Guinness, Arthur. Irishman.

I recently came on good enough fortune to get a fourpack of the Guinness of the old country. I was probably inappropriately already drunk when I drank it (most of), but it tasted pretty much identical with our (canadian) Guinness on tap. Which is surprising. If their cans taste like our tap, not at all like the chocolatey murk in our big black cans, I can't imagine like what the real thing might taste. It's really quite Platonic: We drink shadows at the bar, and shadows once removed out of cans. Now this artifact from the real world is packaged for transport back into our dark vale of tears and tastes like a shadow. So the Ideal remains elusive. Also, the cans were a full 500 mL, not our sorry 454.
   With only one can left for posterity, I've had no choice but to pick up lemon juice for the turbid deaths befitting my dank and cobwebby state. Which reminds me that I need a hobby. All I've been doing of a night lately is lying edgewise on the couch watching whatever crap is on the shitbox. Just tonight I've mustered the will to stay at least on my ass and off my side. But there must be something else to do. Somehow the eternal bitching about the spotty hippies leaves something to be desired, and if even I'm getting tired of my complaining then the writing is clear on the magic 8 ball.
   The hippies & the roomate both were out of town all weekend. It was a peace that passeth understanding, and then didst drive around the loop yet to pass again. Life in a small town, cruising the strip.