If you're new here, you may want to subscribe to my RSS feed. Thanks for visiting!

What a tale my thoughts would tell… oh, wait. You don’t have to wonder. Now you can read the new incarnation of Queen of Snark (me, uncensored… unfiltered… unkind) where I tell ALL as well as tell off every idiot who’s ever annoyed me.

But be warned: you just might think that blog entry’s about you, and, chances are you’d be right.

*Apologies to my beloved Gordon Lightfoot.

On the recommendation of an acquaintance, I’ve been watching the Amazon “watch it now” episodes of Californication, HBO’s series about a one-hit novelist starring David “I’m a Sex Addict” Duchovny.

Meanwhile, I’ve spent the day struggling to piece together an op-ed piece before my 8 p.m. (Central) deadline. Up until my first glass of champagne this evening (No, I’m not celebrating anything; I just like champagne), I’d manage to eke out perhaps four paragraphs. It would have been more and probably was, without all the deletions and do-overs. But, as with so many times I sit down to write, that little editor inside my head kept screaming at me.

Midway through my second glass of champers, I realized why so many writers are lushes, including Duchovny’s character, Hank, who discovered in Episode 6 of Californication that “Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.”

The reason why writers drink so much is simple: because editors can’t.

Thanks to a neighbor with a bottle of absinthe I didn’t run Tippling Tuesday this week. (Why, yes, the absinthe was good. No I don’t remember much of the evening. Didn’t I just repeat myself?) The way I see it, I might as well run Tippling Tuesday tonight, belatedly.

So… what are you wearing???

There’s no feeling quite so bad as waking up with a hangover so fierce that you instantly remember why you once pledged to never, ever drink tequila again. But if there is anything worse, it’s waking up with said hangover because one’s mother is calling at seven-damn-thirty in the morning, bright and chipper and demanding to know why you aren’t. Rather than going into the whole hangover issue, I explained to her that I’m at a hotel getting some mental R&R.

Naturally, she reminded me that she raised four kids with next to no help from “that man you call your father” and that she never got to take such breaks or go on single holidays even though her sanity was stretched thin on a daily basis.

While I struggled not to hurl up whatever was left in my stomach from last night’s marathon hurling session, she continued reciting her litany of what rotten kids we were and how none of us appreciated all of the sacrifices — her time, sanity and youth — she made for us and blah, blah, blah. (I pretty much tuned out, my attention temporarily diverted by the massive amounts of tequila-scented sweat that started oozing from every pore on my body.)

Oh, sure, I could’ve pointed out how flawed her memory is, because I distinctly remember a number of times she sent us to stay with our grandparents and how she did, indeed, go on several of those single holidays trips that cater to divorcees. But that would only have launched a different — yet just as seemingly endless — litany about how much better of a grandmother she is than her own mother had been.

Being quite familiar with what keywords trigger her different litanies, I decided to just keep my mouth (and eyes) shut and pray for the room to stop spinning. Right about the point where I was thinking about offering to pay her way on one of those walking holidays that old ladies love if it’d get me off the phone, she suddenly paused long enough to take a breath.

That’s when I jumped in: “Listen, Mom, I’ve got to go. The maid’s here to clean my room. We’ll have to talk again soon but — oh, look. My cell phone battery’s dyi — click.”

Five minutes later, I was up and heading toward the hotel gym. Oh, sure, I still had a hangover but after a phone call like that I decided my day could only get better… as long as I stay away from tequila.

Faced with an ever-growing binge drinking problem, England’s Home Office and Department of Health are considering dramatic proposals to address the alcohol problem across the pond.

The measures under consideration include Nanny State-style signs warning of health complications, a ban on drinking games in pubs, and even an end to the tradition of giving women free booze in bars.

(WTF? Why didn’t anyone tell me? I can put up with British food for that!)

The document notes that the introduction of 24-hour drinking has failed to bring about the shift in behaviour that some had hoped for and that a more continental “cafe culture” has not been widely adopted. It criticises many prevalent attitudes to alcohol and warns that drinks should not be promoted as a way of enhancing an individual’s “social, sexual, physical, mental and financial or sporting performance”.

Obviously, that’s where the Brits are getting it wrong. Alcohol shouldn’t be promoted as a way of enhancing anything. It’s far more effective at helping one pretend the other person’s more enhanced. It’s called Beer Googles, duh.

Via Reddit:

If you bought $1000 of stock a year ago, you would now have:
$91.28 if you bought Washington Mutual
$37.50 if you bought Neomagic
$21.29 if you bought Freddie Mac
$20.79 if you bought Fannie Mae

But, if you had purchased $1,000 worth of beer one year ago, drank all the beer, then turned in the cans for the recycling REFUND… You would have $… 214.00 in cash.

So the best investment advice is to drink heavily and recycle.

It’s called the 401-Keg Plan.

Emailing under the influence: we’ve all done it. Yes, that includes me and I know for a fact some of you have, too, particularly on Tippling Tuesdays. (Note to Eric: No, I’m not. Note to Stan: DD. Note to Richard: In front. Note to Melissa: Now THAT sounds interesting!)

Like me — and Eric tomorrow — you’ve probably woken up the next morning hoping that somehow the interwebs failed and your message didn’t go through. But, sure enough, it did and there’s no way you can take it back. Oh, sure, you promise yourself you’ll never send an email while drinking again. Maybe you even go so far as to change your computer logon password to some crazy foreign language phrase as a way to stop yourself from doing it, then discover that even in a drunken stupor your fingers retain muscle memory. Sucks, doesn’t it?

But it doesn’t have to thanks to Mail Goggles, a nifty new Gmail feature which, when enabled, requires you to prove your sobriety by solving a series of 5 simple math problems in 45 seconds or less. Can’t do it? Then you’re probably a bit too tipsy to be sending email. (Got that, Eric?)

Unfortunately, by default Mail Goggles is only active late at night on the weekends. If you want it to screen drunken emails on other nights you should probably be sober when you set it up. (Understand, Eric???)

UPDATE: More on tech solutions to prevent drunk dialing, and maybe even drunk-texting, too.

Today, while the blossoms still cling to the vine
I’ll taste your strawberries, I’ll drink your sweet wine
A million tomorrows shall all pass away
‘Ere I forget all the joy that is mine, Today….

Apologies to the late John Denver (and to those of you who are old enough to get that song stuck in your head), but today seems more like a martini day, if you ask me.

Even so, despite the truly weird weather we’ve been having in Kansas, the strawberries are fat and ripe and oh, so juicy.

Which is why this Tippling Tuesday is all about the berries. The strawberries, that is. And, no, I do not recommend drinking this one through a straw no matter how tame the first one tastes. Trust me.

Strawberry Adult Drink

Ingredients

3 ounces vodka
3 ounces freshly-squeezed lime juice
1 cup strawberries, hulled and halved
Ice cubes

Directions

1. Put all ingredients in a blender and whir the hell out of it.
2. Strain into two tall glasses.
3. Garnish with a wedge of lime and a strawberry.
4. Repeat as needed.

(Recipe adapted from here.)

After the second or third round you’ll know just what the man meant when he sang:

I’ll feast at your table, I’ll sleep in your clover
Who cares what the morrow shall bring….

Have fun, Venomites. And sleep tight.

So, who’s your call for the winner of American Idol? Don’t tell me it’s David. I already know that, duh!

Meanwhile, since I can’t help but admitting that Potato Head David Cook has improved dramatically these past few weeks, I refuse to call a winner.

Except this: the David (Caradine) Cocktail.

Hey, if we’re going to have a battle of the Davids, why not one which isn’t afraid to acknowledge it bites?

The David Carradine

1 part Creme de Menthe
1 part Canadian Whiskey
1 part Dark Creme de Cacao
1 part Heavy Cream

Directions:
Mix in the order: cacao, menthe, whiskey, milk. Try to keep the layers separate. Float on the back of a spoon, tilt the glass and pour very gently, etc.

(Courtesy of DrinkSwap.com

Where the hell did the past seven days go? Seriously, is “time flying” a sign that I’m having fun (and, if so, why don’t I remember it?) or is it a sign that I’m getting old? No, wait. Don’t tell me. I’m not sure that I want to know.

So here it is, Tippling Tuesday again — the day on which we Venomites celebrate the most vastly under-rated day of the week. Someone recently emailed me the question “Why Tuesday? Why not Monday, Wednesday or Thursday?” to which I can only respond: because it’s there.

Think about it: everyone already hates Mondays, Wednesdays are “Ladies Nights” at many clubs (although I’ve been told that has nothing to do with the reason it’s referred to as “Hump Day”) and hursdays are the night on which smart people rest up for the weekend (and let their livers do the same).

So why not Tuesday?

Tonight I am sitting here contemplating the perfection that is known as the Bleu cheese-stuffed olive. (Okay, mine’s stuffed with Stilton, but that just makes it extra yummy.) But I have to confess: I haven’t tried stuffing my olives with too many things. I once bought some garlic-stuffed green olives at the grocery store but didn’t like the crunch involved. And, of course, I’ve had the ubiquitous pimento stuffed green olives that taste much the way gasoline smells.

What other yumminess have you stuffed your olives with? Or do you just consider them — as I used to — your daily fruit serving that offsets the amount of alcohol you’re about to consume?

Tragedy has struck. That’s right tragedy: we’re out of booze.

No, I mean it. There’s none. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Not a drop to drink.

Now, ordinarily this would call for an immediate dash to the drive-through liquor store but after ranting about people who don’t plan ahead and therefore use extra gas, I decided we ought to tough this one out. (Not that I think the clerk at the liquor store actually reads blogs… much less reads period). I just don’t want to feel like a hypocrite.

So tonight I’m sticking with TaB soda in a beer mug.

What’s in your glass?

Is it just me, or does it seem particularly quite around the blogosphere to you today, too? It almost makes me wonder how many folks put off filing their taxes until the very last minute.

If you’ve been a good boy or girl and finished your taxes already, then it’s time to celebrate Tippling Tuesday, that vastly underrated and oft’ neglected day. This week, as luck would have it, I have a cocktail recipe that will take some of the pain out of Tax Day for you… even if you haven’t quite finished preparing your returns just yet.

The Income Tax Cocktail
Serves: 1

Ingredients:
2 oz gin
1/4 oz sweet vermouth
1/4 oz dry vermouth
1 oz orange juice
Angostura bitters to taste
orange twist for garnish

Directions: Pour everything in a shaker filled with ice. Shake vigorously and strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish. Repeat until you don’t give a darn about how the check you just wrote the Feds dwarfs that “stimulus check” you’ll now be waiting on before you can afford to go drinking at a bar.

(Recipe via Slashfood)

For the record: not only is VH1 romantic, but he’s also easy on the eyes.

What, did you think I’d marry down?

Ordinarily, that’s not a problem. Then there are Saturday nights — like tonight — when neighbors offer to split the sitter fees so we can all go out and enjoy adult company together at a place where real human beings (not plastic recreations of them) take your food and drink order(s).

Which means — if you’re appetizer-eating/drinking kind of people like we are — that every now and then the bathroom trips don’t always sync so that the genders are there at the bar holding each other accountable.

Hence tonight’s Stupid Is As Stupid Does conversation:

Her: “Are you here by yourself?”

VH1: “No. Never. I’m married. Nice talkin’ to ya.”

Her: “Well, where’s your wife then?”

VH1: “She’s in the head… oh, no. Wait, here she is now.”

Me: “Yep, I’m here. Buh-bye.”

Her: “This can’t be your wife. She looks so much younger. Hi, I’m Tiffany.”

Me: “Hon, I own Tiffany. The real stuff. Nice meeting you. Buy-bye.”

Her (to me): “Wanna dance?”

Me: “Look, sweetie, didn’t I make this clear? I wouldn’t touch you with my husband’s, well, you know… Buh-BYE.”

Her: “Well, at least let me buy you a drink.”

Me: “Go away. Go away, NOW.”

What, you thought this was going to be a story about some strange woman with 38-DDs trying to pick up my husband???

Bwahahahaha.

Given your surprising quietness in response to the sober edition of Tippling Tuesday a couple of weeks back I wasn’t going to tell you that, thanks to a migraine, I won’t be drinking this evening.

Then it dawned on me: you people are lushes, so I might as well just ask you to do the drinking for me. You know you’re going to be knocking back a few, anyway.

Might I recommend tonight’s cocktail recipe as suitably apropos for both my condition and this annoying day on which people pull dumb ass pranks on one another?

Slow Death
Serves: 1 Venomite

Ingredients:

• 1 oz. Everclear
• 1 oz. Jägermeister
• 1 oz. Rum, overproof/151 proof
• 1 oz. Cinnamon Schnapps
• 1 oz. (100 proof) Southern Comfort

Directions:

1. Fill shaker with ice.
2. Add all ingredients and shake well.
3. Strain into collins glass.
4. Repeat often.

What’s that you say? Drinking this will guarantee you’ve got a nasty hangover tomorrow? Darn straight it will, and I’ll most likely still have a migraine. As they say, misery loves company.

Drink up.