You know you will never do any better.

You too?

Schnockered Vodka
Only alcohol has more alcohol.
Get Schnockered!
Schnockered Vodka

I examined a bottle, and discovered that Schnockered is concocted in Nukualofa, Tonga, a location not renowned for sophisticated adult beverages. It turns out that Schnockered is ninety-nine and a half percent alcohol. At twenty-five dollars a bottle, though, the South Pacific swill can’t compete with the economical, frosty goodness of Rainier Ale.

I decided not to get Schnockered.

I didn’t quite know what to say, since one can go very, very wrong with Rineharts. It happens all the time.

He saw me staring at an unfamiliar surname on his lapel, and volunteered, “My mother was a Rinehart.” He needn’t have offered an explanation; Rineharts lie all the time.

I asked him what he thought about the current plans for a Middle East oil grab, colloquially known as the war on Iraq.

“The butchers are at it again, aren’t they?” he replied. “I got out of going to Viet Nam; I convinced ’em I was crazy. And they believed me!”

He flashed a maniacal grin, and suggested we each get two glasses of wine from different servers.

“Ah, the classic ‘one for me and one for my friend’ scam!” I enthused. “Looks like you really are a Rinehart.”

“Can’t you write a vaguely accurate account of anything?” she asked. “I was at the Toxic Waste Park soirée, and it wasn’t anything like you described.”

“My dear Desiree, I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” I replied. “Every word I write is true, and I can prove it.”

“How?” she demanded.

“You read my story on the Internet,” I said, “And you know as well as I do that they wouldn’t let me publish anything that wasn’t true.”

Desiree didn’t know what to say. She just gave me an ugly grimace, the kind where little droplets of spittle explode from the corner of the mouth.

I am referring to the brass quintet that performed a selection of songs by the Minutemen. First of all, the songs were well over a minute long. That’s a minor quibble, however, compared to my major conceptual problem with the group. It turned out to be a four-person quintet, and one of the musicians used a wooden bass instead of a tuba!

What a shock! What a scandal! Who do these nefarious punks think they’re fooling? And what will these would-be subversives think of next?!

Wendy made the classic mistake of assuming that what works for her also works for other artists.

“Wendy, there’s something you should know about me,” I said softly, “something I may have failed to mention in the past.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Sloth is my muse,” I declared.

Wendy looked confused. I wasn’t surprised; industrious people usually can’t appreciate the power of indolence.

“Sounds like a great idea,” she replied. “You have my unanimous approval!”

I appreciated Genie’s enthusiasm. If the restaurant’s unsatisfactory, I won’t feel too bad.

“Are you inspired yet?” Nancy asked as we drove through rolling California hills.

“Inspiration is for amateurs,” I replied.

“Do you really believe that?” Nancy asked.

“I certainly do,” I said. I failed to add that I stole the “Inspiration is for amateurs” line from Chuck Close.

I can’t imagine an easier photograph to make; I didn’t have much to do except remove the lens cap from my camera to make a pretty landscape photograph.

Nancy liked the photographs; I did not.