Burmese Beer

It is a stifling, stultifying world in which to live. It is a world in which every word and every thought is censored... Free speech is unthinkable. All other kinds of freedom are permitted. You are free to be a drunkard, an idler, a coward, a backbiter, a fornicator; but you are not free to think for yourself. Your opinion on every subject of conceivable importance is dictated for you by the pukka sahibs' code. - George Orwell, Burmese Days

The Hammer and I visited a spot popular with dogs and their poopy-bag toting owners this afternoon. Nobody was there but us, which was nice because people and their dogs are something we see more than enough of.

In a nearby field cows prepared the ground for this fall's magic mushroom crop. In the brook cutthroat trout repeatedly broke the water's surface. Ducks beckoned my dog to join them for a refreshing swim.

After an hour on the trail I aimed my old car to the nearest pub, left the dog to sleep on the cool backseat and went for beer. Two couples in their muddy Jeep were smoking the best weed in the world. The girls were giggling in the backseat like they had never smoked dope before.

The pub was almost empty. Just a couple old dears, a few old motherfuckers and me. I drank my beer and thought about world affairs and hockey.

The play-offs have been spectacular and it is a good thing I am not Burmese.