Archive for the 'beer' Category
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m really phoning it in this week. You wanna fight about it? Anyway, before all this craziness with my family, my brother and our respective wives took a trip along the Mason Dixon Wine Trail and found, surprisingly, that all wine made in this area isn’t complete and utter cat piss, and is, sometimes, in fact, preferable to standard “drinkin’ wine on a Tuesday night” wines like Yellow Tail, for example. Wow, that last sentence looks like it just got tea-bagged by the comma monster. Whatever, if we weren’t supposed to use them they never would have been invented. Here’s a transitional sentence!
At some point during our trip through the Pennsylvanian hinterlands we started getting hungry and decided to stop in a tiny town comprised of a grocery store, Rite Aid, Italian restaurant, and tattoo parlor. Having consumed something on the order of all the wine in Pennsylvania, we opted for a modest 42″ pizza and two baskets of fried bric-a-brac. We’re still not exactly sure what we ate, but we think we might have had fried zucchini, fried cauliflower, and deep fried chicken fried steak fries, all slathered in a healthy coating of ranch dressing, of course.
The service was nice and prompt, and our waitress was nothing if not extremely friendly and attentive, but the menus left a little something to be desired.
You can see them below, but you really need to click through to flickr to see them full-sized in all their majesty. I imagine the restaurant owner, having spent a few hours working on the menus, sent for one of the town elders to review his work and instead got a barely literate sixth grade dropout. I’ve only looked at the menus twice, and each time I’ve found new stuff to laugh at, so I’m sure there are still some gems in there that I’m overlooking. Lemme know what you find that I missed.
It’s been a bad morning.
At some point last night I decided it would be an AWESOME idea to have a big, fat Screwdriver at 11:30. Sure, I’d started with some scotch at 6:30, then moved on to red wine, then on to a porter, then on to white wine, then back to red wine, then back to porter. It was at that point that I should have stopped, but my stupid drunk brain was like, “Dude. Dude. You know what would be awesome right now? A screwdriver! Yeah! Dude, it’s like, healthy ’cause it’s orange juice. Yeah, we should totally have one. Dude. Have I ever steered you wrong? Yeah. Awesome.”
And so there I was on the couch, screwdriver in one hand, remote in the other, barely able to focus on Ace of Cakes.
It should have come as no surprise to me that I had chest melting heartburn a few hours later, but upon waking I was like, “How on earth could THIS have happened?”
Nearly 8 hours later and the heartburn still isn’t completely gone, and I’ve got, as Angy Hangy put it so succinctly in a somewhat related email from last Friday, “liquid Drano” in my guts. I already dominated the bathroom in my house so thoroughly that when Sherlock poked his head through the door he immediately turned around and walked out. Before this morning I would have sworn that it was impossible for cats to gag.
Anyway, as I’m trying to pull my stupid, hungover ass together this morning, I got a call from my dad that my aunt had just died. She was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a few weeks ago, and the cancer was extremely aggressive, so it’s kind of good to know that she’s not in pain anymore.
I know I deal with death differently than other people, and my aunt is no exception. It’s hard to say right now if I feel sad. I feel bad for my dad, of course, as well as my other aunts and uncles, my cousins, and their kids. I know they’re really upset. And I feel bad for my Grandmother, because it’s got to be painful to lose a child. But I’m really hard pressed to describe my emotions as sad. I’m contemplative, somber, and pensive, and I sympathize with my relatives, but I’m not sad. And now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever been sad to hear about someone dying. I always express my condolences, because I know death can really tear other people apart inside, but sadness eludes me.
I’ve never had someone extremely close to me die, like my brothers, parents, or my wife. But even when I was a little kid and my grandfather died, I kind of just accepted it. And I think about people that have died, and I miss them, of course, but my mind never dwells on it. It’s kind of like, “Oh, I miss the way he used to joke about how we had three kinds of stuffing at Thanksgiving.” And then my thoughts move on.
I speculate that part of my lack of reaction is because I don’t believe in an afterlife. I’ve accepted death as an inevitability, so the deaths of others, or thinking about my own death, don’t cause me discomfort. I don’t want to die, and I don’t want my loved ones to die, but there’s nothing I can really do about it, so there’s no point in worrying over it.
I’m interested in having a frank discussion about death in the comments if anyone else is interested. How do you react to death or loss? Do you believe in the afterlife? If so or if not, does this comfort you? I hope it goes without saying that today most necrophilia jokes won’t be tolerated, but humor is always welcome.
As is my tradition, I’ve copied this post directly from the person who is hosting the happy hour, in this case, Jon:
Um, Blogger Happy Hour?
Okie, dokie, happy hour time.
A couple of us were together on Wednesday this week and the notion of doing a happy hour before the year is out came up, and I Jon somehow got fingered to “host” it (ie ACW I pointed at me Jon and said “You do it!”). I’ve Jon’s got a couple of preliminary “definitely in”s, but I’m Jon’s expecting this to be a pretty low key affair, with people busy for the holidays and plus it being last minute.
Please come out if you’re game. Invite friends. I Jon sent out an email, but the email addresses I have Jon had on hand is was a somewhat random assortment. Just drop me Jon a line if you’re interested.
THE EVENT: Blogtimore Blogger Happy Hour
THE DATE: Friday, December 28th
THE TIME: 7:00pm sound good?
THE PLACE: Illusions, the magic bar in Fed Hill
Over Thanksgiving weekend Mrs. ACW and I decided that since there was so much to do around the house and for our respective courses, that we should instead do nothing. So we got a plan in our head to head on down to the libary to rent us up some movies.
On the way we managed to persuade Mokie to join us, but it wasn’t really hard because he generally spends his time sitting around doing nothing anyway.
At some point while we were trying to decide what movies to watch (Mallrats and Mean Girls, by the way. Mallrats is a classic, of course. And Mean Girls was actually really funny, and caught Lindsay Lohan at her peak, just before she lost all the weight that made her attractive in the first place, and just before she became a swirling Charybdis of coke-fueled STDs.) I decided that we should drink a flight of beers and do a beer tasting. We had all day, so there’s no reason why we shouldn’t.
So we went to the liquor store to pick up some beers, when I got an even AWESOMER idea: we should do a beer tasting of a flight of shitty beers. The idea was proposed to the group, sent to the Ways and Means committee to determine if funds and livers were in good enough shape to support this endeavor, returned for a vote with a rider attached suggesting that we should also buy a bag of Doritos, and then passed with a unanimous vote of 3 yeas and 0 nays.
In case you can’t tell, that’s Corona, Miller Lite, Becks, Budweiser, MGD, and Colt 45 surrounding Wookie, who is occupying the place in the box that was previously occupied by a 6 of Guinness. Hey, we had to buy SOMETHING that was actually worth drinking.
Through a complicated system of pouring beers so that no one knew what they were drinking, we eventually got all the beers into glasses, ready to be consumed.
In case you can’t tell, that last one says, “URINE SPECIMEN BOTTLE”. It’s okay though, it’s sterilized. Yes, I’m sure. I’m absolutely sure. I own an autoclave, okay? Don’t ask.
I think we’ve since lost the list that says exactly who guessed correctly or incorrectly about which beer was which, but I do remember a few things:
-Becks tastes like a skunk took a dump in a bucket of piss
-Mokie and Mrs. ACW are apparently incapable of distinguishing Colt 45 from Miller Lite
-All shitty beers have the same color and consistency
-I guessed all the beers correctly! I am the king of shitty beer!
The Mrs. and I decided on a lark to head out the greatest bar in the history of bars the other night, and though the friends we called just couldn’t be bothered to meet us there on a whim and given only a few moments notice at the height of the holiday weekend, we still had a pretty good time. Well, we had a pretty good time, but it was the kind of good time that you can’t really plan because of how unintentional it was.
When we showed up the bar was relatively empty. There were maybe eight other people there aside from the two of us. The loudest were four snooty-looking douchebags across the bar from us. Dressed in clothes like they had just come from the symphony, they were drinking weird mixed drinks and talking loudly and deprecatingly about what I would generally consider my life. It’s hard to explain exactly, but they just expressed a disdain for all the things people in the middle class can do and can’t do on a regular basis. They made fun of food like casseroles made with condensed cream of mushroom soup. They suggested that we could all stand to learn a bit about the world and should spend our money on vacations to faraway lands as opposed to spending it on other things. Yeah. Just generally dickweeds.
They grew progressively drunker, and when one ordered an Irish coffee for the four of them to share, I knew it was all over. At J. Patrick’s Irish coffee is pretty much just a big cup of hot liquor. It’s also delicious, so it wasn’t long before they were all shouting “This is the best Irish coffee I’ve ever had! We’ll take four of these!” I was joking with Mrs. ACW that the frigid WASPy blond in the middle was definitely going to go home ready to bone the bejeesus out of her companion… and then vomit all over his 900 thread count sheets. Then I’m sure their maid would be forced to clean it all up.
I was eagerly looking forward to the loud suggestion from one of the men that they should swap women for the night, and of course the ensuing slap-fight/cashmere tornado would brighten my soul for years to come, but my attention was drawn to an EVEN BIGGER group of douchebags, if you can believe it. Just as Mrs. ACW and I were having a conversation about her style of dress, and I was explaining that she was “preppy-lite” at times, a slew of yuppies walked in and provided the perfect counterpoint. “That’s preppy,” I said, and our attention drifted from the inebriated foursome.
The bar had gotten more crowded, and in the meantime the band had set up and started playing. The yuppies settled at the end of the bar so we couldn’t hear them very well, but it wasn’t long before Joe, the owner/bartender, wandered down to the beer taps we were sitting in front of and while pouring a Guinness leaned over the bar and said, “That fella at the end of the bar is a real proctol orifice.”
Not sure that I had heard him correctly, I turned my head, leaned in, and said, “What?” He repeated himself, “A proctol orifice. Think about it.” He gathered his Guinness and headed back to the group at the end of the bar; we now knew them familiarly as “assholes”.
A few moments later anther bartender set a shot glass down in front of us, upside-down, and said that the assholes were buying a round for the bar. This may seem like a nice gesture, but it was clear that they were more interested in showing everybody that they had the money to buy a round than they were in creating camaraderie. And even though their dick-measuring charade was clear, we’re not the type of people to turn down drinks, so we each ordered another drink. The guy next to us was even more ballsy, and asked what the limit was. Upon hearing none he asked for Middleton’s, a rare Irish whiskey that Joe only serves on special occasions, and he never charges for it. However, the bartender rebuffed him, so he ordered two other whiskies: one for himself, and one for his wife who wasn’t drinking.
In the meantime they had requested that the band play happy birthday for the eldest douchebag of the group, and when they were done somebody shouted, “Now maybe Joe will get you some whiskey!” With that, the new-money blond that had come in with the assholes shouted “Tullamore Dew!” Of course. Of course she would want the most mass-produced “top-shelf” Irish Whiskey. It’s like when you were 16 and thought Jack Daniels was the be-all-end-all of booze. Of course when Joe brought down Middleton’s instead they were all fawning over the cedar box it came in and trying to figure out how many bottles they would have to buy to impress their friends. The blond stuck the bottle in front of a young yuppie woman sitting next to her. The young yuppie was chain-holding cigarettes. I’ve never seen anyone not smoke so many cigarettes in one sitting. I’m pretty sure the only puff she took is when she would light them, and then just sit and ash them into the ashtray on the bar. She was almost literally burning money. I’m sure her trust-fund is one roll-over from her torching hundreds and this is how she consoles herself in the meantime.
While they were ogling the whiskey and not-smoking cigarettes Joe came back down to our taps and I told him that they did indeed seem like proctol orifices, and I told him that my high-school English teacher would have said that they “didn’t know their derrière from an excavation in terra firma.” He laughed and walked away. Then he came back and said, “I like that,” before walking away again.
As they got drunk they got even more unbearable. The birthday douche had ordered a whiskey on ice, and when I walked past them to go to the bathroom I caught snippets of them talking about their boats. Mrs. ACW and I contemplated beating them to death with our pint glasses, but then decided against it lest their families buy them gold-plated coffins filled with diamonds.
Mrs. ACW and I headed out of the bar shortly afterward, but not before I suggested that if Mrs. ACW didn’t shut up I would “punch you in your head.” Mrs. ACW, being hard of hearing, and looking for a fight, thought I said, “I punch you head!” so she wrote it down on a bar napkin and laughed like crazy. Not one to be outdone, I took the bar napkin from her and told her I would blog that she said, “I eat poop sandwiches every morning for breakfast.” Then she threw a hissy fit and we went home.
All in all, a good night.
But other people do.
This weekend I started my holiday-season-long quest to add eggnog to alcoholic drinks, rather than the other way round. You don’t have to add many spirits to eggnog before you realize that whiskey, bourbon, and scotch in eggnog are all going to pretty much taste the same, and that tequila, jagermeister, or peach schnapps are all pretty much terrible ideas.
So I decided to go the route of adding eggnog to other drink recipes by replacing a specific ingredient with eggnog, or just adding a little eggnog to the mix. This weekend I had an eggnog White Russian (nog russian? White Nog? White Noggian?) and it really wasn’t very good at all. I thought, “Yes! This will be the perfect candidate for replacing one dairy substance for another!” But it’s not. It’s really bad. It tastes like you just cleaned out a pot of old, burned coffee with nog instead of water, and then drank the hideous slurry inside. Somehow the milk (or half and half, if you prefer) keeps the coffee flavor to a minimum, while the nog brings the coffee flavor out, all bitter and with a filthy raging coffee hard-on.
In fairness, I don’t really like coffee, but I do like Kahlua drinks, so that might be part of the problem. Different permutations were concocted with varying degrees of Kahlua, vodka, and nog or Colonial Custard, but I found all of them to be utterly repellent. Well, not utterly, because like naked ladies, nog makes everything better. So I guess I’d say that this is better than just drinking vodka and Kahlua (a Black Russian).
Further, in an attempt at full-disclosure, everybody else thought this drink was balls-tinglingly delightful, so there you go. While you’re trying that, I’m going to find a way to get eggnog into a Dirty Kmart.
Like the other folks I’ve seen who have posted about this, I saw the below beer-like item in the store and couldn’t resist purchasing it.
The can says that beer, clamato, salt, and lime is the perfect combination, but even before tasting it, I was pretty sure that was a lie.
And as you can see here, this portion of the can says that it’s got “natural flavor” and “certified color”. Wait. What? Certified color? What the hell does that mean? Certified at doing what? By whom? I’m beginning to think this is a really bad idea.
Sweet clamato-infused Jesus, there’s MORE text?! I didn’t have any idea that Bud Light had such a opinion of their customers and their customer’s level of literacy. For those of you with tiny monitors (iPhone douchebags, I’m talking to you) or with poorly-functioning old-people eyes, the text says “Enjoy the best of two worlds: a refreshing Bud Light and the unique flavor of Clamato. Drink a Red One, ready to go, or use your favorite ingredients to make it yours - wherever, whenever!” Alright, I have more than a few problems with this statement so let’s break it down:
The best of two worlds- I’m pretty sure neither Bud Light nor Clamato is the best of any worlds, and if they are the best of two worlds, I don’t want to visit either of those inbred, disease-ridden, planetary Wal-Marts.
the unique flavor of Clamato- Unique, because who else besides the original inventor would think, “You know what would make tomatoes better? Clams!”
Drink a Red One- A “Red One”?! Really? Really? This is the nickname you came up with, Bud Light? Somebody needs to be fired.
use your favorite ingredients to make it yours- “Hey honey! HONEY! We got any of that ham and broccoli casserole left? I’ma add it to my Bud Light Clamato because I’m about to make this bitch MINE!”
wherever, whenever- “Yes, interstates, road trips, daily commutes, whatever. We don’t care.”
We’re only through the label and I already hate this shit, so it had better taste like a canned orgasm.
That is not right. That is not good.
Oh, yeah, THERE’S a color found in nature. “We painted this room Sky Blue, and this one is Pine Green, and the baby’s room is Murderous Rampage with no Survivors that ended in a Bloody Bullet-Ridden Carcass, or Clamato Red, as we like to call it. It’s the color of insanity!”
“Yes, yes,” I can hear you screeching at your computer, “but how does it taste, you malignant douchebag?!” Well, I thought long and hard about it, and am prepared to offer only this: Imagine if you mixed Bloody-Mary mix and beer and drank that. You’d think, “Hey, this isn’t really that bad.” So then you proceed to have two dozen of them, and eat a wheelbarrow full of day-old clams that have been sitting in the sun. Eventually your body stages an uprising, and you pass out on a hotel bed that hasn’t has its linens changed in weeks. All through the night your body excretes from every pore the horrible sweat that can only be brewed after ingesting beer, clams, and tomato juice. That sweat soaks into the bed until it eventually forms a puddle, and for some reason that puddle and all the excess moisture in your sheets is later wrung out into an old rusty bucket.
Drinking a Bud Light Chelada is like drinking from that bucket.
