Everything Is Wrong With Me
Beer, for me, is my girlfriend. She’s safe. She takes care of you – fixes you dinner, is pleasant company in your free time, gives you regular sex. And you take care of her – take her to dinner, buy her presents, spend your money on her. Sure, once in a while things might get a little crazy and you’ll fuck on the kitchen floor or in a stairwell, but for the most part you know what you’re going to get: a nice, even time. You love her because you need her. That may not have always been the case, but it is now.

Whiskey, for me, is my whore. She’s nuts, and it’s precisely her insanity that drives you crazy. She’ll toy with your emotions, lulling you into a sense of security, before she’ll pull away from you entirely, make you look like a jerk in front of your friends, leave you lonely and confused. But you put up with her because when you have sex her body because a piston (a piston that spews forth the dirtiest words in the English language – or any other language, for that language). And because nothing cures boredom quite like danger.

Read more of Jason’s stuff.  And laugh, puppet monkeys! LAUGH!