The Nyquil Chronicles, Part 1

"Doctor Bonkersane, where have you been," I hear you wail over tears and cocktails, ensconced at your lavish bar-rails. Truth be told, your good Doc has been on a super-secret ingredient quest, scouring the planet once again for the finest taste treats to dazzle your little Dionysian palates with. This autumn's pilgrimage found me trekking through the wild and dangerous lands of the south of France, stalking the Wild Wino. After many episodes of great personal peril--forced ingestion of unpasteurized cheeses, repulsion of extremest defectors, treatments for unspeakable diseases acquired in barns from unshaven farmer's daughters, etcetera--I found myself in a vineyard of unmatched beauty, tended by an extremely obese, buck-toothed, ancient hag, possessed of an unrivaled bodily aroma capable of subduing death himself. Never the less, I was a man with a mission, and felt that I could not disappoint my loyal followers, no matter the personal cost. For in this fertile vale was reputed to dwell a single Juniper bush of such purity, such unsullied scent, such intense and perfect berries, that I simply had to obtain its fruit for my research. Therefore, I submitted myself to the vile whims of the grotesque matron, only to contract that most fiendish of maladies, "Le rhume de cerveau!"

When I awoke, disoriented, disturbed, and drained, I found myself seated back behind my own bar, clutching a handful of now uselessly crushed berries, staring at a pile of used tissues, and a long row of very empty, very cheap plastic shot glasses. At the end of the row sat a nearly depleted, strangely shaped plastic bottle of curious green liquid. I shook the vapor from my head, and began to read the label. All I have left of my ill-fated journey are the list of ingredients from the side of the little vile:

                                                     XXXXXXXXXX

“Acesulfame Potassium, Alcohol, Citric Acid, D&C Yellow No. 10, FD&C Green No. 3, FD&C Yellow No. 6, Flavor, High Fructose Corn Syrup, Polyethylene Glycol, Propylene Glycol, Purified Water, Saccharin Sodium, Sodium Citrate, Acetaminophen 650 mg, Dextromethorphan HBr 30 mg, Doxylamine succinate 12.5 mg…”

Wombat Hand Grenade

"A tactical martini that tastes like a bowl of fruit, with a bullet on a skewer instead of an olive." 

A new member of the cocktail family has been created this fine evening. It shall henceforth be known as the "Wombat Hand Grenade," so named for one of its ingredients. A lesser version for the faint at heart--heretofore known as "sissies," will be included at the end of this post in the form a a substitute ingredient.


A brief  back-story is required:  Many moons ago, upon the banks of a vile, unnamed creek, stood a bar known to the locals as "The Dog's Breath Saloon." One of the groups of said locals was lead by myself, and a nefarious character known only as "Tex Wombat." One of Tex's talents was brewing home-made, illegal liquor in a laboratory that only his closet fellow villains were aware of (his living room.) The product of Tex's handiwork was referred to as "Wombat Juice," in order to differentiate it from other locally brewed hooch. It possessed a power to make grown men golf, blow things up, drink some more, then blow things up that golfed.


Meanwhile, back in the present...


This evening, while digging into the dusty recesses of the Bonkersane Liquor Cabinet, I happened upon a mason jar filled with a sinister looking clear liquid. I pulled it to the front, blew off 18 years of dust, examined the non-existent label, opened the lid, sniffed the contents, and promptly began plotting a cocktail. The end result leaves me wishing I'd saved some dynamite from the old days, for there must be an unsuspecting golfer somewhere at 11 o'clock on a Tuesday night...


THE RECIPE (For Wombats) :


(1) Rocks glass, filled with two ice cubes.
(1) Shot Wombat Juice ( or whatever 190 proof paint thinner you can lay your hands on.)
(1) Shot French Chambord ( to pave your way to hell.)


Drink. Repeat.


SISSY RECIPE:


Substitute (1) Shot citrus flavored vodka for Wombat Juice.


Drink. Apologize. Move to France.

After-effects of viewing a private post elsewhere (You know who you are, Domenic...)

Sir Simon Van Gelding approached the case with his usual stealth, drawing upon his years of service in Her Majesty’s employ to great effect. He prized open the latches without a hint of a click, admiring his manservant Alonzo’s innate skill for oiling hinges. Esmeralda stood quiet as a cat—for she was a cat—watching the proceedings from her perch by the over-sized aquarium in which Van Gelding kept his pet snapping turtle Cedric. The fiberglass tuba slipped into his cunning hands, at the ready in an instant for his devious purpose.

Across the hall, reclining on the hideous divan that had been a gift from his lesbian grandmother, lounged the languid, naked form of the nymphomaniac known as “Moaning Lisa,” whose advances he had spurned for two long years.

Tonight, though, was like no other eve. For, in the shadows of the great breasts rising from Lisa’s form, there dwelt a figure possessed of an evil purpose. His name was Bhuttefueco, and he had designs on the fair maiden. This, Van Gelding could not allow.

Brandishing the deep-throat-ed instrument, he advanced silently upon the ne’er-do-well. Without warning, he plunged the bell of the beast over the interloper’s head, and blew a resounding low “F” into his unprepared ears. The swine dropped the dagger he had been brandishing at the naked maiden, and began protesting his innocence. “Why, you’re no more innocent than a country whore!” Van Gelding exclaimed. Upon seeing the hurt look on Lisa’s face, he revised his assessment, declaring, “Present Company excluded, of course!” 

The fiend began to squirm under the weight of the diabolical instrument. Van Gelding let loose with another Basso Profundo, which only served to annoy the villain further. Left with no alternative, Van Gelding resorted to the only weapon left. Fetching a candle from the hall, he dropped his stylish trousers and placed his rectum against the mouthpiece of the over-sized brass instrument. “Surely, you don’t mean to…” a startled Lisa murmured from her repose. “Indeed, my dear! This vermin must pay for his transgression!” replied a grinning, half-naked Van Gelding. Whereupon he reached back, pressed the valves of the instrument in such a manner as to create the shortest distance between the mouthpiece and the bell, let fly with a majestic burst of flatulence, and ignited it with the candle though the spit valve. The creature roared in pain, shook off the brass damnation clinging to his singed scalp, and dove ignominiously out the window at the end of the hall.

“Well, that’s that!” sneered Van Gelding triumphantly. “Not quite,” purred Lisa, spreading her naked legs coyly, “I believe the sight of your nude lower regions have rendered me moistened, good sir!” Sir Simon glanced at her glistening nether-bits, shook his head, and replied, “Sorry, lass. They don’t call me Van GELDING for nothing…”

Feral Children

Sometimes, a cocktail or nine make one reflect on current conditions. Back in good old 2009, I found myself unemployed and feeling ruminant. The result follows:

Dear Government Types,

Just thought I'd drop a line and see how the world is treating you. Are you still in Washington? Or did you put in for that transfer to Juno for the janitorial position?

I myself am doing well. I adapted to the New World Order surprisingly quickly. By day, I forage for roots and nuts, which is far easier now that the snow is gone. The squirrels pose a risk, as they have become annoyed at me for stealing their food supply, and are not above murder. They‘ve enlisted the aid of a particularly fat raccoon that delights in throwing specimens at me from the safety of the trees. Ah, but they forget the chain saw. Death from below…

Foraging requires spending a considerable amount of time in a crouching pose, which adds greatly to the risk of attack by woodland creatures, as well as ambush by Flora and Fauna, two elderly spinsters with squatter's rights to my neighbor's cistern. I have, however, devised an early warning system that provides a measure of defense from these perils.  Providence provided me with a seemingly abandoned Volkswagen Micro Bus, which surrendered its rear-view mirrors in record time. These I affixed to the sides of a pith helmet, affording me a view to the rear, and an opportunity to avoid subterfuge.

Night fall finds me lurking along the edges of the swamp with my trusty blowgun, waiting for bullfrogs, or--if I'm lucky--fruit bats. During the full phase of the moon, I light a ceremonial bonfire of rendered fat, and roast sacrificial yams. Fridays are for looting and raping.

My children have become feral, and no longer share our home, preferring the shelter of a crude hut they built out of doughnuts and whiskey bottles. The boy has taken to dressing like Bob Denver, and is building a bamboo submarine. The girl spends most of her time eating dirt and torturing her imaginary friend.

My wife, alas, has yet to accept the new life we have. She still insists on keeping up the charade that jobs have value, preferring to spend her days "Teaching business classes," and "Practicing Law." I'm sure that this is code for some nefarious activity. I remain hopeful that she will see the light before the submarine is finished and the children leave for Hawaii. They grow up so fast.

In any event, I hope this finds you well. Beware the squirrels.

A. Voter, esquire.

Sweet Jesus, it's Friday

Looky! A Drinky!

The after effects of a decent Cocktail are difficult to predict. Some victims become abnormally wise, and some become intellectually reversed. Tonight's post illustrates the latter trait. I have been cock-tailing furiously, and therefore have barfed up a pun. My humblest apologies... 

A Mennonite boy comes back from a morning of working in the fields, and encounters his Mother, who is ready for him with a large lunch. After he finishes his repast, his Mother gives him the options for his afternoon chores. "You may help Thy Father pull the stumps left in the east field, or you may help Thy Mother dip candles for the winter."  "If it please my Mother, I'd like a nap before I decide," he spaketh. "If Thou thinks it best..." she replied. 

A few hours later, he awoke from his snooze, his nostrils filled with the scent of melted wax. "I believe I will now make candles, Mother,"  he declared. His Mother swept her hand about the room, indicating the racks of finished product, and replied, "Thy Sisters finished the dipping while Thou slept!" Whereupon his Father entered the house and handed him a pick, saying, "No wick for the rested!" 

Yes, I take the blame for this. Booze Ex Machina...

Proper use of the Cocktail Hour

I cannot tell you how many queries I get about the proper use of Cocktailing. Many fools think that Demon Alcohol is designed for the express purpose of forgetting something horrible. FAR from the truth, brethren! Alcohol--in the form of the Cocktail Hour--is the gateway to true knowledge. Lo, indeedy, it is the manifestation of the Bored Almighty! Praise Knob Creek! Bend Over And TAKE IT!


Therefore, In the interest of educating the unflossed masses, I begin this eve a multi-part seminar on the proper ways to develop an impressive alcoholic thought. Think of this as a master class in mixology for the genius in your midst. If you are the genius, please keep reading. If not, please separate yourself from reality by more pedestrian means.


The purpose of the Cocktail Hour, whether it be an hour long or a month of sideways, is to conjure thoughts, anecdotes, antidotes, animals, ancillary tales, or mere bullshit, without the fear of research. Hence the blessed Cocktail. We thinkers require a certain amount of mental lubricant before we begin to pontificate, which is what removes us from the rude class of drinkers. These lower species require abnormally shallow forms of intoxication to obtain mates, learn the art of regurgitation, and die in strange accidents involving sheep. We are not them. WE are the elite imbibers, destined for greatness, debauched in purpose, and unrelenting in our pursuit of the perfect martini. We are bound by tradition and vows of forgetfulness to protect each other from unnecessary nakedness in public places.


The best way to insure our success is to employ tried and true methods, passed down through generations of idiots of the finest order. It is with this goal in mind that I begin passing to you--the devoted--the tried and true recipes for Cocktails befitting our station in life. I will do this, from time to tire iron, as my schedule permits, starting this fine moment with one of my favorites. Enjoy at your own risk:

Bonkersane Cannonball:

  1) Obtain a large carafe of wine. Any wine. Just doesn't matter.
   2) Drink it, or force someone else to (preferable if it's cheap.)
  3) Obtain a fifth of your preferred whiskey (high-powered.)
  4) Fill the carafe (empty by now) with crushed ice up to the neck.
  5) Pour your whiskey of choice into the carafe until it reaches two-thirds of the way up the neck.
  6) Fill the remainder of the carafe with the mixer of your choice (I prefer a member of the cola family.)
  7) Replace the wine carafe lid TIGHTLY on the carafe. (You did save the lid, right?)
  8) Shake vigorously until you make a mess.
  9) Place the carafe in a sub-zero freezer for 45 to 60 minutes.
10) Drink the bastard. Through a straw. Hanging by your ankles.
11) Lord over your minions with your brutal wisdom.




Next Time: Steaming Thought. Stay tuned...

Adverse effects of viewing this blog:

Adverse effects of viewing this blog:

·         Wanton disregard for the consequences of alcohol.

·         Sisterly love (usually on video.)

·         Diaper rash, finger-throb, or untoward Zappa-esque violations.

·         Dingle berries. Sometimes in problematic multiples.

·         Simultaneous children.

·         Random toenails.

·         Lord Knows What.

·         Dehydration.

·         Rehydration.

·         Projectile diarrhea.  

·         Inexplicable permanent erection (males.)

·         Uncontrollable nymphomania (females.)

·         Bisexuality (everyone.)

·         Trisexuality (only the truly blessed.)

·         Bioluminescence.

·         Spontaneous third eye.

·         Pancake cravings.

·         Dog longings.

·         Long dongings (see: permanent erections.)

·         Inverted defecation.

·         Random clogging (all varieties.)

·         Trifling tendencies.

·         Bewitching of underlings.

·         A God-Damnded prolonged interest in piano tuning.

·         Mediocre performance art (generally involving religious artifacts.)

·         Temporary rhubarb fixation involving grease and bananas. 

·         Addiction to unguents.

·         Unnecessary ululation.

·         Semi quasi bifurcation of personal purpose.

·         Troglodyte infestation.

·         Radical porpoise husbandry.

·         Perfection of delinquents (A.K.A.: “Ribald Manufacturing Techniques.”)

·         Lunacy.

·         Brilliance.

·         Inexplicable chronic masturbation. (See: male/female.)

·         Permanent idiocy. (See: Doctor Bonkersane.)

Most, if not all, of these side effects are permanent or temporary, depending on your income level. However, most victims become acclimated, and—indeed—learn to enjoy the benefits of being under the influence of the Good Doctor Bonkersane. Pray that you is one of thems…