My Fellow Inebriates,
Your booze horoscope is still a mess. I have to admit, dry weekdays are totally getting me down. I can’t even get up in the mornings, never mind figure out what the stars have to say. But finally—the weekend having officially been kicked off—I have a glass of wine in my paw, and the stars are forecasting. (But they are still full of shit.)
Aries, be careful with first impressions this week. It’s fine to be nude at home, but it’s no way to greet new acquaintances. You can stay in touch with your spiritual side without swinging your thing(s) around in public. In fact, you can change mentally. People are starting to recognize depth in you that wasn’t visible before. Could it be that you’re lucid this week? You got it, Aries, you’re this week’s Designated Driver.
Taurus, we all have responsibilities, and lately you’ve been keeping tabs on everybody else’s. Let go of the urge to compare, Taurus—you know other people are often douchebags and they will get away with whatever they can. It doesn’t have anything to do with you and your own objectives. Once you stop monitoring other people, you’ll feel free to go after what you want in life—i.e., Smirnoff with triple sec and Mountain Dew.
Gemini, your week promises to be free of f#ck-ups. If you play a sport, you’ll excel in it. If you go trawling the bars for a hook-up, you’ll find it. You might even get a job this week—but only if you book your interviews for the morning (assuming you can hold off till afternoon to pound that vodka-tequila shot). Life is good.
Cancer, crappy times are finally ending and you can see the light at the end of the tunnel. As you transition to a happier, saner life phase, people will seem more warm and colorful, and sleep will come more easily than it has in months. But life won’t be perfect! Something in your house will break (the stars don’t know what; they are just stupid balls of gas so they can’t be specific). And an Aquarius will be skulking around—maybe even stalking you. Do NOT share your Captain Morgan Tattoo with this person. Pour some Dr. Pepper into it and slam it back alone.
Leo, you’ll espy something beautiful and be overcome with desire. Whether an objet d’art or a pricey Champagne, you’ll insist on having it immediately, with no regard for financial consequences. But you should save some money this week, Leo, because something in your house will go on the fritz. Maybe an appliance, maybe your computer. That’s the thing about the stars; they like to be unspecific so they can say they were right—especially if you take their prediction as license to go apeshit-drunk in your house and wreck something.
You’ll encounter a stranger this week, Virgo, but a combination of peach schnapps, amaretto, Southern Comfort, and apple schnapps will ensure the two of you do not remain strangers. And the plot will thicken as you discover mutual acquaintances, enmeshing you in a prematurely complicated relationship. Who knows—maybe the two of you are even long-lost siblings? (Ew.) Your new involvement will keep your thoughts occupied all week, and maybe that’s a good thing.
Libra, you’ve got nuthin’ going on this week. The stars have literally nothing to say about your chart—nothing out of whack, no nutjob stalkers, no strangers stepping into your steamy shower. For some people a
boring calm week is a comfort. For you…? Oh, for crying out loud, at least mix yourself a bizarre cocktail. Blend this up with two cups of ice:
- 3 oz creme de menthe
- 3 oz cinnamon schnapps
- 2 oz cream
- 20 of those little cinnamon hearts that hurt your tongue
Memory lane reaches out this week, Scorpio, especially if you are over 40 years old. Whatever age you felt best at, you’ll behave accordingly. And if you’re a young Scorpio with no drunken good times yet racked up, why not bust out this week? Either way, a lot of Scorpios will get involved in feats of immaturity this week. Mellow out afterwards with equal parts Kahlua, Bailey’s, and Frangelico (unless your drunken activities land you in jail, in which case…I once saw this movie in which a character made Merlot in the toilet, so you probably can too).
Sagittarius, negotiations look excellent this week, especially for big-ticket loans like mortgages. Don’t be afraid! You can make the payments, although you may have to settle for cheaper gin and whiskey. The stars see you sitting on your new porch drinking a Bud and telling yourself you like it. That’s awesome! It’s the North American dream. And you’ll have lots of friends too, but you must remember to phone them.
If you’re having a tough week, Capricorn, you should consider telling a stranger about it. There’s no sense laying all your shit on a friend or relative; find somebody on the subway and tell them all about your hemorrhoids. Then again, you could see a doctor, but a medical professional might tell you to lay off the Scotch. And for a final piece of astrological randomness…buy someone some flowers.
Aquarius, a nagging problem has started to seem insurmountable. Even when you read about global misfortunes in the newspaper, you still feel whiny and sorry for yourself. Perhaps you need a bizarre sexual adventure; these can be great distractions, and they tend to dovetail nicely with Cointreau and triple sec. Post the pics on FB.
Pisces, you’ll realize suddenly that you have been pretending—who knows for how long? Check yourself out in the mirror and look at all the things that have happened to you. OMG, was that bit there before? What about that pendulous thing? What is it exactly? Realizations such as these are the bane of the sober mind. The antidote is a tub of Sangria, so find some crappy Cab and throw a bunch of brandy and fruit into it. Or hell, just drink the wine.
My Fellow Inebriates,
Once again the horoscope hasn’t come together on time, leaving you on your own to decide what to drink this week. Are you okay so far? (I bet you are.)
Aries, you’ve recovered from an embarrassing ailment and now you’re feeling tip-top. Extra sleep has helped you, and perhaps even sobriety as well. But who can keep that shit up? Here’s your drink:
- 2 oz vodka
- 2 oz Southern Comfort
- 2 oz grenadine
- 2 oz sloe gin
- 2 oz triple sec
Add a whole bunch of orange, cranberry, and pineapple juice—say, 4 oz each. Shake with ice in a cocktail shaker and you’ll be back to normal in no time.
Taurus, it’s “opposite week” for you, as you determinedly do exactly the opposite of what everyone says. Pretty normal for Taurus, only you’re in turbo mode this week. Shirk all responsibilities and run away from work. Toss your obligations in the toilet and celebrate with a Tidy Bowl: three parts vodka to one part Blue Curacao. Shake and swirl it with ice until cold, then (gratuitously enough) float four to six raisins in your concoction.
Gemini, thong season is making you insecure about your body. But your embarrassment goes beyond the physical; you are feeling generally inadequate. This happens to everybody, and the best cure is always getting drunk. But in such a self-flagellating mode, you might as well choose a punishing drink. That way you can exorcise your bad self-talk in one bracing go. I’m thinking Jagermeister with butterscotch schnapps and Coke. Yeah.
Cancer, don’t turn a blind eye to your financial strain. If you keep pissing away your paycheque you’ll be cadging drinks by June. As for July and August, thank goodness those months are warm (at least around here) because you might be sleeping outside. If you think I’m talking about my dad, who is a Cancer, I’m not. My dad needs to go out and blow all our money on alcohol right now. I’m talking about you other Cancers in the world. The stars advise you to buy a cheaper brand of bourbon. And what the hell—some cheap rum too. And maybe some Jagermeister. Say hi to my dad if you run into him.
Leo, the stars will test your relationships this week. Maybe you should just jettison the ones you don’t care about right now; it beats some of the more embarrassing alternatives. What alternatives? you ask. You know, Leo. Beating the shit out of each other on the sidewalk outside a bar, for instance. Putting away a litre of vodka and prancing around in a thong in front of someone who is not into you. Stuff like that.
Slow down, Virgo, or you’ll miss out on something monumental this week. Take time to perambulate and notice small details. The world doesn’t need you to be productive this week; in fact, most people won’t notice if you put away a few drinks behind the desk. The key is to take it slow. Here’s a luxurious libation you can sip:
- 1 oz Bailey’s
- 1 oz creme de menthe (buy the green kind)
- 1 oz Frangelico
Libra, the stars hereby order you to leave the computer. Your eyes are rectangular from all your recent screen time, and meanwhile the real world suffers because you’re not participating in it. Okay, maybe it doesn’t suffer, but you could use some Vitamin D. You could also use a Bacardi 151–inspired adventure. Mix equal parts vodka and coffee brandy, pour rum on top and light on fire (just for a second or you’ll lose too much booze).
Initiative will reward you socially, Scorpio. Don’t wait for friends to email you; most of your friends are really flaky and won’t bother. Send them a crazy message detailing some wildly irrational behavior in which you’re engaged right now—and which they’re missing out on. Now you’ve set the scene in motion, you’d better start doing something fun or your friends will arrive expecting madness and find you sitting at the kitchen table or trimming your nose hairs or something. Can’t think of anything wild to do? This will help:
- 2 oz Jagermeister
- 2 oz cinnamon schnapps
- 2 oz Kahlua
Sagittarius, life will mistreat you this week. At times you’ll feel persecuted. But compare the present with, say, a decade ago. Chances are you’re much wiser and more successful now. Don’t you wish you could get into a time machine, go back ten years, and kick your young self’s ass? Ride out this bad week with lashings of vodka, Midori Melon, and Bacardi 151. You’ll need some limes with that.
Expect a message from an old contact, Capricorn—a curious message with suspicious subtext. Whether it’s harmless the stars don’t know; stars are just stupid balls of gas, after all. But do think twice about reuniting because this person has probably, over the last decade, turned into a total nutbag. Even though you’ll be hammered when you receive the message (email or text—again, the stars are too stupid to furnish details) on an elaborate concoction of Scotch, creme de menthe, Kahlua, Bailey’s, and black tea, you’re still a Capricorn, damn it, and that means you’ll have the presence of mind to ignore it. Completely as an aside, and totally unrelated, on Sunday you will score sexually.
Aquarius, the renovation bug attacks this week, but the time isn’t quite right. Maybe you should just buy one piece of furniture or a tasteful work of art. Whatever you end up doing, try to follow the Feng Shui rules, and don’t operate any nail guns, glue guns, or chainsaws you happen to find lying on the next-door neighbor’s lawn (beneath a sign that says “All Free”) if you have already consumed a bottle of Bacardi. And no, Red Bull will not sober you up; it will just make your vomit more colorful.
Pisces, the moon’s influence is optimal for making life-changing plans. Whether you follow those plans is another story. The stars think you’ll distract yourself from taking any action—perhaps with video games, or maybe the quest to make the perfect Sangria. This latter pursuit is a good one for you, Pisces. You probably have a good collection of cheap but barely drinkable wine bought on a Pisces-type budget. Or you may have vodka instead, in which case your Sangria is actually yukaflux, and that’s the best way to bring summer on.
Some dickhead from my dad’s office borrowed a $700 cable (stored in a special canister for years at LBHQ, and, like, pristine) and—you guessed it—this dickhead took that cable, hooked it up to his own crappy stereo, then stuffed the cable back into the canister without even coiling it up, people. He crammed that interconnect in the can the way you’d shove spaghetti down the garburator. He didn’t give a crap whether it kinked, AND get this: When he returned it, he told my dad that it didn’t even sound that great.
This is, of course, total crap. My dad may not know shit about making a decent margarita, but he knows his audio, and his co-worker—we’re gonna call him “X”—is totally on his shit list now.
Which means, if we ever get any more GLENLIVET 12 in the house, X is not allowed to share it.
Okay, so he’s not allowed in our effing house at all, and especially not if we have GLENLIVET 12.
The small empty bottle of GLENLIVET 12 now sitting in our recycling bin came from R, a good friend who does appreciate hi-fi, not to mention a good belt of whisky now and then. R and my parents (with the kiddies away at Nana & Papa’s) put away two bottles of wine before hitting the GLENLIVET 12, after one glass of which my mum wilted and we boys were left to pack the rest away along with a final red-wine chaser. That was such an awesome night that I haven’t even allowed myself to think of it since. I mean, maybe you live in a household where everybody pounds that much hooch every night, but I don’t, my fellow inebriates; most of the time LBHQ is practically a temperance zone.
My mum almost had a heart attack when she saw $80 in dead soldiers the next morning, but it was nothing compared to learning (1) that we have $700 worth of cable just sitting around the house; and (2) that my dad generously lends it out to tone-deaf dickheads who (3) return it looking like it’s been jumped on and possibly used for autoerotic asphyxiation.
If X tried GLENLIVET 12 he’d probably say it didn’t even taste that great. Then he’d return you a jagged, broken bottle with bits of glass floating in it. That’s because people like X prefer shitty things. And if you give them something nice, they piss on it!
X’s hypothetical GLENLIVET 12 review would be very wrong, MFI. With the light gold elixir’s fetching bouquet of fruit, caramel, and slight smoke, it serves up a smooth yet pleasantly oily mouthfeel that introduces itself to the palate gently, insinuating orchard and citrus notes, vanilla, and honey along with a pleasant burn. The finish is crisp and just a tiny bit medicinal—not overwhelming but certainly not disappointing either. This is more than a serviceable whisky; you can sip it comfortably, unless of course you pound it on a drunken tear with your awesome friend R, who, unlike X, is welcome at LBHQ any time.