666 Desolation St., Hell, W1C
I must say that I’m not surprised. You’ve always been something of a lightweight. When We used to go bar crawling with Quetzalcoatl it was never very long before You tumbled off Your bar stool, mumbling about feeling better if You could just throw up, and stumbled off to the little deities room. At which point the retching and gnashing of teeth would begin.
I’d have hoped You could at least keep up with a mortal, though. I know the guy’s a country singer and all, but still. You didn’t even make it past the Cuervo. I just hope You weren’t gambling. You know You’ve got a problem and I’m not going to cover your debts anymore. And let’s be honest; once You get drunk You don’t think straight. A golden fiddle? Really? What the hell good is a golden fiddle? The sound quality on that thing was awful. You were bound to lose. By the way, You still owe Me for covering that. And there was that kid in Mississippi. You had what You wanted, but a couple of drinks later it’s “Let’s cut thish cards… double or nothing.” I’m sure You remember how that turned out.
Anyway, I’m not writing to do an intervention for Your gambling habit. I’m writing to laugh at You and rub it in that some mortal outdrank You. Ha! Ha!
Maybe if You can’t beat ’em You should join ’em. Start a country & western band. You could name it “Drinky McDevil & The Pukeleers”. Maybe if You hung out with the country & western crowd, some of My staunchest brand-loyalists, You’d learn to hold that old Demon Rum.
Wish You Were Here,