By Mike Johnson
Love the beauty of the bottles, can’t hack the contents.
Alcohol gives me a migraine. God gifted me eternal sobriety by way of painful consequence.
Booze has done a superior job at wrapping friendship, fun, warmth, sports, romance and sex around itself.
You’re not buying that bottle of Canadian Club rot gut, you’re buying that nubile model sipping from the cutglass tumbler.
Alas, no lass comes with the purchase.
Not sure what the women are buying. If they buy at all.
Bar owners offer so many freebies to women in an effort to attract paying men.
Like time-share customers who only take the tour to get the gifts, I wonder how many women fake interest just long enough to quench their thirst, before politely declining the close.
And how many men, like hungry salesmen, shame themselves by aggressively trying to identify and overcome the objections.
I’ve been out of the dating game so many decades, the last firewater I remember utilizing was Boone’s Farm.
Nothing good ever came out of plying Strawberry Hill.
Viewed with detachment, liquor, beer and wine are odd concoctions.
Drunk in moderation, they impair your senses.
Drunk in excess, they sicken your body.
The decision to imbibe is faulty on its face and only gets worse as you progress.
Half in the bag, full in the consequence.
Strange world.
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