I ordered some takeout Chinese food for lunch today. Rather than wait in the “restaurant” for five minutes (I decided on the fly and didn’t call ahead), I walked a few doors over to the somewhat upscale / not significantly downscale liquor store to check out the gin selection. I’m working on a big gin project that I’ll be breaking out for your edification soon. Or “my big gin project” is just a euphemism for my alcoholism. You decide.
I found what I was looking for and headed to the register. On the way, I had to step aside for a guy walking in the other direction. He was a few inches taller than I am, white, bald-pated, late 40′s or early 50′s, and wearing a black Xavier sweatshirt. While I waited for the guys ahead of me to finish their purchase, the fella returned to the front of the store. He put his bottle on the counter with a thud. I looked over and noticed IT WAS A 40 OF KING COBRA.
At 12:30 p.m.
On a Monday.
Sure, I was buying two bottles of high-class gin (Citadelle and D.H. Krahn, if you must know), but no one was looking at me and thinking, “That guy’s gonna start drinking in 5 minutes.”
The X-Man on the other hand? From the Chinese restaurant, I saw him walk across the parking lot, keys in hand, and thought, “You, sir, are bad-ass.”
A minute later, I thought, “That’s a much better blog-series than ‘F*** you, you whining f***,’” so let this be the inaugural post in a new series on bad-assery! Happy Monday!
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