The liquor store was sure busy after work last night. Kesey was right about how dark and stormy nights and liquor were made for each other. It is all about fear. We, those of us standing in line with our purchases, had it. The liquor store had what chases it away.
Guess I did not have it that bad or I would have walked out of the store with a dozen tall cans of Directors. New product. At 8% it is a beer strong enough to chase a man's biggest fears straight to Hell and back. All I had was some Rock Creek and a bottle of 16% Australian red. That would work every bit as good on Sonja's dark and stormy night fears as a few tall Directors would on anybody.
A couple staff and their laughable security team (the same assholes who eyeball me every time I walk down the whisky aisle) were doing a debrief of a liquor heist that had taken place moments before I entered the store. Whisky. Bottom shelf. Same fucking bitch that robbed us on Tuesday.
I paid and got the fuck out of there. Figured the whisky stealing bitch's old man was probably forcing her into the street to steal booze for him. Talk about fear. Hopefully, one day after she is as fed up with him as we are with our fucking government, she will kill the motherfucker in his sleep.
At home Sonja and I drank, the dog curled up on her blanket at our feet making horrific dark and stormy night smells. CBC had a show on about a couple pilots who ditched their plane in icy Hudson Strait well north of Newfoundland and lived, after quite the ordeal, in part due to Olympian governmental stalling to properly equip search and rescue teams with infrared technology. They were saved by a Seal Cove (been there!) fisherman and his crew who steered hundreds of miles out of their way to look for the left for dead men on the ice the way I look for longshots in the Daily Racing Form.
Nothing beats watching a longshot light up the board.
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