Humor Funny Drinking Quotes

What is your advice to young writers?” “Drink, fuck and smoke plenty of cigarettes.

You know you're a hot mess when the only person buying you drinks all night is yourself.

For the first twenty years of my life, I rocked myself to sleep. It was a harmless enough hobby, but eventually, I had to give it up. Throughout the next twenty-two years I lay still and discovered that after a few minutes I could drop off with no problem. Follow seven beers with a couple of scotches and a thimble of good marijuana, and it’s funny how sleep just sort of comes on its own. Often I never even made it to the bed. I’d squat down to pet the cat and wake up on the floor eight hours later, having lost a perfectly good excuse to change my clothes. I’m now told that this is not called “going to sleep” but rather “passing out,” a phrase that carries a distinct hint of judgment.

Drunken men give some of the best pep talks.

So what are you planning to do with the rest of your life? Develop a drinking problem. More Scotch, please.

I'll drink your champagne. I'll drink every drop of it, I don't care if it kills me.

Ish #19 "If your diet soda has zero calories, zero sugar and zero fat, what the hell are you drinking?

Does Hallmark make a “Sorry I tried to drink your blood and touched you in a vaguely inappropriate manner” card? I settled for “How much do you remember?

I felt empty and sad for years, and for a long, long time, alcohol worked. I’d drink, and all the sadness would go away. Not only did the sadness go away, but I was fantastic. I was beautiful, funny, I had a great figure, and I could do math. But at some point, the booze stopped working. That’s when drinking started sucking. Every time I drank, I could feel pieces of me leaving. I continued to drink until there was nothing left. Just emptiness.

My negotiation skills are are on par with George Bush's reading ability. And just like Dubya, every time I've tried to put forth an effort, I am reminded that my only true strength lies in drinking.

The only time I drink milk is when I drink coffee. I make love the same way—contributing 2% as I just sort of lay there.


Austin and I proceeded to knock back a couple of Ketel One and grapefruit juices, which happened to be my drink of the moment. Someone told me that grapefruit was a great detoxifier and I decided I wanted to start cleaning out my liver WHILE I was having a cocktail.

I hung up the phone and tapped it lightly against my chin, then wrapped myself tighter in my giant woolen cardigan and poured another glass of boxed wine — the official drink of emotionally confused women on a budget.

Now, my intention was to drink just enough to dull the senses, but intentions should never be mixed with alcohol.

Don't drink away your dreams; drink towards them.

I love like I’m thirsty. Can I offer you a tall glass of Sahara sand?


Abandoned babies are unfortunate unwanted results of a once urgent desire to have an orgasm

I had a dream about you last night.. You kept screaming at Ted Danson to pour you a drink.

We drink to those who love us, we drink to those who don't. We drink to those who fuck us, and fuck those who don't!

Small Man can be a very funny or a very tiresome Tour Companion, depending on how this kind of thing grabs you. He gambles, he drinks too much and he always runs away. Since the Rules allow him to make Jokes, he will excuse his behaviour in a variety of comical ways. Physically he is stunted and not at all handsome, although he usually dresses flamboyantly. He tends to wear hats with feathers in. You will discover he is very vain. But, if you can avoid smacking him, you will come to tolerate if not love him. He will contrive, in some cowardly way, to play a major part in saving the world.

Why is the whole world arguing about sexism, racism and discrimination all the time, yet nobody talks about those bouncers outside nightclubs, discriminating against older people and their right to have a drink and a little dance?

This is the silliest thing I've heard since the cat yoga craze a couple of years ago. I went right out and bought a cat yoga instruction book and tiny terry-cloth headband and renamed my girl cat 'Olive Neutered John,' which she didn't think was funny. Cats have no sense of humor.

This is no time for drinking a mug of water - which you would do nowhere else in the world. A mug of water! You just don't drink water from mugs, do ya? Except on the telly. Water out of a mug! Should be a hot drink... mug of water.

Love is meant to be sipped, rather than chugged, like a glass of wine you drink strait from the bottle.


There's something soft in his expression that I don't know what to do with, so I take another drink and then say, 'There's also this wizard we really want to fight'.

There were, however, a few exceptions. One was Norma Dodsworth, the poet, who had not unpleasantly drunk but had been sensible enough to pass out before any violent action proved necessary. He had been deposited, not very gently, on the lawn, where it was hoped that a hyena would give him a rude awakening. For all practical purposes he could, therefore, be regarded as absent.

I had a dream about you. We were ice fishing in my freezer. I caught a few cold beers, and you wondered if we should drink them, or throw them back because they were babies.


New Rule: The Napa Valley is Disneyland for alcoholics. Be honest, you're not visiting wineries in four days because you're an oenophile, you're doing it because you're a drunk. It's the only place in America where you can pass out in a stranger's house and it's okay, because it's a B&B and you paid for it.

Before I was married I learned the difference between a cheap and expensive wine after I was married I learned to drink the cheap wine.

When you paint late at night, drinking beer or wine or both, you gotta be very careful to watch what you are doing...

You always miss 100% of the shots you don't order

Hey, I am thinking of it myself, in this part of world (East), we all do endeavors in praying and are sweating (white liquid) and this is our situation, frustrated , but on the other part of world (West) ,they are enjoying in party and drinking liquor (white liquid) but their situation is that, successful, I do not know that the problem relates to the type of liquid or the way of drinking!!

Why would you go on a pirate dinner cruise?” He had to know. Her jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me? Why wouldn’t you go on a pirate dinner cruise? There’s pirates and dinner. And you get to say ‘argh’ and ‘matey’ while drinking lots of rum without anyone looking at you funny.” Her breath caught. “Maybe one of them will even have a real parrot!” Perhaps he’d overestimated her—just a little.

Mary leaned back, exhaled, and watched her smoke rise. 'What sort of man do you want anyway?' "Tall. Funny. Never came top of his class or pulled the wings off bees." "Yes, but I mean really? When all of this is over, and assuming we win -" ... Hilda snorted. "(I) just want a tall man and a stiff drink. You could even swap the adjectives.

I do not go to church. I don’t go to Christian church or Jew church or any other church. I don’t go to church at all. Not ever. A perfect Sunday for me is spent drinking green tea while reading the Sunday New York Times. Yikes! Why don’t I just turn in my Al-Qaeda membership form and call it a day? As if that wasn’t bad enough, not only do I not go to church: I don’t believe in God. How can I say the Pledge of Allegiance if I don’t believe in God? How can I spend our American currency which pledges “In God We Trust?” How can I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, so help me God? Answer: I can’t. It’s a real problem. Don’t get me wrong – I’d like to believe in God. I wish I did, especially if He was the kind of God that thought America was #1. But I don’t, which to many people is the same as not believing in America. Up until recently, I thought those people were lunatics.

I don’t need a personal trainer… I need someone to stalk me and threaten to kick my ass when I eat and drink stuff I’m not supposed to!

I forget sometimes I need to eat and drink now.

What’s going on?” Ingrid asked. “Listen, nothing bad today, please.” She pulled a chair out and sat down. Faye stared at her and said the words as quickly as she could. “I’m just going to give it to you straight as I can. Mila is a witch.” Ingrid busted out with a laugh. “I wouldn’t call her that,” she said. “That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?” She poured the juice into her glass and took a drink. “What did the brat do this time?” She set her glass down.

Bugger off kitty!" - Ryou "But before we begin this duel to the death, I have just one question. Could I get a hug?" - Melvin "Help! This supermodel is one of my fangirls!" - Ryou "A locked door?! Impossiblllllll- No wait, that's totally possible. What am I talking about?" - Melvin "Let's ditch the tosser!" - Ryou "What a lovely day." - Melvin "Gangway; women and shemales first!" -Ryou "This door is a bitch!" - Melvin "Can I be the main character now?" - Ryou "'STAB'. (Denied.) 'KILL'. (Denied.) 'MUTIL-' Ah dammit, there aren't enough spaces! Umm... 'PAIN'. (Denied.) Why are these the only words I know?!" - Melvin "I'm here to kick ass and drink cups of tea. And I'm all out of tea." - Ryou

He done his level best. Was he a mining on the flat.. He done it with a zest.. Was he a leading of the choir.. He done his level best. If he'd a reg'lar task to do, He never took no rest.. Or if 'twas off and on the same.. He done his level best. If he was preachin' on his beat, He'd tramp from east to west, And north to south ..in cold and heat.. He done his level best. He'd Yank a sinner outen (Hades), And land him with the blest; Then snatch a prayer'n waltz in again, And do his level best. He'd cuss and sing and howl and pray, And dance and drink and jest, He done his level best. Whate'er this man was sot to do He done it with a zest; No matter what his contract was, He'd do his level best...

New Rule: Now that liberals have taken back the word "liberal," they also have to take back the word "elite." By now you've heard the constant right-wing attacks on the "elite media," and the "liberal elite." Who may or may not be part of the "Washington elite." A subset of the "East Coast elite." Which is overly influenced by the "Hollywood elite." So basically, unless you're a shit-kicker from Kansas, you're with the terrorists. If you played a drinking game where you did a shot every time Rush Limbaugh attacked someone for being "elite," you'd be almost as wasted as Rush Limbaugh. I don't get it: In other fields--outside of government--elite is a good thing, like an elite fighting force. Tiger Woods is an elite golfer. If I need brain surgery, I'd like an elite doctor. But in politics, elite is bad--the elite aren't down-to-earth and accessible like you and me and President Shit-for-Brains. Which is fine, except that whenever there's a Bush administration scandal, it always traces back to some incompetent political hack appointment, and you think to yourself, "Where are they getting these screwups from?" Well, now we know: from Pat Robertson. I'm not kidding. Take Monica Goodling, who before she resigned last week because she's smack in the middle of the U.S. attorneys scandal, was the third-ranking official in the Justice Department of the United States. She's thirty-three, and though she never even worked as a prosecutor, was tasked with overseeing the job performance of all ninety-three U.S. attorneys. How do you get to the top that fast? Harvard? Princeton? No, Goodling did her undergraduate work at Messiah College--you know, home of the "Fighting Christies"--and then went on to attend Pat Robertson's law school. Yes, Pat Robertson, the man who said the presence of gay people at Disney World would cause "earthquakes, tornadoes, and possibly a meteor," has a law school. And what kid wouldn't want to attend? It's three years, and you have to read only one book. U.S. News & World Report, which does the definitive ranking of colleges, lists Regent as a tier-four school, which is the lowest score it gives. It's not a hard school to get into. You have to renounce Satan and draw a pirate on a matchbook. This is for the people who couldn't get into the University of Phoenix. Now, would you care to guess how many graduates of this televangelist diploma mill work in the Bush administration? On hundred fifty. And you wonder why things are so messed up? We're talking about a top Justice Department official who went to a college founded by a TV host. Would you send your daughter to Maury Povich U? And if you did, would you expect her to get a job at the White House? In two hundred years, we've gone from "we the people" to "up with people." From the best and brightest to dumb and dumber. And where better to find people dumb enough to believe in George Bush than Pat Robertson's law school? The problem here in America isn't that the country is being run by elites. It's that it's being run by a bunch of hayseeds. And by the way, the lawyer Monica Goodling hired to keep her ass out of jail went to a real law school.

Why was it considered laudable, sociable, and funny to do this thing that made a person feel like they were dying, and did on occasion induce death? Of course, you couldn't have a party without alcohol. I understood this. I understood the reason. The reason was that people were intolerable. But wasn't there any way around that? Juho was talking about different research that people were doing into alcoholism in Finland. Why was nobody researching the more direct issue, of trying to make people less intolerable?

I thought leaving home would be a liberation. I thought university would be a dance party. I thought I would live in a room vined with fairy lights; hang arabesque tapestries up on the wall. I thought scattered beneath my bed would be a combination of Kafka, coffee grounds, and a lover’s old boxer shorts. I thought I would spend my evenings drinking cheap red wine and talking about the Middle East. I thought on weekends we might go to Cassavetes marathons at the independent cinema. I thought I would know all the good Korean places in town. I thought I would know a person who was into healing crystals and another person who could teach me how to sew. I thought I might get into yoga. I thought going for frozen yogurt was something you would just do. I thought there would be red cups at parties. And I thought I would be different. I thought it would be like coming home, circling back to my essential and inevitable self. I imagined myself more relaxed—less hung up on things. I thought I would find it easy to speak to strangers. I thought I would be funny, even, make people laugh with my warm, wry, and only slightly self-deprecating sense of humor. I thought I would develop the easy confidence of a head girl, the light patter of an artist. I imagined myself dancing in a smoky nightclub, spinning slackly while my arms floated like laundry loose on the breeze. I imagined others watching me, thinking, Wow, she is so free.

I had a dream about you. We were in a canoe, and we were paddling across the desert. You said you were thirsty, and I pointed to the sand that surrounded us and said, “No, I will not urinate in your mouth.” At that point I woke up, because I realized I really had to pee—and get a drink of water.


That night at the Brooklyn party, I was playing the girl who was in style, the girl a man like Nick wants: the Cool Girl. Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men—friends, coworkers, strangers—giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much—no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version—maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.”) I waited patiently—years—for the pendulum to swing the other way, for men to start reading Jane Austen, learn how to knit, pretend to love cosmos, organize scrapbook parties, and make out with each other while we leer. And then we’d say, Yeah, he’s a Cool Guy. But it never happened. Instead, women across the nation colluded in our degradation! Pretty soon Cool Girl became the standard girl. Men believed she existed—she wasn’t just a dreamgirl one in a million. Every girl was supposed to be this girl, and if you weren’t, then there was something wrong with you. But it’s tempting to be Cool Girl. For someone like me, who likes to win, it’s tempting to want to be the girl every guy wants. When I met Nick, I knew immediately that was what he wanted, and for him, I guess I was willing to try. I will accept my portion of blame. The thing is, I was crazy about him at first. I found him perversely exotic, a good ole Missouri boy. He was so damn nice to be around. He teased things out in me that I didn’t know existed: a lightness, a humor, an ease. It was as if he hollowed me out and filled me with feathers. He helped me be Cool

Tell me the story," said Fenchurch firmly. "You arrived at the station." "I was about twenty minutes early. I'd got the time of the train wrong." "Get on with it." Fenchurch laughed. "So I bought a newspaper, to do the crossword, and went to the buffet to get a cup of coffee." "You do the crossword?" "Yes." "Which one?" "The Guardian usually." "I think it tries to be too cute. I prefer The Times. Did you solve it?" "What?" "The crossword in the Guardian." "I haven't had a chance to look at it yet," said Arthur, "I'm still trying to buy the coffee." "All right then. Buy the coffee." "I'm buying it. I am also," said Arthur, "buying some biscuits." "What sort?" "Rich Tea." "Good Choice." "I like them. Laden with all these new possessions, I go and sit at a table. And don't ask me what the table was like because this was some time ago and I can't remember. It was probably round." "All right." "So let me give you the layout. Me sitting at the table. On my left, the newspaper. On my right, the cup of coffee. In the middle of the table, the packet of biscuits." "I see it perfectly." "What you don't see," said Arthur, "because I haven't mentioned him yet, is the guy sitting at the table already. He is sitting there opposite me." "What's he look like?" "Perfectly ordinary. Briefcase. Business suit. He didn't look," said Arthur, "as if he was about to do anything weird." "Ah. I know the type. What did he do?" "He did this. He leaned across the table, picked up the packet of biscuits, tore it open, took one out, and..." "What?" "Ate it." "What?" "He ate it." Fenchurch looked at him in astonishment. "What on earth did you do?" "Well, in the circumstances I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do. I was compelled," said Arthur, "to ignore it." "What? Why?" "Well, it's not the sort of thing you're trained for is it? I searched my soul, and discovered that there was nothing anywhere in my upbringing, experience or even primal instincts to tell me how to react to someone who has quite simply, calmly, sitting right there in front of me, stolen one of my biscuits." "Well, you could..." Fenchurch thought about it. "I must say I'm not sure what I would have done either. So what happened?" "I stared furiously at the crossword," said Arthur. "Couldn't do a single clue, took a sip of coffee, it was too hot to drink, so there was nothing for it. I braced myself. I took a biscuit, trying very hard not to notice," he added, "that the packet was already mysteriously open..." "But you're fighting back, taking a tough line." "After my fashion, yes. I ate a biscuit. I ate it very deliberately and visibly, so that he would have no doubt as to what it was I was doing. When I eat a biscuit," Arthur said, "it stays eaten." "So what did he do?" "Took another one. Honestly," insisted Arthur, "this is exactly what happened. He took another biscuit, he ate it. Clear as daylight. Certain as we are sitting on the ground." Fenchurch stirred uncomfortably. "And the problem was," said Arthur, "that having not said anything the first time, it was somehow even more difficult to broach the subject a second time around. What do you say? "Excuse me...I couldn't help noticing, er..." Doesn't work. No, I ignored it with, if anything, even more vigor than previously." "My man..." "Stared at the crossword, again, still couldn't budge a bit of it, so showing some of the spirit that Henry V did on St. Crispin's Day..." "What?" "I went into the breach again. I took," said Arthur, "another biscuit. And for an instant our eyes met." "Like this?" "Yes, well, no, not quite like that. But they met. Just for an instant. And we both looked away. But I am here to tell you," said Arthur, "that there was a little electricity in the air. There was a little tension building up over the table. At about this time." "I can imagine.

@LucyFitz Always trust in the kindness of strangers…except when it comes in the form of a glass of sauvignon blanc you haven’t seen them pour. @RonanFitz to @LucyFitz What’s going on?! Is some creep offering to buy you drinks? @LucyFitz to @RonanFitz Chillax. It’s supposed to be humorous. @RonanFitz to @LucyFitz Well I don’t find the concept of messing with my sister funny. @Anniecat to @LucyFitz I apologize for your brother

The dog- Todd?- looks up from its leaking beer, puffs a sigh, then crosses the room to head-butt the fridge door closed. "Ummm" I manage "Did you see he got a--" "It's okay," she says. "He only has one." "One...beer?" "Todd has hip dysplasia. He drinks beer instead of taking painkillers. It's really okay." ... "He was supposed to be a service dog," Agate explains. "What for, bartending?" "No, mobility...But then he flunked out." "Because of the drinking?

It was time to tell them the story of Jesus Christ. It was time to save their souls. Powerful sermons meant to convert nonbelievers have a certain structure. You’re supposed to talk about your own weaknesses, about how Christianity saved you, about how you once were blind but now you could see. Everett told them a story about his stepmother’s suicide. This was supposed to trigger a powerful emotional response. But after telling this story, he was greeted by laughter. He was hurt and confused. “What’s so funny? Why are you laughing?” he asked. “You people kill yourselves?” the Piraha replied. “We don’t do that. What is this?” It was not that they were mean-spirited or had a cruel sense of humor; it was the very notion of suicide that struck them as unbelievably bizarre and outrageous. And then it dawned on Everett! He had come here to save the Piraha, but they weren’t the ones who needed saving. He writes: I realized they don’t have a word for worry, they don’t have any concept of depression, they don’t have any schizophrenia or a lot of the mental health problems, and they treat people very well. If someone does have any sort of handicap, and the only ones I’m aware of are physical, they take very good care of them. When people get old, they feed them. Still, Everett was determined that his training should not go to waste. He was a true believer; he thought he was doing good by telling them how Jesus would want them to live. So while living with the Piraha, every once in a while, he would pepper them with inspiring anecdotes about Jesus, explaining Christian theology and morality, hoping that the Piraha would change their ways. One morning, he was sitting around drinking coffee when one of the Piraha said: “Dan, I want to talk with you. We like you, we know you live with us because the land is beautiful, and we have plenty of fish, and you don’t have that in the United States...but you know we have had people come and tell us about Jesus before. Somebody else told us about Jesus, and then the other guy came and told us about Jesus, and now you’re telling us about Jesus, and we really like you but, see, we’re not Americans, and we don’t want to know about Jesus. We like to drink, and we like to have a good time, and we like, you know...to have sex with many people, both women and men. So don’t tell us anymore about Jesus or God. We are tired of it.” And then they ate him. Just kidding.

When he arrived at the flat, he found Keston sitting in his leather armchair wearing a quilted maroon smoking jacket. He was drinking a Bloody Mary and looked like he was about to introduce Masterpiece Theatre or a tale of the unexpected.

Where do I find a perfect man? - It depends… First, you need to understand what ‘PERFECT’ means to you. - I want a man who wakes up at 5 am, exercises, makes his own bed, doesn’t drink alcohol, always punctual, and goes to the bed at 9 pm. Where do I find him? - I know the place where you can find many of such men. - Where is that? I swear I will go and check tomorrow! - Great! Tomorrow you will go to JAIL!

Well, I bet one-hundred gold pieces, as well as my freedom, that you cannot drink a jug of milk as you can a jug of ale.” Finn’s tail twitched as he waited for the sheepdog’s response. “Ha! I shall take your bet! Innkeeper, grab me a jug of milk the same size as this jug of ale. I will show you Mister Finn, that I am Butch the Thirsty, as well as Butch the Hungry!

which when compounded with the straw he was using to take intermittent sips with from his drink, conjured up an image of him as a real-life toy heat engine drinking bird that appears in science classes.

Story Content Warning: There will be angst, sex, a little rough language and rampant lesbianism. If this is not your cup of tea, don't drink it. If you are not old enough to read this, you will be soon. It might be in your best interest to wait until you are older. If you live in a place where this is not legal... why are you still living there? Maybe it's time for you to move on.

It was all fine until the girls started drinking. (Everything is always fine up until that point.)

the way people treat shifters can be amusing." "Discrimination is never funny." "You're a righteous woman, Kim. I like that." "How can you just sit there?" "I usually sit when I'm drinking coffee. Or I mean against something. If I may on my back, it goes down the wrong way.

If you drink anymore, you're going to be positively flammable.

I got hit in the head with a can of soda. Luckily it was a soft drink.

And now we shall each take a glass.’ ‘Sounds good, said Allan. ‘The sea air tires you out.’ After the very first glass, Allan insisted on a change in the way the two men addressed each other. To say Yury Borisovich to Yury Borisovich every time he needed to attract Yury Borisovich’s attention just wasn’t practical in the long term.

They also spent time relaying ancestors’ stories including the Stone Age Kentucky Derby, where saber tooth tigers raced and the haughty humans watched and drank their flint juleps.

Very few people know that my wife actually said, "Hold my beer!" to me as she was in labor and getting ready to bear down. I guess she didn't want to spill it... (Note: for the record, she was NOT drinking alcohol at the time, which would've been both insanely funny, and exceptionally irresponsible).

Oh, hell no!” Ferd clapped to get our attention. “You’ve been drinking…without me!

Remind me to pack something decent to drink next time we go uselessly gallivanting across the country. I don't like being so sober. It's unsettling.

I’m not usually into Asian guys,” she blurted. David resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “All right,” he said evenly, picking his drink up. “Fuck you, then.” “Wait!” Her cheeks colored. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I said that.” “Because you’re not into Asian guys, I imagine,” David said, folding his arms.

My puppy Lennon was my best mate and I wouldn’t let him go hungry. We were in this together and we shared everything – food, drink, sleeping accommodation. I drew the line at sniffing other dogs’ arses.

The tram almost ran me over when I tried to cross the street. The exhilaration made me remember the vials of Jägermesiter I had bought exactly for a moment like this.

Everyone knows you drink white wine with ass. I'm joking; don't drink any wine with ass. It doesn't pair well.

Her dad must be a big guy. He pictured a muscular man with a baseball hat on backwards, smoking a cigarette, and drinking a bottle of Wild Turkey while watching underground cockfighting tapes.

Dear Grandpa Dan, Mom said you had a sense of humor, so you’ll appreciate the fact that for eleven years I never drank more than a couple sips of anything at once, because I had heard you died from drinking too much, and I didn’t want that to happen to me. Then in sixth-grade health class, I realized you died from drinking too much alcohol, which infected your liver. Weirdly, I still drink in small sips. It’s a hard habit to break. As you know, your timing is not good. Apparently, you were born on Pearl Harbor Day, two weeks before your own dad left for war (and never came back). And then you died two weeks before Danny was born. All of this made Mom nervous about bad things happening around babies’ births. But then nothing happened when I was born, so that was a relief. Anyway, Mom named Danny after you. She listened to your song, “Danny Boy,” every day before and after he was born. I heard her tell Granny that she’s scared she bathed Danny in sadness hormones, and that turned him into a sad child. Were you sad? I know everyone thought you were funny, but were you sad beneath it all? Is that why you drank too much? I think if you were here with us, you and Danny would be great friends. He loves cars, too, and he’s even funny sometimes. Maybe if you were here, you could talk to Mom and tell her not to be so worried all the time. Granny says if you were Danny’s parent, you would smack him upside the ear. I don’t know if smacking would work, but I’d love to see that. Anyway, I hope heaven bathes you in happiness. And I hope you’re waiting for Granny. She’s afraid you might have a girlfriend up there. Love, Your Granddaughter Molly