Seventeen

I have not been watching Pope Cherry on Hockey Night In Canada quite as religiously as usual this year but I made a point of catching his little show on St. Patrick's Day. His war happy attitude has been making me vomit more than usual what with good old boy sharp shooting Canadians raising motherfucking Hell in the Afghan countryside and our Special Forces, a term which empties my stomach as well, sneaking around Iraq killing hateful Muslim theocracists. Just the same, Pope Don is right on with his comments about anything related to the greatest stick game blood sport on Wayne Gretzky's planet. Give me the James Bond action of hockey in the '70s over the wet shit we get splattered on us every Saturday night in this wicked century any time.

Before I sat down and prayed for the redemption of the National Hockey League with my God On Earth I poured myself a modest glass of Jameson's 12 year old. I picked up the bottle after my dog, who was rolling in unidentified shit again today, and I got our exercize in the mythic rain of Dope City. The good folks at the liquor store were good enough put it on sale. Regular readers of 2 + 2 may have guessed there might be a wee bit of the Irish in Old Beer. There's not many of us spawn of Newfoundland who do not have distant roots in the Poetic Land. Not that you would ever catch me in a pub on St. Patrick's Day - too crowded with wannabes mate. Every other day of the year is St. Patrick's Day to me.

Today's shit storm of rain meant the Hammer and I had the trail to ourselves yet again. I like the sound of the rain hitting a fast running creek. Good thing - I would go mad or have to stay indoors otherwise. The Hammer looked up and down the waterway for ducks to chase in vain. She was confused by their absence. Where the fuck were the ducks? My eyesight being better than hers, I could see them floating on the many lakes in distant fields gobbling drowned slugs, snails and worms.

You know, that 12 year old Jameson's is ok. Not as good as Red Breast. Red Breast, my friends, is whisky very nearly as good as anything the good people of Scotland produce.

When I was picking out my bottle of Irish Whisky to wash the rain out of my bones I had a look through the scotches. My local store is carrying a couple brands of cask strength I will be having to try soon. If they are anywhere near as good as the Arran's cask strength I recently poured into myself for the first time, I am in for many a magic alcohol fired night to come.

Motherfuck the green beer.