Jesus, I’ve just realised. Bock is a year old today.
I was exhausted from all the vigorous blogging I do on your behalf, so I took the night off and wandered into town for a drink at my pub of choice. It wasn’t a peaceful journey. As a responsible citizen, I take the bus when I go for a drink, and so I strolled down to the bus stop in plenty of time, but there was no bus. And then there wasn’t another bus when there should have been. And eventually I looked like a one-man convention of the Tourette Society, standing at the bus stop, gesturing at passing cars and barking abuse. Fuck you!! Fuckin bus bastards!! Fuck!! People nudged each other and pointed their elbows in my direction. People stood back. Fuck!! Fuck you, fuckin stupid bus fuckers!!
That’s how it goes when you’re pissed off with erratic bus services. God, how I miss the days when you could drive while out of your mind on liquor and mescaline. They were great times.
Anyway, I bumped into The Interrogator, and he said Bock!
Very observant, I replied sourly. Did you ever get into town after a trying journey and then realise you just want to be home in bed, asleep? That’s how I felt tonight.
Bock, he insisted. It’s your birthday.
‘Tisn’t, I told him. I’ll have a Guinness, please.
No, he continued. You’re in the ether a full year today.
You serious? I demanded.
Deadly, he nodded.
Fuck, I ejaculated. Gimme fourteen tequila slammers and some peyote. Send up an old Indian to get us through this, and then stand back.
Fuck. A year old, eh? Christ, I might take tomorrow off as well.