The Woes of an Uprooted Booze-hound
Wanted a gin and tonic today to crawl into so I can forget my troubles, are at least become inarticulate enough that no one continues to listen to my whiny bitching about what might have been had things been different. The kind of inarticulate you often see in grizzled factory workers, all sooty hunched over their drink at the bar like it’s their only friend in the world. But of course my search for some cheap gin and tonic turned into a debacle.
The trouble started when I had to go to the liquor store, but wait you think, where else had I planned on getting hardened spirits? Normally going to the liquor store is all fine and dandy, but let me stress that this was a liquor store. As in there was not anything that could be bought in the store that did not have some alcohol content. So much for the tonic. Seems to me they could still stock some basic mixing essentials, especially ones that aren’t really consumed by themselves.
“Yes sir, I think I’m a might bit parched, perhaps you can get my your finest glass of tonic water, because I need something carbonated to sooth my worn throat, but I’m not one to go all willy nilly and get a Coke or a Sprite.”
So finally I leave, after scouring the entire store, but sans the tonic. Where the heck do you get a bottle of tonic water if not someplace you can also procure it’s counterpart the gin? Perhaps a party store, or grocery store, or maybe a gas station if you get really lucky. Nope. Doesn’t seem to be the case. So here I am with my gin, getting thirstier and thirstier for one last taste of summertime, and I finally have to say screw it, I guess it’s gin and Squirt. Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a refreshing G&S, but it doesn’t really have the same ring as a G&T.
G&T has class, elegance. But a G&S, well I can’t bring myself to say it out loud, it was bad enough just typing it. Call me a purist, call me an ol’ fuddyduddy, but some things aren’t meant to be modified or given a new hip spin.
To add further insult to injury, I find myself drinking the sullied tastes of a spoiled summer not in a nice hearty rocks glass, but rather a juice cup, with lilacs or some other purple flower along the rim. God damn it. (Don’t ask me where the rocks glass is, I’m guessing aliens are probing it somewhere on the mother ship.)
And with that, I bid you all a crotchety good night.
– Roscoe