When it comes to drinking, I like to consider myself to be rather erudite (or as it would be put in my old neighborhood, "I know my shit"). I've drunk many a beer, wine, and spirit, in many a setting. But if there is one thing that has limited me in improving my knowledgebase, it's money. Or, to be more specific: a distinct desire to not be thrown out into the street with my few meager possessions. Tossing back drinks with abandon at watering holes requires a healthy amount of burnable funds. Strangely, though, it seems the more I hang out at bars and indulge in alcohol, the less money I seem to have. Weird.
I’d like to think, though, that with more financial backing, I could expand my range of bars beyond the confines of city, state, and national borders. I could add to my booze resume a breadth of knowledge only gained with time spent in foreign lands full of exotic women and untested waters. I could drink with matadors after running with the bulls in Pamplona. I could sip fine single malts poured fresh from one hundred year old casks in Scotland. I could…get paid to do all of these things and then write about them. (*
looking at The Hero* No? Nothing? *
sigh*)
One man, however, does have this exclusive life of which I dream. He calls himself, “The Imbiber”. And if his life didn’t already sound wet-dream-on-a-summer-night-good, then let me add this one last detail: his employer is none other the legendary
Hugh Hefner.
Life just isn’t fair.
Perhaps one day I’ll realize my true calling, and find myself sipping a rum drink on a beach in Thailand on the company dime, while chatting up one of my company's dimes. But in the meanwhile, I’ll have to settle for living vicariously through The Imbiber. And
that includes this read, an interesting study on the ten genres of pouring arenas that exist in this cruel, cruel little blue and green ball of ours. Grab yourself a drink and get your learn on.
This was inevitable. Loyal readers know I'm a huge fan of Jessica. She may even be the one for me—THE future Ex. Mrs. D.E.F.I. And this is true, deep, and mature devotion—her flawless beauty has nothing to do with it, I swear. 
I've had a lot of sex that involved beer, but nothing like this. The Advisor's response was to exercise a "pint of caution", as there are many harmful side effects that can result from C.W.'s love games, for both her and him—including the potential for causing an embolism by blowing into his girlfriend like he's inflating an inner tube.
When it comes to drinking, I like to consider myself to be rather erudite (or as it would be put in my old neighborhood, "I know my shit"). I've drunk many a beer, wine, and spirit, in many a setting. But if there is one thing that has limited me in improving my knowledgebase, it's money. Or, to be more specific: a distinct desire to not be thrown out into the street with my few meager possessions. Tossing back drinks with abandon at watering holes requires a healthy amount of burnable funds. Strangely, though, it seems the more I hang out at bars and indulge in alcohol, the less money I seem to have. Weird.
