Tullamore Purge

“So, Wheelgun, what’s your take on this Alberto Gonzales prosecutor purge thing?” you guys keep asking me. I don’t blame you for wanting the intelligent, knowledgeable viewpoint I would espouse. So will I give it to you? What, on the eve of St. Patrick’s Day? Are you guys kidding? Fuck no! Let’s get ready to drink!

Actually I can’t drink since I’m working. I’m not at work, mind you, but I’m working. Through the miracle of VPN, IP phone and other various and sundry remote tools, I am working from home. And praying no shit storms blow in so I don’t have to drive to the office in the real storm outside.

Come midnight, though, I will start pounding the Tullamore Dew with unbridled abandon. Unless one of my roommates bent my funnel or stole my whiskey. In that case I will get out my sheleighly and pound some cranium whilst dancing a jig.

The music for this evening will be The Pogues, of course. I want to start an Irish band myself one of these days and call it “Shane McGowan’s Liver”. We would all get outrageously drunk before we went on stage. Not much different from my current band, come to think of it.

I plan on having potatoes and a shot of vodka (since it’s made from potatoes) with all three meals tomorrow. I would like to have corned beef for dinner but all my roomies are vegetarians. Their loss.

My sister Wheel Gun Mika and her husband Lumber Yard Dennis are celebrating their anniversary tomorrow. Happy anniversary! If ever I get married, I hope I’m smart enough to do it on a day that’s easy to remember too. Except for maybe September 11th.

Well enough of this crap. Got to get back to “work.” I will leave you with this:

May the enemies of Ireland never eat bread nor drink whiskey,
but be afflicted with itching without the benefit of scratching