then it's back to characters picking their nose or playing cards. Not having served in the military, I don't know for a fact if this is remotely the way it is, but it feels like it is. Know what I mean? Watch it.
My beautiful home
I'm reconsidering everything in the light of
yesterday's activity.That's when I did: nothing.
Didn't leave the house, didn't go out, didn't drink alcohol (except that one quicker picker upper, about 8:30am, just to get the day started, dontcha know).
I read books and watched movies and NASCAR and listened to
podcasts. Did you know that you can water plants with urine, so long as the urine is fresh? I didn't know that, until I put my ears on this little RSS gem I found in iTunes; it's a podcast from some guy in Omaha who has a complete amazing radio show that tells you
alternate things you can do with bodily fluids. I listened,
slack-jawed at first at the audacity, but then as the minutes flew by my admiration for this guy grew and grew. Who knew such desiderata was available with just a point and click?
Anyhow, I discovered all kinds of things about my house during my solo day.
I better start cleaning my swimming pool. Right now, it looks like a pond, a very very green pond. The frogs are happy, I can tell you.- Cockroaches, man, those things are amazing aren't they? Do they have eyes in the back of their head? How can they tell you're chasing them?
- Coffee, when left sitting in the Sunbeam for more than two weeks or so, will indeed develop....penicillin.
- Are cobwebs just dust, or do they actually involve spiders, and if so, there are a lot of them in my dining room, and what to do about them? Time to call the exterminator?
- Finally, and much to my dismay, bathrooms just don't clean themselves, despite weeks and weeks of wishing and hoping on my part.
My place is such a pigsty right now, if I called a cleaning company, I'd have to clean up first at least for five or six hours just to avoid the embarrassment. To say nothing of the inevitable
triple time overtime charges.
Ode to Verizon
I'm about ready to
make my hand-held device a foot-kicked device.Why? Because the bloody thing has a mind of its own. Yesterday afternoon, for absolutely no reason and just minutes after I'd successfully sent emails from it, it decided
"stiff shit, bucko" and ceased allowing emails to be processed. No downloads, no sending. I tried
all the techno wizardry I know, like tapping on it, randomly pressing keys, and even talking to it ("c'mon, little Verizon XV-6700, this is your buddy Nigel, begging you to start working again....puhleeeeeze?").
No luck.
So this morning
I call Verizon and spoke to Laquakeelinisha, who was very helpful. Sort of. We made all kinds of adjustments; then came the questions I can't answer:
- What's your email protocol? Fuck if I know.
- Do you use SMTP for SMS or Exchange for MMS? Fuck if I know. WTF, A-OK, ASAP.
- Have you performed a soft reboot? No, but I once performed as the Stage Manager in "Our Town".
- Would you like to do a hard reboot? Sure, please, I want to lose ALL my data, contacts, emails, dirty text messages from previous love interests...sounds great, by all means.
So now I'm without communication capability for remote work. Charming. Laquakeelinisha promised to call back, but
I'm not holding my flaming breath.
Meet Nigel, your friendly bartender
I've been
a-pondering lately.
I have come to the conclusion that I am what's called a
functioning alcoholic. This means: I don't miss work, I show up early, I keep my promises, I do what I say I'm going to do. It also means: when I get down time, I don't do much 'cept throw down the coldies, one after another. Takes the edge off. Problems begin when I have one too many, though these days it takes a LOT for me to get to that point.
I did an inventory of
yesterday's consumption, which is by no means excessive compared to other days when I'm more stressed out than I was yesterday...here goes:
--6 20 ounce Budweisers;--3 huge snifters of Sambuca to go with the Buds;--1 large shot of Jameson's Irish Whisky;--2 of those la-de-da fruit salad blackberry cooler drinks from Seagrams.All this, between 4pm and 7:30pm, after which I hied my way to the sofa and began my nightly drunk texting ritual. Previous readers of this drivel know I've gotten myself into trouble doing this in the past, particularly with potential candidates to be ex-Mrs. Nigel #3, but I feel...compelled. Compelled, I say.
Oh, and I was
up at 4:15am and at work before 6am. I don't think my liver slept much, though.
A four hour cruise...a four hour cruise
This is the boat you use when you're planning on being on the water for "4 hours or more"...but get yourself to the Emergency Room as soon as you dock!
Nigel the 27 hour expert
I see where
Senator Obama's in Afghanistan...on the ground for a grand total of
27 hours. This, to help him "burnish" his international credibility, according to his own people and media reports.
Now, I like Obama. But the idea that you can spend 27 hours somewhere and become some kind of
"authority" or "expert" is laughable, particularly when regards something as complicated as whatever the hell is going on over there.
Based on this logic, (spending 27 hours somewhere makes you an expert), then I hereby proclaim myself an expert in the following:
- Criminology. Based on spending 40 hours in a DUI holding cell in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.
- Bathroom design. Based on spending many hours hunched over the throne, singing lunch, round trip meal ticket, talking to the toilet, giving the old technicolor yawn. See "criminology" entry, above.
- Saloon ergonomics. Based on spending day upon day, perched on a bar stool. See "bathroom design" and "criminology" entries, above.
Oh, and let's not forget:
- Human sexuality. Based on spending bloody untold hours, hour after hour, in strip clubs.
If you need consulting assistance with any of these subjects, have your people contact my people, as my rates are reasonable and I'm loads of fun at the "after" party. Trust me.
Donna Smith, the greatest thing that ever happened to me
I am a total complete fool, and living proof that the grass isn't always greener.
Many years ago I lived with the most amazing woman and her son, who was then 4 years old--now he's 25. Her name was Donna, and she was a dream come true, and I sent her away, like the idiot I am. Donna was gorgeous, and fun, and a friend to all, always smiling, always, and sweet, and nice, and fantastic, and tall and sexy and beautiful with long flowing dark hair and just a perfect look, and she even could put up with my mother, for God's sake.
She was well loved in our circle of friends. She was so very nice, and funny, and just...lovely as hell, and I sent her away, like the idiot I am. Why? Because, "I couldn't talk to her"--about what? The stupid shit I and I alone am interested in? For example, I like Russian literature. Fair enough, but in thinking about that now, who the fuck else does besides me? Nobody. Yet because we couldn't have a discussion about Turgenev, or Tolstoy, or Chekov, I sent her away, like the idiot I am.
I would kill to have Donna back in my life. Vivacious and funny and gorgeous and sexy and most important, she
really really loved me, ME, for God's sake! And oh, hell, I sent her away.
I don't know where she is now or what she's doing; even if I did, she wouldn't talk to me, because I sent her away, like the compete total freaking idiot I am. What a fucking fool. Me. Because now I realize what I had and it's been gone, since 1989. Donna Smith, the greatest thing that ever happened to me.
I miss coming home to her so much, I can't begin to tell you.
So if you're a guy and you have a Donna in your life, be smart, not like me. Hang on tight, and tell her you love her, and need her, and want her, every day, and show her every day you mean it, and do the little things that make a difference, and work through the problems, and keep going, and care for her, and try to understand when she's having a bad day, and be supportive, and listen hard and long, and most important, don't be a fucking fool.I'll never, ever, ever again have a woman like that in my life, and I sent her away, like the idiot douchebag fool I am.
I love you, Donna Smith, wherever the hell you are. And I miss you like crazy, especially now.
Wilt Chamberlain's disease
A good one:
"For those of you who don't know, I was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease a couple of weeks ago. Which sucks. Because I hate baseball. I'd really much rather have been diagnosed with a basketball disease. Maybe Wilt Chamberlain disease. That's the one where you have sex 20,000 times and then you die."
-- singer Carla Zilbersmith, updating fans at a concert
My restaurant review of....me!
My good friend and secret desire
Loving Annie writes some of the
most amazing hotel and restaurant reviews around...I've been seriously encouraging her to submit professionally, because her stuff is clear, cogent, very objective, amazingly detailed, with marvelous word economy and vivid imagery. Perfect for a travel magazine.
See her blog for yizzelf if yiz don't believe ol' Nigel.
Being shallow and also jealous, I figure what's good for Annie is good for the gander: I can do this, too. I mean,
how hard can it be? You eat and you opine. Eating? Check. I weigh considerably less than, say, six months ago, but still, one cannot look at me without saying to oneself, "shit, that guy hasn't missed many meals". Opining? C'mon, shlubbies: what the fuck do you think?
But since I'm economizing lately, staying in, not going out, I thought I'd start with some leftovers, and see what I could do review-wise. Herewith, my clinical dissection of
selections from le fridge du Nigel.
We begin by opening the icebox door. Waving off the fruit flies, we peruse the victuals on offer. Settling on some
leftover steak, we remove it from the Kelvinator and begin.
Carefully, we lift the styrofoam container and note immediately the nose. Aromas of...it's hard to say...a slightly pungent scent of cooked flesh combined with the wafting scent of an Olympian's armpit--clearly, here, we have something to work with. But could the expiration date have passed? NO! Careful remembering through the omnipresent Sambuca induced haze reminds one that this steak was
grilled recently--just eight nights ago--and so, is still relevant to the important discussion contained herein.
Moving forward, and sad to say, the microwave reheating experience leaves much to be desired. The settings on this GE "Piece of Cheap Shit Model 505A" aren't sensitive enough to carefully calibrate the required temperature. A disappointment, to say the least.
Removing the
previously live cow from the microwave, and scraping off what looks like cooked mold, it's set carefully on the plate. The presentation bites the flaming pole of manhood, however; there's not much to
inflame the senses (except, perhaps, one's gag reflex). Still, in an effort to "round out" the scarfing experience, one places some cold, precooked mushrooms next to the steak. But what's missing? Some fucking parsley, that's what. Whoever invented parsley must be related to P.T. Barnum. A sucker born every minute, yes, and let's not forget idiots who place this green sorry excuse for dental floss atop your dinner. Does anyone eat this shit? Me, I think not. Parsley is like fruit cake--there's one stalk, just like there's one fruit cake, and it gets recycled for ever and ever, amen.
Shlubbies, setting aside all the kitchen backbiting bullshit politics and jealousy, I have to say that the actual dining experience is
pure haute cuisine. If you're a French rat, that is. Just kidding. As is required with most food from the Nigel kitchen, slathering liberal amounts of Heinz ketchup over everything tends to even out the strange tastes.
A perfect accompaniment--warm, flat Pabst Blue Ribbon. Now we're cooking with gas! Settling down in front of
reruns of Cannon on TV Land, I confess the taste is truly indescribable; a combination of the best Swanson's TV dinners has to offer along with...what is that flavor? Could it be: decay? Perhaps. But the goddamm 57 varieties Heinz has to offer up truly kills the worst of the six or seven varieties of decomposition offered here on the plate. Oh, the mushrooms taste really fungussy, by the way.
As for atmosphere, the Johnny Cash music in the background combined with that dead fuck William Conrad ("as Cannon")
added nothing to the dining experience.Overall, it's 3 stars out of 4. Nigel could do better, but on the whole the dinner didn't blow. Excuse me now whilst I traipse my way to
Walgreens in search of some Pepto Bismol.
Mon buddies du blog est falling par le wayside!
En Francais: "que se produit ici ?" In Japanese, "nani-ya tendayo bakkayro?" (何がここに起こっているか).
What the fuck is going on here?
Half the flaming links to my blog buddies/family members and all around decent human beings are now broken! Gone, hysterical to be historical, tata for now, cya, don't let the door hit ya on the way out.
Latest casualty: Flyin'Fox_SAT, who got married two weeks ago and then voila, outta here. Coincidink? I think not!
Allow moi to get digressiement for just a moment: marriage sucks ya dry, instantaneously, and I don't mean suck in a good way. So I'm betting that the ol' Fox, God love him, took enough crapola in the last two weeks to throw up his hands and say YES, DARLING, WHATEVER YOU SAY DARLING, I'M WRONG AND YOU'RE RIGHT, PLEASE FORGIVE MY OCCASIONAL ONLINE MUSINGS AND IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN! And poof, he's gone.
Please, monsieur Fox, revistement votre penser à ceci, dammit, think about it again, and come back to us....back....back....back....I beseechez vous!
Je suis très désolé, mais vous pouvez polir mon scrotum. Disagree with me? Then, you can figure out what that means all by yourself.
Wherein Nigel gives in, and hires the...loooove....
I tooketh the plungeth, and actually
engaged the services of a courtesan.Regular readers of this drivel know that I have been celibate for ages, and I have been concordantly driven insane with....what....lack of anything?
Viagra ads turn me on, for God's sake. I'm so horny, the crack of dawn better watch out.
Mais moi, je digresse....
So, consulting a friend who looks like me (ugly beyond belief) and who manages to make it happen with women occasionally ('cause he's paying), I took his recommendation, and engaged the professional services of a
sinning, disgusting, hellbound piece of shit company that is in the business of making lonely men like me vaguely happy.
Understand, this is something completely new to li'l ol' Nigel. Before I became a fat bastard, I wasn't, and could actually access le nookie du jour pour free. That's right, free. But no longer; having given up actually trying to find a woman who might be attracted to me, and realizing the odds on that would make a Vegas bookie laugh, I went whole hog and decided to pay for it. It's been 12 years, after all. 12 years of nothing.
Here's how my "date" went:
1. Call and engage the agency. "Hello, I'm Nigel, I live in the suburbs but is that a problem because I'm new to this,
can I choose what I want, please tell me, I don't know what to do...
2. Told by the agency to
"Please shut up, sir, we'll take care of you" and I calmed down.
3. Description of the girl I want:
"Breathing and alive".4. Their reaction: "Get specific. It's the only way we can help."
5. Further description: "ok, breathing, but also, um, long legs and nice looking and decent boobs and, gee, it'd be nice if she was sorta pretty in a Bailey from WKRP In Cincinatti way."
6. General agreement as to terms,
$300 for one hour.7. Me, showered, skin tags clean and everything, awaiting the arrival of my sex goddess.
8. Sex goddess arrives,
if you squint and look sideways, sorta resembles a fat Mariah Carey but with no personality. Lucky moi--the first nookie in 12 years, and I'm paying for it, and she can't even sing "Hero".
9. Oh, joy.
Can't perform, Cialis be damned.10. Laughter and derision ensues, courtesy of fat Mariah Carey lookalike.
11. 12 years plus 1 day, sigh. And I'm out $300, and again have reinforced my feelings of total self-worth and engagement.
NOT.
Oy, gevalt!
I see where
NY Yankee A-Rod's wife, Cynthia, has had enough of A-Rod's roving rod, and is filing for divorce; his alleged
affair with Madonna being the last straw, according to reports. Cynthia, who undoubtedly married A-Rod 'cause of his personality and charm (and not because of his $9 million per at bat salary), claims she became extra suspicious when Rodriguez began showing an interest in the
ancient Jewish mysticism known as Kabbalah, which is Madonna's passion.
Kabbalah? The hell with that.
My great grandmother on my mother's side of the
family (about whom a best-selling book was written:
"The Family Frying Pan" -- no kidding, paperback cover shot at left) practiced
the ancient Jewish mysticism known as "Bubbelah". Consisting mostly of screaming at the top of her lungs if you even attempted to enter the kitchen while she was cooking, force-feeding us kids gefilte fish while swatting our heads with old rolled up copies of the
Jewish Forward, answering questions with questions, and in moments of doubt looking to the sky and in her Russian accent
cursing in Yiddish...things like: to her daughter, my grandmother--
"May your liver come out of your nostrils piece by piece", to the mailman (in Australia, known as a "postie") whenever he was late with the day's letters--
"What, you thinking you a good postie, you? May you fall into the outhouse just as a regiment of Ukrainians is finishing a prune stew and twelve barrels of beer", and to us kids--
"If I had testicles I would be your great-grandfather!"That last one never made sense; we couldn't figure out if she was mad at us or at him. But bubbelah beats the shit out of Kabbalah any day in my book.
Nude in the pool, police notified, Nigel scaaared.
Swimming, naked, is a good thing, and I do this daily in my backyard pool. Up till last night, this wasn't a problem. Details, I know you want, so here goes, my adored shlubbies:
The pool chez Nigel is nearly 100% private, surrounded by tall elms and palms and oaks, and during the summer, fully leaved and overgrown, I thought there was only minimal visibility from the prying eyes of my goddamm neighbors.
But, nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
Let me set the stage for you. There's me, fat and disgusting (but, losing weight, i must admit), wrapped in a towel, walking off the deck to jump in. Towel dropped and there's proud little, hollow Percy available for all with a telescope/microscope to see; I'm in the water and it's great. Lovely, cool, perfectumungo.
Now, let me hasten to reassure,
I'm not doing anything other than paddling around. There are no guests, certainly no women, and I'm not wanking or anything. Just...paddling. 15 minutes, out of the pool and because of the coolness, Percy is even tinier than normal, fully retracted, so to speak...nothing to see, knowwhudimean? Back in the house, shorts on, snap on the Philco, crack a PBR Ultra Light, and I'm settling in to a rousing "Battle of the New York Pizzas" on the Food Network. To be interrupted by....
**DING-DONG!**Roused from my tv, I pad to the front door and lo and behold it's the
county police. Now, regular readers of this drivel will know that in the past
I've had some run ins with neighbors and as a result have enjoyed both providing and receiving the hospitality of our public servants in blue...so they knew me.
"Mr. Howle-Raines?"
"Yes, officer, what can I do for you?"
"Well, sir, you can start by making sure that you wear something next time you take a dip in your pool."
"I see."
"Yes, sir, if you'd like to avoid a follow up visit when we WILL arrest you, be assured, please make sure you're wearing something outside when you swim."
"I'll do that, Kojak", I didn't really say that, but I was thinking it. "Did you receive a complaint?"
"Yes, sir, the parents of the teenage daughter next door complained."
The girl in question is over 18 and smoking hot. So, I'm immoral, but not illegal.
"Thanks, Columbo", I didn't really say but was thinking. "I'll make sure not to wave my private parts at the teenage girl next door."
"Good night, sir."
"Good night, there, Mannix, and thanks for watching out for us and solving all our crimes," I said (not the Mannix part).
He looked at me funny and left.
Next up, how to fuck with the next door neighbors in retaliation. I hate them, the bastards.
Shot down, again...
Once more, your
Nigel manages to blow it.I really felt this time was special, mostly because
I could talk to the girl. Like you would not fucking believe. Russian literature, Chinese history, why chess was created in India, and what about Lord Kelvin, for God's sake? About things that mattered, history and art and she is so so so amazingly smart, really
amazingly all THERE, know what I mean?
And, not least, absolutely gorgeous too.
Just breathtakingly beautiful, I can't stand it, it's beyond description for me. Most important though, her brain. In fucking credible. I have NEVER talked to a woman like this before in my life; she could be a mutant disgusting pig for all it mattered, sorta like me in fact; her way of thinking and her knowledge was so so so so off the charts, I get crazy thinking about it. Our discussions lasted for hours, for real. She challenged me, made me think, made me consider new ideas, made me...crazy.
God, this one could've been so right for me, I can't stand it.
I came so close.So she has a boyfriend, I find out, who's connected to the Bush family, loaded, big bucks, but they're not really happening, see, she's telling me, not so much going on and she's waiting to find out how it's gonna work out, but that's not enough for her to break from him to me. She promises to keep me in mind, ok, but that's the same as keeping me in a museum. I appreciate her honesty and humor about it, but I've also been sobbing in my beer all bloody night.
People wonder why I drink.
