10 February 2007

Glen Breton

I was reminded last night of just how small a town Steepleton still is compared to the emerging Calcutta that is Greater Dope City. Henrik, who is down from 69 Mile House to write stories about the Picton trial and the top notch decadence of a Dope City nobody up north likes to visit much any more for the 69 Mile House Howler, ran out of scotch. I had only had about eight beer so I volunteered to drive him to the Booze Store in River City, not far from Bjorn's place, where we were making merry.

This Booze Store is twice as big as the rinky-dinky one back in Steepleton. I had never seen so much alcohol in one place. But we had come to the store to pick up a bottle of scotch so that is what we did. After Henrik picked out his bottle we admired the pricier brands and debated their drinking value. Henrik told me, "There's this whisky I hear they make in Cape Breton that may be every bit as good as scotch. I wonder if they have any?"

There were hundreds of different scotches. Now that we have these fancy pants warehouses of booze I am slowly making my way through all the different scotches for sale. To this day my favourite scotch is still Mortlach, which I drank by the case in the long gone days of affordable single malts.

As we looked Henrik told me the Scots are pissed off at the gall of Cape Bretoners ("Colonials!") selling something they claim to be as good as real whisky from Scotland. I figure fuck the Scots; Canada is more Scottish than that bunch of kissers of English ass anyway. Canada on the rocks. Has a nice ring to it if you ask me.

Sure enough they had one bottle packaged in its own little coffin-like box. I grabbed the bottle from the shelf and paid for it. I do not think I will be testing until a special occasion comes along but it sure does look like 43% sweet raspberry honey in the bottle.

When we got back to Bjorn's place everybody was deep into a game of Pick Two.
As we sat down to join the fun and have a few more drinks Bjorn leaned over and farted big, loud and smelly in Sonja's direction. Sonja wrinkled up her little nose and asked, "Why do men always have to aim their fucking fart at you?"

As we played Pick Two I found I was none too good at the game. I was too slow and drunk so I started glancing at the form of the horses in today's races at Santa Anita as I halfheartedly played along. I believe Wilko will do a little showing off in the fifth this afternoon at what should be a fair price.

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