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by admin
The first week of my absence can be best explained by the fact that I was simply too busy with my fantastically important life to write the thoughtless drivel you lousy bastards gorge your empty yet supposedly superior minds with.
The tardiness of my second week can be explained by my attempt to complete my weekend chores. Like a mail carrier (mailman (even the women are men)(scissor, baby!)) I ventured out in the blistering cold and blinding snow in my quest for a superior white wine. Central New York is the 3rd ranking terra-firma when it comes to whites, esp. Riesling.
Ignoring the hapless fucks in their VW Rabbits on the shoulder of the interstate, and in the gutter, median, and wood, I ventured on to tour some of the most fruitful wine country in the east.
I spend an entire day visiting only six wineries in the finger lakes region of NY. All-in-all, I can tell you that in those six venues you can experience all that the area has to offer, and that the quality of the experience is largely proportionate to the quality of the people in your party. You can spend an honest day with a few amazing people, visiting one or two quality wineries, and learn more, and experience more than you’d be able to in a lifetime with snobbish wine connoisseurs.
It also will prove that you don’t need to spend $50 or $100 to drink good wine. You can visit some of the most productive land in the world and drink a quality wine for $10 and maybe, if you’re an honest individual, talk yourself into a bottle: gratis.
-F.
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by Finnius McCracken
In nine weeks, long after winter has released its icy grip on this land, liberating its inhabitants, I will find myself embarking on a journey to the tropics, namely Puerto Rico. Yes, it’ll be a bit late for a winter retreat but as I haven’t had a real vacation in over two years, this will just have to do.
2005 was the last time I ventured below the 23rd parallel when I visited the Big Island for Thanksgiving (in a world before I was introduced to Thanksdrinking, or “PTd”). That was a very different time; a simpler time, when I was limited to drinking domestics and working was only a hobby.
In the years since, I’ve found that serious employment has encroached on every facet of my life and, as such, I have the money to expand my pallet but not often the time. Additionally, my time spend at the gym has been severely limited lending a somewhat doughy appearance to what were once gleaming pecs and bulbous buttocks. This of course brings us to the topic of today’s diatribe: Svedka.
Distilled from wheat, in the traditional manner, this fine spirit hails from Sweden and so it is crafted entirely by 6-foot buxom blondes in bikinis. Unfortunately, due to the local climate and the uniform at the plant most of these women are forced to go untrimmed… or fortunately, depending on personal preference, I suppose (personally I prefer something akin to a topiary garden… a swan or a dinosaur perhaps… surprise me).
The thinking is this: by limiting my libation to hard liquor I’ll be lowering my caloric intake, thus magnifying my efforts at the gym. For the price, there is NO better option than Svedka. Four fingers taken on the rocks or with a splash of diet lime tonic is a splendid way to begin an evening. Because you can easily purchase 1.75L for under $20, and because those girls work so hard, you can feel good about going back for more.
Is it easy? No, but I’m confident that if I continue my rigorous Svedka regimen I’ll be a bronze-god in my board shorts again in no time.
-F
Filed under: booze, gym
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by Finnius McCracken
I hadn’t seen the bottle return since before the New Year. The kitchen was awash in bottles of every color, size and composition. Cans were strewn about like so many leaves on an autumn day. Clearly, I could not let the situation deteriorate further lest I be smothered in the debris, becoming another victim of reckless drinking.
The weather was not at all appropriate for a jaunt to the grocery store. It was windy with sleet, snow and freezing rain weighing line and limb, but with motivation being as fleeting as it is I dared brave the elements: out I went.
The car, packed to the hilt, resembled a certain Grinch’s sleigh as he sped from Whoville with his spoils. I transferred my collection into two carts, laboring to push them through the slush, broken wheels flailing, toward the golden gateway of the regional grocery chain.
From the periphery sped the original Dodge Caravan (Serial Number 001), tires as well-treaded as Krispy Kreme doughnuts narrowly missing me and mine.
Reaching the sanctuary of the lobby I reveled with delight at the realization that I had each receptacle to myself. There would be no waiting as the pregnant Old Tart in the Shoe, a suckling on each teat, fed bottle after agonizing bottle into the green machine. No, tonight I’d be the pallbearer, reverently sending each of my soldiers to its maker only to be reborn to the world, the vessel of something new.
As I went about my duty I was joined by a waifish man with a grey bird nest for hair. Clad in flannel and carrying a tattered shopping bag full of dented cans, he began cashing in on his day’s foraging. Lo! This was the man piloting the Caravan! The beast finished his “chore”, received his ticket, and left the lobby.
As I finished my responsibilities the rank of body odor and booze filled the air. The man with the bird nest hair walked by, predictably carrying as payment for his day’s work a dozen Milwaukee’s Best, the inbred cousin of the legitimate brew. Day after day, like some specter, he’ll be doomed to repeat this task eternally.
The moral is, and be forewarned, if you drink cheap beer, you’ll forever be relegated to a life of subsistence scavenging and probably have to drive a Dodge.
-F
Filed under: bottle return, supermarket
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by Finnius McCracken
I went to a friend’s house to watch the Super Bowl, which turned out to be anything but… it would have been nice to see any team complete a perfect season, but the Giants’ offense trounced the Pats, and it was not to be… I digress. I went to watch the game with only a handful of beers, intending that after the game I’d be all set to head home, no problem, and indeed I was…. 4 beers in the prescribed 4 hours: no sweat.
When I got home, I figured I had some catching up to do. Lo and behold, the only alcohol left in my house was the ass end of a bottle of White Zin. White ZIN! I saw that noone was looking, swallowed my pride, and poured a big glass.
As the swill passed my lips and flooded my palette, I immediately recognized its flavor. Not from some college party where I indiscriminately drank any old bum wine I could get my hands on. No, this I’ve had, but it was from a place I hadn’t been in almost as long: church!
Maybe church wine didn’t start out tasting this way. Perhaps it was the combination of grapes and V.D. from prior parishioners that gave it this distinctive bouquet and flavor, but I do believe Robert Mondavi may have a lock on the blood of Christ! That may be a difficult thought, however it could be worse. What if instead of J.C. in a $10 magnum he came in a boxed foil pouch w/ a convenient no-drip spout? Certainly not the worst case scenario… they could have served Wild Irish Rose or Mad Dog 20-20, but I’d like to think w/ the recruiting difficulties they’ve experienced of-late the church’d upgrade to something in the $20 range.
Oh-well.
-F
Filed under: Box o Wine, Drinking and god., White Zin
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by Finnius McCracken
Well, fuck me…
Winter sucks! In this part of the country (upstate NY, and I don’t mean Westchester) snow covers the ground for up to six months out of the year…six months! Can you imagine going six months without being able to walk on your lawn; being relegated instead to sidewalks which may or may not be partially covered in snow, slush, ice or mud? It sucks.
When winter first begins you’re just coming out of a turkey coma, and everyone is getting geared up for the “holidays” (a.k.a. Christmas, which even the most devout Jew will tell you is way cooler than Hanukah). For a month you’ve got this overly romanticized notion of winter and snow and all that fa-la-la-la-bullshit pounded into your brain. Then there’s New Year’s Eve which is really just a chance to decompress from having to spend too much time with your family. Once that’s over, you’re in the thick of it. It’s winter and there’s nothing you can do about it. NOTHING.
My one source of joy and solace in an otherwise bleak and meaningless season comes in a bright blue box with a dozen amber soldiers standing neatly in their rows: Samuel Adams Winter Lager.
There was a long time when I though that Boston Lager just couldn’t be topped, until Jim Koch and his guys at the Boston Beer Company came out with Winter Lager. Genius.
Imagine my horror when I walked into the local grocery store to find Sam Adams White Ale staring goadingly back at me from where the Winter Lager should have been. I was furious! If it’s true, and Winter Lager is being retired until next year this will be a long winter indeed. If their disappearance in some way heralded winter’s retreat, I’d say that’d be a fair bargain, however I very much doubt that this dark and loathsome season will conclude anytime soon.
A winter without Winter Lager? Now I have a reason to drink!
-F
Filed under: sam adams, supermarket
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by Finnius McCracken
Once again, like that whore you call a mother, I’m late. I was neck deep in research for this post, and by the time I had examined every angle it was well past midnight and the rooster’s crow comes early.
I’ve argued this fact with many a supposed “drunk” and have always prevailed: Green-bottled beer tastes like shit. Until now it’s been universal: Heineken, St. Pauli’s Girl (Tits? Yes. Taste? No.), Molson Golden…they all smell and taste of schmegma. Call me a beer snob, but after a long work-week the last thing I want to wrap my lips around is schmegma.
This brings us to the exception which apparently proves the rule: Yuelgling. Now, I have had Yuengling long, long ago but it must have been prior to the development of this finely honed pallet.
When I arrived at a friend’s to watch the football game yesterday I was disappointed to see only Corona and Yuengling, in its gleaming emerald bottle, in the fridge. The corona belonged to the Mrs. so I was left to the face possibility of sobriety. Unable to wrap my mind around that concept, and with upturned nose, I reached for the Yuengling. Tearing the cap off with a mighty twist (twist top…WTF?!), I braced myself for the horror to come only to find an only slightly skunky, yet bearable elixir whetting my thirst.
Will I ever buy the shat? Hell no. I will tell you though, if it’s the only option, it’s free, and I’m pretty sure noone is watching I’ll suck it up and drink it down. As for St. Pauli’s Girl… that dried up old tart is better used to clean pubes off the toilet than for drinking.
-F
Filed under: Schmegma, Yuengling, beer snob
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by Finnius McCracken
So, I’m late. This is my first post, and already I’m behind my deadline. Well, what do you want? I was drunk.
Not only was I drunk, but I unwisely ate too much chili for lunch, so the hangover with which I am currently dealing is the least of my problems, and yours. Never mind: I’ll spare you.
Alright, a recap: it began innocently enough with a trip to the grocery store. I wasn’t even planning on drinking, but when you see those bottles of all different colors living harmoniously in the cooler case, the feeling of love is overwhelming, and so who could help himself?
I chose a dozen of the finest Samuel Adams Winter Ale I could find, and off we went. We came home to find our peaceful evening alone was not to be. Instead we were cajoled into a poker game, which we handily lost and which quickly devolved into a some sort of high-low guessing game; a game where the winners are losers and consumption is key. Finally we found our niche.
I was told that the evening ended sometime the next morning as I found myself lying at the wrong end of the bed. Certainly this was not the most eventful of evenings, and by far not the most entertaining for you, the loyal reader, but I guess that’s what you get for being sober. I promise, I’ll imbibe copiously in the course of the next week, and will endeavor to provide a better post next time. And, now that you’ve seen this monkey dance, how about you buy something from our sponser Kegworks and throw a nickel in the jar?
-F
Filed under: drinking stories, sam adams, supermarket
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by Finnius McCracken
Welcome to Good Libations!
I Finneus McCrakken will induldge you with drunken rats ever Monday here at Good Libations.
Come back Monday for my first post.
-Finneus McCrakken
Filed under: good libations
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