“I wont tell,” says Barry.
“I know you wont tell,” I say, “but I can’t have that on my conscious.”
You see, I am an upstanding gentleman. I have resolved not to drink more than one drink a day for the next year, and I plan on keeping to this resolution. Come hell or high water. Should I find myself in a situation where a beautiful vixen is splayed at my feet and says to me in her siren voice, “Mark, tu majestad, bebe una copa más y vamos a la cama” I shall say to her, “Come off it, poor girl. You have a face like a bob-tailed ass and no business in my quarters.” Why she would speak to me in Spanish, I don’t know.
One beer is actually a good thing. I used to rip on people who only drank one beer. “Who the fuck drinks one only beer?” I would muse. You can’t feel its effects; it only makes you tired.” But one delicious, frothy beer — a Mac ‘n Jack’s, for example. One desultory golden frothy mug of liquid pleasure, seething at the glass, waiting to burrow its way into the inner chambers of your stomach to bring you warmth and merriment. One beer is not to be laughed at; one beer is meant to be enjoyed.
I like this resolution. I shall stick to it. I shall be steadfast in my ways and not err, even if a uncouth maiden whispers temptations in my ear.