Right now it isn't insuperable to tell myself that not having a drink is pretty stupid. You can tell a man who boozes by the company he chooses. A good beer is good company. The assemblage of personality that congregate around that slanting golden nectar seem rich in equal measure. With each tilt of the yard arm my jokes are wittier, my perceptions more profound and my reflection more handsome. The indomitable know the possibility of the forbidden is infinite when swimming the barrel. And to this I raise my strongest arm. Man drinks.

The two go together like apple in pork pie, cream cheese and salmon, blue cheese and walnuts: except none of those foodstuffs instinctively match. The English balk at the idea of peanut butter and jam on a sandwich. Americans love it. The English wretch at the idea of cheese and ham for breakfast. Germans love it. What is instinct and how do we come to an assumption of what is good for us and what is not. Culture? With alcohol the idea seeps then gushes through the mental avenues and alleyways of a developing brain until the emergence of adulthood when alcoholic poisoning is not only a good idea but a must: when what does not make sense makes irrefutable sense and the hawkish mendacity of the first few lines of this paragrapgh are something to fight for. Man Drinks

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