You step in the mud by the river and there’s no resistance. Your foot sinks, and as you fall, raspy stalks of Equisetum slide across your cheek like the Mastercard in those old Gillette commercials, and then you’re down. It’s cool and you stare at nothing and your eyes should hurt but they don’t. Twenty-two caliber Swiss cheezerizer, spent slug resting against your forehead after pinging around a few times. Your mind is aerated, except there are no little cylindrical plug extrusions littering your scalp, just a neat little entrance wound. And then a small, fastidious man takes something from your hand, picks up his brass, walks away whistling “Fortunate Son,” and it’s done.
Once a week and only once a week, I drink a beer. Sometimes when I drink a beer, I write a paragraph, plucking random thoughts out of files on my mental office floor. I accept no blame (because of the beer). Each of these paragraphs represents the effects of a different beer, and none of them are any good at all.
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