Guinness and New Tires

So here I am, minding my own business, trying to tie on a good drunk and tie down the barmaid. She isn't cooperating. The bar is packed with amateurs and easy drunks, the dregs and dullards, people who need an excuse to have a good time. Leave it to the professionals, I say. My Guinness is at the perfect temperature, my mind is slowing and expanding and I'm ready for adventure. Or jail. We'll see which happens first. Usually I drink alone at home, which some sad people will tell you is wrong, but I find myself to be very good company. And really, masturbating in public is still frowned on. I'm at the bar because I'm celebrating the liberation of a great deal of money from my wallet. Be free, tens and twenties! Fly, green eagle, soar into the void and swell the pockets of corporations and parasites!

I had to buy new tires, you see. All four plus an alignment. The grand total? $700. Yep. That's seven hundred of my hard-earned dollars. I needed new tires because I had neglected to rotate the ones I had, so they rebelled and broke their steel-belted bonds, bent on destruction, mine or theirs they didn't care. Ungrateful rubber bastards.

Did I mention that I'm drinking Guinness? I often wonder where civilization would be without it? Certainly Ireland would be worse off...and so would I. Guinness fuels mad dreams and long drunks. It cures lovesickness, lifesickness and sickness sickness, a brown elixir both magical and delicious.

When I drink Guinness I become the Brown Rambler! Story lines and continuity be damned! I would wear a cape, but I am not that fanciful.