Not like Bud or Spud or any of that gobshite Lite Michelob rot. Westvleteren has been brewed for hundreds of years by the Belgian trappist monks of that region, and always in much the same way. They brew when they feel like it and not any more regularly than that. It's forbidden to sell Westvleteren; it can only be legally obtained from the monastics themselves, with a maximum of two crates to a car, and yet it goes for a tenner a bottle, on the beer black market, rarer and more wonderful than China tea. It's really fabulous, dark and swirling, makes you high, reaches wondrous zeniths and nadirs in one's abused and rotten taste buds, demands respect. The recipe is religiously protected information, much like the sexual pecadilloes of monks and priests the world over. The great thing about catholicism is that you can repent during the hangover and then do it all again the following evening, compared to the misery of protestant- and calvinism, with their omnipresent Gods and their wet rag Jesuses. And having been brought up a buddhist, I can tell you this. It's the cruellest joke of all. There's no God. There's not even a holy Jesus watching you from heaven. It's entirely your call what you do, and if you fuck it up, it's entirely your problem and you will suffer entirely alone. But then, sheesh, you'll suffer anyway, so what do you know? The trappists must have a terrible but benevolent patriarch of a God, some bacchic blind-eye-turner in the place of the pious and sober cheek-turners of the suffering protestants. Masochism and the Christian sects really must be looked into. But not by me. Jesus died for somebody's term paper, but not mine.
But I digress again. Where was I in the diatribe about my fuckin' fascinating life in all its technicolour glory? Oh yeah right. Good days. Spraypainted my commie-luv-corps mad machine moped Pushy T'mos, the darling, darling thing. Handy Yandy is my American dream, with his greasy nailbitten hands and his homemade motorcycle switchneck sweater with all the punk rock patches callin' out decay and madness all over the place, and I do remember the hands on my biomechanical parts, and he did jump-start my broken-down heart when I needed it. But it would never work out. He needs to get out of the scene but he doesn't know how so he paints his aerodynamic figurines and tends his homegrow as lovingly as he does a woman, fixes everybody's bike but his own. The guy built a jet engine out of scrap metal in a squat in Poland. A piece of my scrap metal heart is welded to his forever. Crankshaft. Air chamber. All his beautiful machine words.
Ach but somewhere it went wrong when the BeerBunny told me he wasn't going to shave his beard. But Bunny it looks like shit. Ah ha, but that's what all girlfriends say because actually it makes men more attractive to other women. Listen, I said, you think I'm crazy? You don't look great at the best of times, think I want you to look worse? He gets all smug with his badass bumfluff. "You don't want me to look good," he goes. I'm kind of goggling at him, thinking, "You are not talking to me, me Jammy, your old buddy and kicking-around sexmate and equal in every way except in some ways that I'm better. You're talking to Girlfriend as society has decreed Her ass. And She is a holy roller of a bitch who plays all kinds of games and sob tricks and doesn't like sex except when she likes it hard from behind and who doesn't let you go anywhere because she hates herself and she hates other women and she hates you too most of the time except when She likes it hard from behind. And you hate her too, Girlfriend, in a soppy half-erect kind of affectonate way that men tend to recognise as love, with the misogynism of Freud and all of his cursed kind."
He says some English guy -- I ask you! It takes one to know a congenital culturally deformed idiot, I mean, can this cultural exile be expected to take it lying down? -- who came in the Beerking had told him these gospel truths and had thereby informed his future shaving plans. And I hate it when some fucker puts in the category Girlfriend, with all the cultural baggage and disrespect that goes along with it, and I hate it when fuckers swallow other fuckers' pills of horseshit because of codes of masculinity, femininity, socialisation, whatEVAH. So I told him to get fucked. And then called him back and asked him was he still coming over. And he said he didn't feel like it any more. So I told him to get fucked because I always at least ATTEMPT to understand him in his bullshit outbursts of rage and nonsense born of fear and insecurity, and he put down the phone on me. So he can, like, just get fucked. With his beard. Puh. Hope it works out for him. Tell you what, any girl who falls for that shit can only be pure Girlfriend material.*
*And you can get fucked too if you can't take a joke, right?
I believe in my complete sobriety that it's time for bed. Don't you? Yes. Yes, it really is.
Good night. Here's to better days (hey, that's a herbal tea I'm hoistin' to clink up a toast! Yes, yes it really is!).