I have been around long enough to have acquired a little wisdom. That is what I was thinking last night as I polished off another pint of Granville ale. A lot of drugs try real hard, but how can you beat the euphoria beer causes before you drive your car into a pedestrian? Welcome to Mount Beer, fellow climbers.
I was thinking about what I was thinking about last night as the black leather motorhead clouds climbed half way up the mountain from the blueberry blossom valley as my dog and I scuffed along an old grease trail this morning. Fuck the sun, I thought, as I leaned against a wicked 150 year old hemlock and vomited onto the moss. The Hammer sniffed it, looked up at me with her hungry brown eyes, wondering how one man could be so full of so much inedible spew. I felt great to be alive on yet another lazy Labour Day.
We walked on, the Hammer ahead of me, looking for danger and a good place to shit. When she found a good place, a perfect place, she stopped and out it came. Plop, plop, ploop, plop, plip. I could not believe my eyes. My dog, after years of practice, had finally shit a perfect Inukshuk, little brown Eskimo head and all.
How about that, I thought. More art drops out of an old dog's ass than truth spills from a politician's lips.
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