Category Archives: Drinking

Dogs. Death. Drinks. Devotion.

You can never know when you wake up that this will be the day you have to put your dog to sleep.  Millions of paragraphs have been written about losing those that we love, but nothing will seem to resonate with you on this day.  No one else can possibly understand what the pit of your stomach feels like as you make all the motions you have to make:  The decision, the comforting of your friend, the doctor as she listens for the stillness of the heart.  And your heart fucking drops at the same exact time.  Except you’re still moving around.

You walk away and immediately duck into the first bathroom and bawl as silently (or not) as possible.  You wipe your tears with the world’s roughest toilet paper and walk out into the all-too-bright February sunlight, knowing that doing the right thing sucks so much that you just want to lay down in the middle of the parking lot.

You drive on auto-pilot.

You go to your house and your friend is not there to greet you with a wag and a kiss, but all of your friend’s stuff is still there.  Like he was just going to the groomer or something.  You wander around the house.  You pick up the toys.  You gather beds.  You gather treats and food to give to someone you love.  And you sob.  Uncontrollably.  Ugly crying.  Unashamed crying.  You don’t know when it will stop.

This was my morning.  February 4, 2016.  Today marks my second year of sobriety.  Today is a day that has been horrible, and yet amazing, because it has forced me to do something I could not do when I drank – I have been forced to feel.  While it has absolutely been one of the most heart-wrenching days of my life, I could have never felt this over 2 years ago.  I would have drowned all this out.  And surprise – I wouldn’t go back to that place for all the money or happiness in the world.  No one is more surprised than I am.

I would never be able to feel the absolute gratitude I have for this little dog that came into our lives 9 years ago.  I had no idea how much he had given me.  He comforted me through so many hard days and celebrated with me on days filled with joy.  He gave me his absolute and complete devotion and love.  He gave me his trust.  He had a full life, and I am so thankful that we were able to give him that.

Sobriety to some may seem like a long list of “nevers” that you have to tick off.  But for me, sobriety is a never-ending book full of “always.”  I will always have the memory of knowing that I was there for him in his last moment.  I will always have an abundant circle of friends and family around me to comfort me when I am in need.  And I will always, always marvel at this magic fucking universe that gives so freely of itself, and fills up my short life with the wonder and size of the love that is within it.

 

The dog, thus far, has only learned how to look cute.  No coffee skills at all.

For Mister William Wallace.  Chase those frogs, buddy.

 

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I Know What it Means to Miss New Orleans

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I am not a native.  I did not grow up there.  I have never lived there.  I have never, for that matter, lived in Louisiana.  But you know how you go somewhere and you feel like you’ve been there all your life?  That’s how I feel about New Orleans, and I am sure I’m not the only person who has felt that way.  There’s a certain allure about the French Quarter – the steeped-in-history feeling, the grunge, the funk, the quaintness, the overall vibe is exactly what millions of people fall in love with over and over and over again.  Every time I am there, I feel a weird, other-worldly feeling – like I am supposed to be there.  Like I have been there already.  Like the city is waiting for me, breathlessly, until I return.

And of course, it is.  Waiting for me with its endless balconies of weathered wrought iron; with its music that fills every corner – sometimes the jazz or blues it is famous for, other times drunken karaoke sung by a tourist.  Waiting for me with gallons of coffee and alcohol, if I wanted it.  It was something I worried about on this last trip – this was my first trip sober, and I was a little anxious to find out if New Orleans still held all the same mystery it did for me when I was drinking.  It of course did, because somehow I always knew that even though drankin’ is a huge part of the essence of the city, there’s a heartbeat that echoes subtly underneath the booze.  It’s the people, the whispered and passed-down tales, the food (good god almighty the food) and the desperate beauty that is New Orleans.  There’s absolutely no escape from it, at least not for me.

Have I seen absolutely crazy shit there?  Yes.  Hasn’t everyone?  More often than not, however, I find myself walking the streets of the Quarter or any of the surrounding neighborhoods in awe of the care people take with their plants, their porches – as if this is where life is centered, unlike anywhere else in the country.  I can imagine nothing more perfect than to lounge on a plant-filled porch with a book or a pen or some music, watching the neighborhood, watching the sunset, watching all the vibrant colors that New Orleans is.  Watching the night come alive, listening to the sounds of people cooking, laughing, drinking, and luxuriating – yes, that – the way only this one culture does.

I’m not a Christian, but I’m filled with reverence for the dead in this city.  Being among the graves in St. Louis # 1 fills me with not only the sense of “damn I best gather these rosebuds right the fuck now” but also with a stillness and a longing to know more, to learn all I can about the people who have lived here and made New Orleans what it is.  When I visit the small church that is next to the cemetery, it’s perfect and new to me every time I go.  The mosaics, the grotto, the room that is heated with a thousand silent prayers on the wicks of candles – it is gorgeous, it is tragedy, it is human.

New Orleans is faith.  It is us.

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My Garage: Metaphor for Life

Disclaimer:  If you usually come here looking for laughs, you might find a few in this post, but you might find it more poignant.  If you hate poignant, you might want to just roll out now.  I can’t give you everything.

I decided that after years of neglect and basically just throwing all things I wanted to avoid into our garage, it would be a good idea to rethink that philosophy and try to get in there and clean it.  I thought about this for 8 years.  That’s right.  EIGHT.

This was, undeniably, a task I did not want to tackle.  It seemed insurmountable.  I mean, I had successfully avoided the Garage Issue for a long time.  Because honestly, as soon as we moved into this house we immediately turned the garage into The Land That Time Forgot.  You could technically move around in there, but not well or without difficulty.  It was filled with useless stuff.  Oh, did you need a double vanity with a granite top?  What about a power washer?  Perhaps I can interest you in a smoke machine?  It was a cornucopia of shit on which we could have made a fortune on Craigslist.

But as I said, this shit was daunting, and it wasn’t just a bunch of big weird stuff, there was plenty small stuff as well.  SO MANY NUTS AND BOLTS.  Just strewn everywhere.  So messy and dust-laden and spider-filled.  “Let me in there,” my spirit called out.  “Fuck you,” answered my weary heart.  Until one day.  One beautiful day in a Texas July like no other July.  We had a streak of cool weather (and I mean waaaaay cooler than normal) and I just bit the bullet, opened the garage door, and stared at things.

I think I stared at everything for 10 minutes.  Then something in my brain said, well, nothing’s going to happen if you just keep staring at it.  And thus, I began.

It really amounted to throwing almost all of it away.  And by “away”, I mean I set all that shit out on the curb.  I started, and then my husband joined me later that weekend in Project Free Prizes for Neighbors.  We had people there looking through our stuff as soon as we set it out.  And honestly, that made me happier than any amount of money Craigslist could have ever brought me.  1)  It was gone RIGHT THEN and 2) someone wanted it, they got it.  For free.  That’s great for them, and all we had to do was walk down the driveway with it.  I gathered and organized much of the nut-screw-bolt situation we had going on, placed it on shelves that made sense.  I organized the boxes of Yule decorations I wanted to keep.  Shit was clean-ish, y’all!  I felt a huge sense of not just accomplishment, but a true sense of weight being lifted.  I declared to anyone who would listen that it was perhaps the greatest thing I have ever done.  It felt THAT GOOD.

I have been successfully parking in my garage ever since, and while there’s still work to be done, it’s leaps and bounds better than it was.

It’s not hard for any of you to read between the lines of metaphor.  But for those of you who are musing to yourselves “ok your garage is clean, welcome to being an adult and not living like a fucking hoarder” I say:  It’s bigger than that.  Way.  It’s taken 8 years for me to deal with the crippling obstacle that was my garage.  That doesn’t seem like very long when you compare it with the lifetime of other shit I had successfully (or not) avoided in LIFE.  I avoided it at an extremely functional level as far as your little eyes could perceive.  The twisted beauty of a garage is that as long as you keep the door closed, no one really has any idea of what kind of mess is behind it.  I treated my own person much like that garage:  Just a void where I pushed away anything I thought didn’t matter.  What a shocker when I realized that it actually mattered very much.  I avoided by drinking.  I numbed by taking meds because they helped me be “even.”  I comforted myself with the all-encompassing fuzzy blanket sewn with the Love of Other People’s Problems.  I CREATED A LIFE AROUND ALL OF THIS.  And I woke up every day with my first utterances being angry, hate-filled, woe-is-me-isms.  Good times, y’all.  Good fucking times.

Fast forward, and skipping all the therapy and delving and soul-searching (because hey, that shit never ends, we can talk about that ANY time):

It has been over 6 months since I’ve had a drink.

It has been over 8 months since I’ve taken prescription medication.

I AM NOT LOOKING FOR YOUR PRAISE.  This is what has worked for me.  It is my experience.  It is not everyone’s.  And while I can be proud of myself, I’m not special.  I am just like everyone else, with my own issues and ways of dealing with them.  But that’s just it, isn’t it:  I’m dealing with them.  Not just pushing it into a hidden space.

I wish I could say they have been the BEST MONTHS OF MY LIFE EVER, and while they have been infinitely better than many times in my life, I’ve been raw, vulnerable, and without any door to fucking hide behind.  It is uncomfortable.  It is sometimes painful.  It is, at all times, awkward and surprising and immobilizing and unfathomable,  and a giant dichotomy inside my brain that I mostly don’t have any way to resolve.  And that is why two words are the only ones that can make any sense to me most of the time:

LET GO.

Because hanging on is for suckers.

I guess now everyone gets to find out who I really am without that door hiding the mess.  Including me.

Should be fun, and I’m really not saying that sarcastically at all.  I wouldn’t trade this experience for the world.  And, more than anything, I am completely cognizant that it took all the other experiences to get here.  I am grateful for every single minute that has led me to where I am, for a garage that I’m not scared to be in, and a door that’s open for perhaps the first time.

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Foat Wuth I Luv You but GOTTAMN

Dudes.  I am here on business.  “But you live in Dallas, Stoney.  Why is it such a big deal to be in Fort Worth?”

I WILL TELL YOU.

FIrst, the roads are colossally fucked, so why drive to Dallas only to sleep for less than 4 hours?  Stupid.

It is 12:04am on what is technically a FrIday morning.  I have spent my entire day in a 55-degree room.  I ate lunch at 1pm.  I AM STARVING.  After arriving at my hotel that rhymes with something like “Sheridan” I am not only confronted with the bar having last call at 11:45, but more importantly and discovered after the fact, ALL THINGS IN TOWN STOP DELIVERY AT MIDNIGHT.

areeeeeeee you kidddddddding meeeeeeeee

 

I am very hungry and tired and cold.  God bless the lobby, from which I extruded a turkey wrap after calling every pizza joint in town.

 

NEVER AGAIN, FORT WORTH!!!  I will bring snax next time.

 

love,

IAMCOLDANDHUNGRUANDWORKINGONTHEWEEKENDSUCKADICK

 

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Easter ProTip: Drink to Salvation!

Originally written for the fine ladies over at Hex Chromosome. Check out their amazing shorts. Your ass will thank you.

Hey everyone, if you are easily offended by irreverent columns about sacred holy days, then you should probably stop reading now. I mean it. Stop. Reading.

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If you keep reading, you’re going to Hell.

Now that we’ve gotten rid of all the goody-two-shoes’seses (pfffttttt whatever), we can now get down to brass tacks: What to do while your offspring, nieces/nephews, or random street urchin youngsters are rummaging through your newly-planted spring flowerbeds, searching for a ridiculous plastic egg that holds the Baby Jesus in it. I mean chocolate. Something. There’s only one thing that’s going to make this allergy-infested, ham-laden snoozefest of a holiday better: DRANKS. Look no further, because I bring forth the answers to your burning bushel of Easter drinking etiquette questions.

First, WWJD?

Well, I am sure you immediately assume that the Lamb of God would get down on some wine, since 1) he had all that water and 2) that was kind of the mainstay of bevvies back in the day. Honestly, I think had he been offered a delicious and savory Bloody Mary (aw shit, no pun intended. For real! It’s just timely because it’s breakfast!) he would have enjoyed it, as long as it came with a salt and pepper rim and a charming array of vegetables cut into stirrers. What is NOT to like about this amazing concoction? Vodka is clearly the most pristine and innocent member of the alcohol family, and surely the Lord is pleased when we try to be as pure as possible. You totally need 5 servings of vegetables a day. Drink two of these in the AM and you are DONE, son. Vegetablez. YOU ARE SO HEALTHY.

What’s an appropriately solemn drink while I’m waiting for ham and pretending to like kids?

Which one do you hate more, ham or kids? If you hate ham or are only sticking around for the mashed potatoes because you shoved a metric fuckton of chocolate bunny ear into your gullet before lunch, then you should go with something that is either light or is going to mingle well with all the cheap chocolate aftertaste. I suggest Jameson neat (proves you are totally atoning for your sins because of the seriousness of the drink). If you hate children, a delightful wine spritzer should do the trick (light and airy, and that little asshole 7-year old does not need more Sprite today. Who are you kidding, grab that half-empty 2-liter and just dump the rest of the Target wine cube in it. Add Spree or Easter Skittles for extra festiveness.)

What drinks will go well with my meatless Good Friday?

Everything. Did you swear off alcohol for Lent? OF COURSE YOU FUCKING DIDN’T. Because you do not have a problem.

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More wine, just sayin. And ham is for sinners.

I need to watch Game of Thrones after all the soul-saving. How do I power through until then?

You really only have two choices here: You either need to go to bed immediately after brunch, or stay awake and drink all day. Personally, the latter is the safer option. By the time you are well into your cups and are looking at Jon Snow’s angelic face, you might actually have a spiritual moment of sorts. Plus, don’t worry. Lots of people die in GoT. All the time. Every chapter, almost. You will feel sufficiently sad, yet happy, and BLAM – your Easter is complete. PTL.

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Can someone get Drogo to rise from the dead? Do it.

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24 Hours of Awesome

Phrases that I have either said myself (mostly to only myself) or have heard in the last 24 hours:

1.   “Frozen Arbor Mist is like a lightly alcoholic Slurpee.”

2.  “Try not to impale yourself on your jeans.”

3.  “You do not have the time to be worrying about golden elephants.”

4.  ” I was too distracted by terrible yet amazing 90’s dance music to comment on your bowl.”

5.  “Why are you copying everyone about your cupcake trauma?”

6.  “My dislikes are EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE EXCEPT FOR MASHED POTATOES AND VIGGO MORTENSEN”

7.  “I am, indeed, a snobby smart-aleck.”

8.  “It doesn’t matter – in every instance, there’s always porn on.”

9.  “‘Slut chomper.’  This book will be endless hours of entertainment.”

and

10.   “Well, there’s no redemption or honor in not drinking. ”

Happy Weekend, especially to my excellently talented friends, Leesie and Jeremy, on the eve of their wedding.   Long time coming, kids.  You are both insane.  I love you.

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Wine Me, Dine Me…But Really, Start with Wine

Originally written and posted for this awesome site right here.  Buy some tiny shiny hiney shorts.  These girls know about booty.  
When contemplating what to serve gentleman callers, you can offer many refreshing choices – bougie mixed drinks, plebeian beers, or the ever-popular yet completely monotonous water.  What that guy sitting on the couch waiting to fondle you really wants, besides your boobies, is a beverage that is the Essence of You:  A trashy act in a classy package.  Let me present:  WINE.  In all its forms.  Here are just a few out of a veritable plethora of choices, but the wines listed below I can personally guarantee are winners all around, and any and all will land that aspiring doctor/actor/television thief directly in your, ahem, bedchamber.
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First, how the guide works:
PRICE:
$ – Probably bought it off a bum
$$ – Common grocery store prices
$$$ – I am a rich whore and want to impress people
INEBRIATION CALCULATION:
 – it will take 2 Solo Cups to achieve your dream of speaking more slowly
 – it will take 3 Solo Cups to contemplate listening to Creed or 3 Doors Down
 – it will take 4 Solo Cups to make out with literally anyone in the room

HANGOVER INTENSITY:
 – Coffee will totally cure this
 – Pretty sure these bites are from a human
 – I think I was hit by a car last night

So without further adieu, here is your list.  Carry it with you on all shopping trips.  Or just commit it to memory.  You don’t need any other kinds of wine but these.  To try more is simply foolish, unless someone else is footing the bill.
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BRAND:  TARGET CUBE
FLAVORS:  CAB/SHIRAZ BLEND, WHITE SANGRIA
PRICE: $$
INEBRIATION CALCULATION:  
HANGOVER INTENSITY:  

Allow me to propose the notion that there are few things more enjoyable than a delicious 7-11 Slurpee cup full of Target Cube wine.  If you have not yet dropped a Jackson for this little box of heaven, go immediately to your nearest bulls-eye logo and get you some.  Not only is it super-convenient, your man will know you mean business when you buy the box that’s the size of half a cinder block, yet HOLDS 4 BOTTLES OF WINE.  Also, this wine has won awards, y’all.  Get with the damn program.  Buy some sandals and pocket-tees while you’re there, and you’re good to go.
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BRAND:  FALLING STAR 
FLAVOR:  MALBEC 
PRICE:$
INEBRIATION CALCULATION:  
HANGOVER INTENSITY:  

From the moment you twist the cap off of this decadent crimson bottle of glory, you are hit with an aroma that is surprisingly tangy yet slightly reminiscent of a night during your junior year of college, a night on which you had a blast until someone threw up behind your couch.
Then you remember you have purchased this at the dollar store for $5 (little misnomer there, non?) and now, you will serve it.  Because you do not actually care how this date goes, you are ready to get schwasted.  Tip o’ the cap to Wreckliz & Dangerous for coining that little term.  I added the “c” for intellectual purposes.
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BRAND:  FIRESTEED
FLAVOR:  PINOT NOIR
PRICE:  $$
INEBRIATION CALCULATION:  
HANGOVER INTENSITY:  

Well well well, what’s this?  By name alone, I think I need you in my stable, Firesteed.  Clearly you promise hours of pleasure, or headache.  Whichever.  At about $9.99, this prevalent bottle can be found while grocery shopping, or on your hasty run to QuikTrip to buy prophylactics.  FIRESTEED delivers – it’s not too pungent, not too subversive – it’s just the right amount of both.  You’ll have him eating sugar cubes out of your hand in no time.  You will also wake up to an amalgam of throbbing noises in your head if you insist on drinking the entire bottle by yourself.  You might wish you were actually kicked in the cranium by said Fiery Steed, because that is absolutely how harsh the climb off really is.  Own it.  Try not to pee in a closet.  Just sayin.
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BRAND:  BOTA BOX 
FLAVOR:  CLEAR
PRICE:  $$
INEBRIATION CALCULATION:  
HANGOVER INTENSITY:  

If nothing else, I can certify that if you’re looking for a wine that will make you say “I loooooooooooooovvvvvvvvvvvvve you”  without any prompting whatsoever, STOP LOOKING BECAUSE YOU’VE FOUND IT.  If you are willing to serve and/or drink it out of a coffee mug, this is the method preferred for superior enjoyment.  This tastes great with ice cubes, 7-Up, and really any other non-alcoholic beverage you have in your possession.  You will not regret drinking this in mass quantities.  You will eat everything put in front of you to get rid of the hangover that will ensue.  Wait until your man-friend leaves the vicinity for the inhaling of homemade nachos made with stale tortillas and cheese made out of nuts.  That’s what I said.  Remember your mom bought it for you at the fancy organic store?  Exactly.  Put some broccoli on top.  Wash it all down with some Raspberry Zingers.  Fucking yum.  Go vomit immediately.
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BRAND:  CARLO ROSSI
FLAVOR:  PAISANO (Literally, “Peasant” but could also mean “Gullible Asshole”)
PRICE:  $
INEBRIATION CALCULATION:  
HANGOVER INTENSITY:  ZERO – IT WILL NOT BE IN YOUR BODY THAT LONG

It was YOU that night in college.  YOU threw up behind your own couch.  YOU DRANK A GALLON OF THIS.  Don’t ever do that again.  Stop at half a gallon.
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As mentioned previously, you cannot go wrong with these choices, as they are all stellar and will no doubt get you laid.  EVEN THE LAST ONE.
In our next installment, we’ll discuss mixing vodka with 4 Loko.  Don’t worry,  I do not advocate that you offer this concoction until date #2.
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Life Lessons: Alien Edition

Yeah, White Russians cause one to make lists. Here’s what I learned while on my second one while watching Alien for the 40th time.

5. Anyone called a “science officer” is most likely out to fuck you over.

4. Calling a computer “Mother” is creepy x 10000.

3. When 2 females are on a refinery space plant together, one is dumb and must die.

2. If you don’t follow quarantine procedures, shit will end up eating through your hull and killing your crew.

And

1. I love cats, but fuck a bunch of Jonesy.

The end.

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Let Me Entertain You

A conversation between my husband and I the other night: 

Him:  Did you just take a shower?  Didn’t you take a shower 2 hours ago?

Me:  Yes.  But it’s easier than washing my face in the sink.

 

A conversation regarding watching television: 

Daisy:  Have you watched Community or some other network show I can’t remember the name of right now?

Me:  Nah.  I don’t watch network TV.  Ever.

Daisy:  You should.  You are missing some good shows.

Me:  I refuse to FF through the commercials.

Daisy:  That statement alone makes you the laziest person in the entire world.

 

A text conversation between an unnamed friend and me that JUST HAPPENED:

Friend:  I’m drinking by myself now.  I’ve turned into you.

Me:  …

FIN

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White Russians: You Too Can Make This Delicious Shit

Crossposted and originally written for http://hexchromosome.tumblr.com/

Buy their rad, kick-ass activewear at http://www.hexchromosome.com/

On the surface, you would think that sippin’ on a White Russian goes great with fireplaces, Yule tidings, and about 4 feet of snow on the ground. My friends, I am here to tell you that a White Russian goes great with fucking EVERYTHING.

Winter, Summer, Spring or Fall, it’s like a damn grown-ass milkshake, all for you and your tummy-tum to absorb into your thoroughly deprived-of-Awesome digestive tract, or Magical Unicorn Land, or wherever food and drink goes after you swallow it. I prefer to think of my bloodstream and intestines as a crisp, babbling brook made out of vodka, or lush verdant fields in which French Fry Fairies frolic. But I digress.

A perfectly-crafted White Russian only involves three ingredients:

Vodka (can substitute Everclear)

Kahlua (can substitute coffee grounds mixed with sugar and more vodka)

Half & half (can substitute milk and/or dishwater for coloring – how fucking thirsty are you? Own it.)

1. Okay, drink that pre-drink bottle of wine if it makes you feel fancier.

2. Rinse out a tumbler or milk jug. Whatever.

3. Add ice. Don’t go crazy. Ice is just for looks.

4. Pour in about a finger of Kahlua. (Hint: Use Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment as a measurement for “finger.” And I’m talking the Norton Critical Edition, NOT Bantam Classics measuring. That’s for sissies.)

5. Pour in about 4 Crime and Punishments of vodka. I personally like Monopolowa vodka I have no chance of pronouncing correctly.

6. Add the half & half up to whatever is equivalent to a “full glass” for you. I use fat free half & half, because there’s no sense in wasting all those delicious calories on something that’s just filler. Also, if you’ve done your literary measuring correctly, you won’t need that much.

7. Swirl it around with a swizzle stick, or a pencil, or your finger.

8. Drain it into your gullet like a thirsty hobo in a desert.

9. Repeat.

I promise, you won’t be disappointed. No need to pattern yourself after Lebowski at every turn, but a shabby robe is definitely de rigueur for this amalgamation of amazement. Add a turban, and you’re good. Who gives a shit if you’re at a party or in public. Be your own person. A White Russian in the hand says nothing but “I like drinking” to everyone around you. Oh yeah, and it drips class. True Fact.

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