The Forgotten Code

One of the great difficulties of being a proper drunkard in this day and age is knowing what to drink and when. There was a time, or so my elders tell me, when such choices were strictly regulated and common knowledge to anyone who’d spent more than a week ensconced in the Society of Drinkers.

For example, it was once accepted by both the wino in the gutter and the millionaire in the country club that a man could not drink a gin and tonic during winter time. The combination was strictly a summer drink and it was at the peril of your perceived masculinity that you would pop into your local and ask for one in December. Regardless of how hot it was. The bar itself could be engulfed in flames and no man trapped inside would dare pair the words together.

It was also universally accepted that you either had to speak with a foreign accent or have served overseas, preferably in one of the larger, more prestigious wars, to indulge in a beer you couldn’t look through and see the bartender smiling at you from across the bar. If you couldn’t see him smiling, he was undoubtedly glaring because you were drinking a dark beer without benefit of accent or scar tissue. If you wanted to drink a Guinness without being shunned by your peers, you had to do it at home, hidden from even your family, haunted by the secret shame of being a traitor to your country and its magnificent breweries.

And you certainly couldn’t order a drink with an umbrella or any garnish gaudier than a lime unless you were standing within 50 feet of an ocean or tiki statue. And even then you felt slightly less than a man. And if you ordered a shot, it consisted of exactly one hard alcohol. One. If your shot came with more than one ingredient, it was your duty to upbraid the bartender for serving you what was obviously an iceless cocktail in a child’s glass.

Sadly, the Rules were at some point chucked aside in favor of a freewheeling brand of alcoholic anarchy that leaves many imbibers woefully confused. First the microbrew revolution made a shambles of the beer regs. Once every beer in America tasted and looked exactly the same and you couldn’t go wrong no matter what you ordered. Now, however, there are light beers, ice beers, fruit ales, Zima and other assaults on our collective masculinity.

Part of the blame also lays squarely upon the shoulders of certain types of bars. You know the ones I’m talking about: those neon Barbie houses boasting menus of over 100 different types of martinis when in fact they have exactly two (vodka and gin) and 98 impostors. Thanks to these audacious con men, there are now roughly 20 million deluded yuppies who believe they are about to enjoy a martini when they order something rainbow-hued, sickeningly sweet and with an obscene half a banana sticking out of it.

Liquor companies must also share the blame. While humanity once only required exactly five types of spirits (gin, vodka, whiskey, rum and tequila) to get loaded, we are now faced with a ever growing tidal wave of fruit-flavored, double-infused, triple-filtered, cross-blended, small-batch, boutique and limited-edition variations to choose from.

It’s no wonder organizations like MADD are able to make off with our rights with impunity — we drunks are too busy trying to figure out what to get hammered on to notice.

What's a "Baco"......Ba con to!? JAJAJAJA.

Don't tell the others but when Goulet is not influenced by the other haters, can be an ok TROLL.......still someone I love to make fun of, but ok when the others are not kissing his butt and him not doing the same.

If he feels at home, pue' que siga bebienso hasta que se muera!. JAJAJAJA.

JAJAJAJAJAJAJA.

Mira, I gather you are the ONLY one reading Goulet's BLAH BLAH BLAH.

That's right, HOY se bebe..........el que voy a beber soy yo cuando me gane esos 3,000 macanudos, ay papaaaaaaaaaaaa'!.

Soon I'll be saying:

"Down goes vacanos".....ooooops. perdon...."Down goes Martinez, Down goes Maritnes"........JAJAJAJAJA.

Gotta go watch the golpiza!.

Jekyll, Meet Hyde

There was a time when I cringed in horror when the drunken antics of the night before were recast (with great relish) by friends who possessed the bad taste to black out after I did. Impossible, I would think. That’s not me, that’s not how I act. That was someone else, surely, the diabolical work of an imposter bent on sullying my good name while I innocently napped under a pool table.

This, of course, was before I got around to getting to know the real me. The uptight Dr. Jekyll had yet to be formally introduced to the freewheeling Mr. Hyde. They existed as antagonistic strangers, their poor opinions of one another based on sheer rumor and speculation. One considered the other a prig, and the prig thought his opposite a rabid animal capable of any unspeakable act you care to name.

As a youth I was an insufferably bookish and shy, and as I forayed deeper into the cult of alcohol the increasingly common second-hand accounts of my bad behavior startled me. Not from the path of drinking, to be sure, but certainly into some grave thoughts.

If the drunk me was capable of getting up on a barstool and obscenely declaring a perfectly undeserving bar a nest of traitors and spies, something I wouldn’t dream of doing sober, then what else was the boozehead capable of? Lasciviousness? Theft? Cold blooded murder?

It came to the point that I refused to listen to the stories, fearful they would end with ”—and then you dropped your trousers and started chasing the sheep screaming, ‘I only want a kiss!’ when, by all anatomical appearances, your mind was dead set on something much more amorous.”

They were as sailors working different shifts but sharing the same bunk; when one was falling headfirst into deep sleep, the other would be lurching awake. Blurry-eyed, they would brush shoulders around the fifteenth drink with barely a sideways glance. If two strangers pass in a hallway enough times, however, they’re bound to strike up a nodding acquaintance, if not an accord.

Over time Jeckyll and Hyde got to know each other. Once it was understood that even Hyde had his limits, Jekyll started looking forward to the day-after stories. Having a dark side can be rather exhilarating, so long as you know it isn’t that dark. Instead of cringing, I now say,”Did they enjoy the speech? No? But didn’t I have a right to be angry? Wouldn’t such a strange hat incite anyone to righteous fury? I’ll buy him a drink and all will be forgiven.”

What’s more, they began to meld. The priggish Jekyll began to loosen up and learned to converse comfortably with complete strangers; and the madman, well, he didn’t change much, but he never committed cold-blooded murder or made any attempts on the virtue of livestock either.

I wonder if the Phillies players will become BORRACHONES after losing last night. JAJAJAJAJA.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO YANKEES.....WORLD CHAMPIONS FOR THE 27TH TIME!.

THERE'S A GOD.......... AND I AM SURE HE IS A YANKEES FAN ALSO!. JAJAJAJAJA.

Hey Goulet, still drunk from celebrating?. JAJAJAJAJAJA.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, poor Pedrito.......greased hair and all.

I don't feel sorry for him... he got paid to play half a year. thats a good deal

Had I been a Phillies fan, I would feel sorry for him..........

But since I am NOOOOOOT, A GOZAR SE HA DICHO!.

Forget about "The Yankees are my daddy".......Pedro's new phrase should be:

"MATSUI IS MY DADDY!!!!!!!!". JAJAJAJA.

you can find Pedro on his yacht wearing a yankee cap

Greased hair and all. JAJAJAJA.

Not today, he will not.........

Today, him, "big mouth" Rollins and the rest of the team WILL BE HITTING THE BOTTLE!. JAJAJAJAJA.

Btw, congratulate me.......after all, their misery is my "gain", if you know what i mean!.