Would anybody drink craft beers

Would anyone drink craft beers, I’m wondering, at all

if they lacked the punch and joy of simple alcohol? 

I can make a slushie out of bugs and hair of pooch,

but who the heck would drink it sans a touch of bootleg hootch?

And I would never think of selling water from the Meuse

as a bottled bev’rage if it didn’t have some booze.

These crafty brews are hotdogs; their ingredients debased;

used for drinking whiskey when the bite must needs be chased. 


The Expat Diet

Both the Travel Channel and the Food Channel have a lot to answer for.

They have raised traveler’s expectations about all the wonderful food and drink to be found in the far corners of the earth.
Take it from me, a former resident of both Mexico and Thailand, that the culinary glitter wears off after just a few days as a strange eater in a strange land.
It’s true the local beer is always cheap. But it’s also always lukewarm. You have to pour it over ice. And that ruins it for some people.
Street food in countries like Thailand and Mexico is fun to sample. But do yourself a favor the next time you’re tempted to eat from a cart on a busy soi (street) in Bangkok — observe how dishes, bowls and utensils are washed. They ARE washed, no doubt about that — the interesting part is to see how one small tub of water makes do for both washing and rinsing, and is never changed during the long, hot day and into the sultry evening.
One last thought . . . Third World countries may be big into freshness and organic, but that means they typically use night soil.
If you’ve ever sampled a piece of tripe that was not quite cleaned enough, you know what I mean . . .


The food overseas is amazing; it’s spicy, exotic and raw.

The food overseas is inviting — it may take you all day to gnaw.

An expat who isn’t too choosy can feast on all sorts of strange buns.

But if he ain’t careful he’ll wind up with such a bad case of the runs.

The food overseas never costs much — that is if you eat like the folk

who live in that country. Believe me, a Big Mac is just a sad joke.

I will not eat bugs or weird fungi, not even if locals insist.

3 things that an expat should not do are eat crap, complain, or be kissed.


The Chicago Blackhawks win the Stanley Cup

The Blackhawks hold the Stanley Cup until 12 months are gone;  

and then they’ll have to fight for it again with puck and brawn. 

What makes these fellows so intent on speeding cross the frost, 

 for such a homely trophy — with broke shins and teeth all lost?

Lord Stanley’s Mug doth represent the enterprise of old,

when men with sticks upon the ice defied the gloomy cold.

Today the game is played indoors, with heat and ventilation;

the only cold comes from the beer fans drink in moderation. 


Food Desert


Convenience stores are chock full of good healthy food, y’know.

There’s jerky and stale donuts and beer bottles in a row.

For infants we have choc’late milk (although it is expired).

Tobacco products neatly stacked (by nutritionists much admired).

I’m proud to own a corner store (where I keep sev’ral guns).

Who needs your fruit and veggies — they just give the people runs!  

from a story in the Baltimore Sun


The Dinner Party


I threw a dinner party for a bunch of friends one night.
Instead of wine I offered them fruit punch made with cold Sprite.
“What’s this?” they cried in horror, as their cups they tossed away.
“Without the mellow grape just why the heck should we here stay?”

I told them conversation was the aim of our repast;
though wine might loosen tongues it left the spirit quite harassed.
I offered them pate and soft boiled quail eggs on a Trisket;
I even had a Danish ham and tenderized veal brisket.

They asked for beer, they cried for ale; for cocktails they did pine.
They wouldn’t take a bite of food without a pint of wine.
They would not speak of politics or even mention weather;
their only talk was how a single malt smelled of the heather.

My dinner party was a flop; nobody stayed an hour.
They left with meager handshakes and expressions pretty sour.
The moral of this story is that guests will not be swarmin’
to your dinner party if you happen to be Mormon!

Anheuser Busch pulls slogan assailed for promoting rape


I cannot think of dumber things than marketing gurus

have already created for the selling of their brews.

I marvel at the thickness of their skulls and ruthless hope

that they can sell a beer with such an anti-social trope.


Of course, there’s nothing wrong with drinking beer in moderation;

yet it hardly ever leads to soothing meditation.

Most often when you’re quaffing something from Anheuser Busch

you are more than likely to wind up upon your tush.


Slogans on a bottle haven’t done much for my taste

for lapping up the stuff that they distill from rancid waste.

I think they ought to advertise all liquor the same way:

“After the first gulp you don’t care what you do or say!”


from a story in the LA Times 


A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Forgery!


Kurniawan and Rodenstock were truly oenophiles

Who on the unsuspecting worked their counterfeiting wiles.

 They blended cheap and brash Chablis with vintages quite rare,

Then sold it for amazing sums to ev’ry millionaire.


Adulterated wine is nothing new, I’m sad to say;

The elder Pliny had to deal with sapa in his day.

“A jug of wine, a loaf of bread – and Thou” may sound romantic,

But if it is polluted then the hangover’s gigantic.


Stick to beer or whiskey, gin or rum or even brandy,

And do not try to be a sommelier or stuck-up grandee.

Shun the rotundone and aromatics – all that bunk –

If you are determined to get good and roaring drunk.

Based on an article by Meeri Kim 

Brian Anderson; The Beer Miler.

brian anderson

(Inspired by a story by Richard Chin)

I started as a beer miler a long, long time ago;

When I could run a mile real fast and drinking made me glow.

I wasn’t bingeing, not at all; the experts testified

That downing beer while running would not ever get me fried.


I ran and drank, and drank and ran, and so the years did twinkle;

Until one day I woke up feeling more like Rip Van Winkle.

My clothes in rags, my beard snow white; a stranger to the world.

My loved ones gone and me alone; I very nearly hurled.


My legs have given out on me; I cannot run a yard.

And Leinenkugel’s left my liver bloated, green and scarred.

And so I sit and drink, and drink and sit, and wonder why

They made my drinking seem as wholesome as warm apple pie.


Cooking with Cannabis.


You can cook delicious food, without a chef named Wolfgang,

If you use a steady hand and put in lots of good bhang.

Now that states are legalizing pot in all its forms,

It is being eaten from McMansions to school dorms.


You can put it in a pie or in a cake or in soufflé;

Serve it as the main course or a freaky canapé.

Instead of wine with dinner or a beer before your lunch,

Stir a little loco weed into a bowl of punch.


The taste may be repulsive, reminiscent of raw lye,

But what is that to connoisseurs intent on getting high?

And I am making odds with all those tight Las Vegas bookies

That cannabis will soon appear in all our Girl Scout Cookies!