Return of the Mac

It has been a month since I posted something here, and longer than that if you are counting substance as part of the equation, but I needed the break. Mostly, things have been well save for the frigidity of this December and the annoying need to find a new car, lose weight and get a new wardrobe. Seeing as my narcissism (and neuroticism) has limitless potential, I pose this to you: How should Darren (version 2.6) dress?

Our candidates:

1. Urbane, refined Darren:


2. Aging indie-kid Darren:


3. "I don't give a shit" Darren:


4. Lebowski Darren:


5. Mostly naked and/or weird Darren:



Please vote. It's vital to our country's interests.

~

Friends, I have been shower beer celibate ever since downing that massive can of Labatt Blue last month. This is some sort of crime on my part, or at minimum a venal sin in the eyes of the Catholic church. Last night, in the midst of a really windy snowstorm, I decided to atone for my lack of action on this front.


The Red Stripe looks at home, peaceful even, on that shelf of hair products. It also appears to be a dick with two scrunchies for balls, if you have the right sort of eye.

ANYWAY, it became clear to me that drinking this in the shower would not be right. I needed to punish myself for the lack of reverence I exhibited over the course of the last month. As I contemplated this, a huge rush of wind slammed into the house, shaking the windows and making unseen planks of old timber creak. At that moment, I knew the Gods of shower beer were speaking to me. The elements were to be my confessional. Shower beer became Snowstorm beer.


Mmm. That's fuckin' brisk, baby!

As much as I tried to convince myself that drinking Jamaican beer in a snowstorm was ironic in a hip way, it was really just lame and goddamn freezing. The beer did not warm my cockles, it did not whisk me away to beaches and blunts. The alcohol did, however, go straight to my head. If I had two more I most likely would have been trashed, so in the future if I decide to go sledding on a cold day I will make sure to pack a few brews. What's the lesson here? Always wear long underwear and don't fuck with the Gods of shower beer.

Night's Consumption:

Red Stripe: 1 bottle

James Rockford Memorial Drunk Scale Score: 1.3 -Not at all intoxicated, but goddamn did the cold make me feel more buzzed than I actually was.

~

News of the WTF:

I mentioned to AV that my mother had a bible quote affixed to her fridge via a McCain/Palin magnet/campaign button. When I went over there today, the McCain button and bible quote were gone, replaced by this gem:


Yep. An "It's Ok to say Merry Christmas" button and Psalm 95. I can't make this shit up. No one is telling you to stop saying "Merry Christmas", there is just a common respect that is expected. That is why businesses ask employees to say Happy Holidays instead. No one is trying to kill Christmas, and even if there was, it would be the single most useless gesture imaginable.

What strikes me most about the Psalm chosen, is that like most evangelical morons, my mother has decided to cherry pick the happiest, most triumphant lines. Consider how the same Psalm ends:

do not harden your hearts as you did at Meribah,
as you did that day at Massah in the desert,

where your fathers tested and tried me,
though they had seen what I did.

For forty years I was angry with that generation;
I said, "They are a people whose hearts go astray,
and they have not known my ways."

So I declared on oath in my anger,
"They shall never enter my rest."

-Psalm 95 8-11, NIV

Happy Holidays.