My name is James Arnettison.
In the following words,
I am going to enlighten you
on the perfect form that is
the sloppy pour.
First off, you might be asking:
“hey James, I gotta ask you something”,
and then I’ll say:
“well go on ahead”,
and then you’ll say:
“cool, thanks for taking the time to listen”
and I’ll say:
“of course, any time!”
It may take a few more exchanges
before getting to the question at hand,
which is this:
what is the sloppy pour?
A sloppy pour is an upcharge
on a shot (the kind you order at a bar).
Rather than a neat pour,
where all the contents are neatly contained
within the confines of the glass,
the sloppy pour
requires virtually no skill.
The bartender is, in fact, encouraged
to waste alcohol
as they attempt to hit the glass
with about 80% accuracy (give or take,
depending on the establishment’s preferences).
The result is the perfect sloppy pour.
Those long ropes of vodka and tequila
will now be even ropier–
up to 30% ropier, in fact–
as bartenders are given the go-ahead
to wreak havoc on the bar top.
We can get into
the sanitary aspects of this practice
another time, though
liquor does tend to disinfect
more than it infects.
it’s truly a marigold.
But you know what?
It’s this very kind of
that I’ve been meaning to avoid here,
amongst all the sordid
that seems to define our times
all of a sudden.
Wasn’t integrity of character
ever something to strive toward?
Maybe not in this system of
checks [cashed] and balances [slashed].
Though perhaps I’m as guilty
as any other layabout milquetoast out there,
lounging around the house
sipping my pink lemonade martinis
(my live-in mixologist’s proprietary recipe)
and grousing like one of my commoner counterparts.
Nothing like total collapse of an ancient civilization to completely ruin your day–unless that’s just your business as a mercenary of the righteous lord of all things merry-go-round (circular logic and all, you see). I would have bought a nice cup or two of java if it weren’t for the beast of the west constantly sneaking up behind me and issuing edicts in the name of all things cylindrical.
This is truly a sneak peek of the upcoming legacy stalling that probably would have burnt out my retinas if it hadn’t been for that egregious charm manipulator staining everything they touch with naiveté. But if it weren’t for that unfortunate fabrication of logic, I wouldn’t be standing before you here today. We take our small victories wherever we can get them.
True story, folks. I only have several things to say at any given point, and in order to figure out which–if any–to engage in for the sake of our fallen ancestors (be their downfalls organic or orchestrated), I’m going to need to understand the frequency of my more lucrative brain farts. Only then will I contemplate counteracting the absurd impacts of ancient inebriation in relation to our contemporary neighborhood ecology. Ya dig?
But brain farts have nothing to do with our current predicament. We need to scrape down to the root of the issue before we can even think of attempting an exclusionary rift in downtown traffic patterns, and until you take this topic seriously, I’m going to have to cut you off. six tequila shots is probably enough anyway, wouldn’t you say?
Cheech Marin’s “Born in East L.A.” Blares over the PA system, and the nuns—usually solemn, devout in their convent habits—bust moves across the cloisters, moving more freely than they’d ever thought was possible, all thanks to the new, improved, younger (more liberal) mother superior. Once known as a lover of music festivals, head shops and all things countercultural, a sobering incident left her placing her faith in something devoid of the frivolity she’d known and loved for decades. After a particularly draining assorted red wine bender in the dead of winter (mostly fueled by cabs and zins), she awoke to find herself facedown in the snow, left there by an even drunker person with no residual conscience. There wasn’t a bright light in the trees, just a tingling down the spine and a voice that rang clearly in her left ear, “give up the booze and drugs and shit and I’ll give you a higher calling, girl”. The only way she could conceive of going cold turkey was through the cloth. She figured God was pretty cool anyway, swearing while giving her directions, so why not just give it the old college try?
Swig some bourbon and rate
your childhood Methodist experiences
like you never left the church
(and certainly never lost the faith).
You may find that your actions seem hollow,
but you will certainly notice
that the bourbon is especially delicious
when sarcastically recanting your religion
(best when done in moderation).