My Fellow Inebriates,
We are getting a new hot water tank today. (How much vodka is that worth?)
Apparently it is a top-of-the-line model that will save us a bundle. This is good, because the kids could really use more frequent baths (not that I’m one to talk).
The new unit replaces an old hot water heater that featured compelling Dantean imagery:
Clip Snark, this one’s for you.
My Fellow Inebriates,
Here’s your booze horoscope:
As an Aries you sometimes have difficulty maintaining civilized relationships, and this week it gets worse. Your psyche splits in half, freaking out friends and family. One minute you’re barring the door and ignoring your phone. Next minute you’re streaking around the block in a thong. This latter behavior is just a cover-up for the tender, squishy interior you’ve been hiding. Loosen it up with some vodka.
Taurus, one of your friends is into you—and very suddenly. You, however, have your eye on someone else. You could keep your options open just in case the latter fails to notice you. Then again, your admirer could well be a stalker who drinks all your Hennessy while you’re in the shower. It’s potentially a shit scenario, but you can’t very well hide from the world. The stars say go with your gut.
You’ll meet a flirt this week, Gemini, which could make for rocky times if you already have a steady squeeze. But you’re generally lucky, so you can get away with a fair bit. Whether you take the plunge has a lot to do with how much Captain Morgan’s in your bloodstream. Your best risk-taking days are Monday through Wednesday, but don’t look at me for answers on Thursday. 😦
An old photograph or video reminds you of an old friend, Cancer. Being naturally sentimental, you sail down memory lane, lamenting your lost relationship and wishing you’d had as much sense as you do now. Don’t start freaking out about your age, though. If you get even the slightest urge to go for Botox, break out the vodka and Southern Comfort. Even if booze doesn’t shake the impulse, no doctor will inject you when you’re hammered, although you might find a tattoo artist who’s willing.
Leo, your general health is improving. You feel stronger and more competitive. You’re sleeping better and managing stress in healthy ways. You’re waking up early and going for nature walks. OMG, how did this happen? Has your bartender started watering down your Jagermeister? Better find out—it’s not normal to feel this good.
Whatever people advise, you tend to do the opposite, Virgo. You lose patience for rules and order as the stars urge you toward peach schnapps, vodka, and Hypnotiq. Depending on your baseline level of introversion, this is either good or bad. (Ain’t it great how horoscopes are correct no matter what?)
Libra, you frequently feel insecure or even embarrassed about your physique. Pasty and sallow, you get your carbohydrates from Sprite and your other macronutrients from gin, hoping like hell juniper contains some vitamins. Wallowing in shame won’t help you, Libra. Not as much as much as wallowing in a nice bath with candles and more gin.
Your third eye is very acute this week, Scorpio. You’re seeing and hearing things that aren’t actually there. Lots of people—astrologers, for example—would consider this a gift, but you are a little weirded out. So intuitive are you that you make a sordid discovery about your own private life. Any Scorpio worth his/her salt loves going down this type of bizarre rabbit hole, so pop the champagne cork and celebrate! But do it after Sunday, because the stars say you’ll end up being designated driver all weekend.
Sagittarius, you’re mowing through your finances again, with no thought for the morrow. Your bar friends love you for this, but look out—everything comes to a screeching halt in October, and the money situation won’t look up until at least December. Not only that—you’re juggling multiple projects and not finishing anything. Try ratcheting back the Kahlua in your breakfast flask.
Relationships test your mettle this week, Capricorn. You may even be forced to choose between two people—a painful decision that calls for a rational mind. This you don’t have—not with your neurons swimming in rum and triple sec—and you could end up regretting your choice in December. Try not to jettison friendships, even if you have to tell some lies. This might mean capping that rum consumption so you can keep track of what you’ve said…can you do it?
Aquarius, cool your jets, there’s nothing that can’t wait a while. Where did this crazy sense of urgency come from? The world won’t stop if you slow down. Relax; try being late occasionally; ditch an AA meeting. Bet your workplace has enough type-A personalities, at least for this week. The recipe? Two ounces amaretto, two ounces coffee liqueur, in your morning Starbucks.
Pisces, lose the keyboard and go outside. Real people are more interesting in real life, and some of them have been trying to catch your eye for a while. Even if you think nature walks are for douchebags, you can make them work for you. What about a lovely picnic in a pastoral setting with a two-liter Fresca bottle and some Crown Royal?
Lest you think there’s no news worth reporting in Langley, today’s local paper carried a letter to the editor describing the disappearance and return of two teddy bears.
What the hell does it mean? I wondered. Which bears does the writer mean?
Seriously, I wondered if my friend Scarybear had been getting into someone’s garbage again. A picnic bear like Scary has just as much trouble staying away from old watermelon rinds as I do keeping away from the empties. Had this writer spotted some foraging grizzlies? I wondered? And felt affection for them? Could you feel affection for Scary?
And what next? Would someone be writing to the editor about spotting a diminutive, mangy light tan bear rooting through the beer cans outside their house? It could happen…especially since my mum finished the gin.
Turns out the letter’s subjects are more similar to Scary and me than I’d imagined. A couple of years ago Gayle Brown noticed a teddy bear sitting on a stump by a North Langley ravine, which was joined soon after by a second bear, along with an umbrella to protect them from the elements. She enjoyed driving past these whimsically positioned bears, imagining them to be picnicking—although if my parents stuck me outside for two years with, say, Scary, and no TV and no booze, I might call it abandonment.
Gayle seems to be a well-meaning person who, in fairness, believes the outdoors to be a fitting ursine setting. Apparently these bears are tough mothers too:
“…they always looked the same—no moss or mould—just cuddled together in the rain and snow and sunshine… Last week, I noticed only the umbrella was there. What happened to the bears? Where did they go? Maybe they went to a teddy bears’ picnic in the woods.”
I would freaking hope somebody adopted them so they could catch up on Breaking Bad while pounding a six-pack. We “teddy” bears don’t fare so well outside. Like Gayle, I wondered what had happened to them. Had they been abducted? Interrogated? Imprisoned? Did someone make them rub lotion on themselves? OMG!
Holy crap, is “spa” some sort of euphemism for “washing machine”? Only the bears know for sure. I’m going to visit them this week and give them some beer.
Liquorstore Bear 