Wine and Pogo Sticks

For some reason my keyboard just tends to flow a lot easier after I’ve had a few to drink. Which is thus, indirectly my official excuse for not posting very often as of late; what does a guy have to do to get a drink around here!

Tonight’s beverage is of the red variety – a French style cabernet sauvignon out of California, to be exact. To say I was a wine connoisseur would be total malarkey. I haven’t been in the business of wine tasting for very long and even though I know what I like when I taste it, and I’ve gotten to the point where I might be able to pick a decent bottle out of the below $4 price point at Trader Joes, a real wine snob would probably “express amusement at the very thought of my choice in vintage." Meh, whatever.

Some day I might become one of these so called “wine snobs” if for no other reason than I’ll have had so much practice drinking the shit. Hell, I’m mostly a beer and coffee snob already - what’s one more to seal the deal? Snoby-snob, snob, snob.

So earlier today I’m minding my own business, trying to calculate the adiabatic flame temperature of the combustion of propane gas in 50% excess air – per some long drawn out take home final that may or may not be due tomorrow morning – when I hear it again. The mother-fucking upstairs mother-fucking neighbors are home. I don’t know who the fuck they fucking are, but I’m almost fucking positive that they fucking romp around on mother-fucking pogo sticks as soon as they close they’re front door. It’s loud as FUCK!

Now they’re listing to some bass thumping slow jams, I can hear the bass though the walls but at least they’ve lost interest in pogo sticks.