Crom Vs. Canadian Club

by Crom

Let’s get one thing straight, I don’t drink rye all that often. In fact I hold firm to the belief that when you drink rye, you’re basically priming yourself to get into a fist fight. My brother once referred to rye as the Real Canadian Fighting Potion, and I have also since that day. However, there are some moments that you just have to rush to the liquor store, frantically paw at the shelves, and grab the biggest fucking bottle of Canadian Rye that these fuckers will sell you. Once you get it home, you can’t be intimidated by this bitch, you just have to bust the cap off, pour 3 fingers over ice, and mix in something that will keep it from directly kicking your ass. Take a nice long pull of it, and then take a moment to acclimatize yourself to the notion that in a few shorts hours, you will probably be picked up by Calgary’s finest as you run down the road naked, with an erection.

My favorite porn star is dead. This really has nothing to do with me getting sideways on Alberta Nectar, it’s just something that happens to be rattling around in my skull while I’m doing battle with this 40 oz. Bottle of dangerous amber rocket fuel. It’s not like I’m drinking in her memory, or because I’m sad she won’t be making any more porn. It’s not like there’s some massive shortage of porn available, jesus, the Internet has made it possible for no new porn to be produced for a solid 20 years and you probably won’t see the same thing twice (unless you want to). Some people might be taken aback by how brash I’m being about my love of porn. Well fuck you. Who are we kidding anyway? I’m a 26 year old male, with no girl friend, who works almost everyday on the Internet. If I wasn’t looking at porn, Freud would rise from his grave and kick down my front door. Then he’d shriek a lot, because obviously his vocal cords are gone, and then toss my stuff around for awhile, hoping to make clear to me that repressing urges of these kinds for that long will make me into a psychotic killer. I’d agree with that withering asshole too, without porn, I’d have probably killed some of you at least by now.

Back to the matter at hand though. If you were following this piece like, oh I dunno, say the Rocky Horror Picture show, and were drinking the same amount of Rye as I was while typing this, then by now you’re probably ready to either barf out a lung on someone’s shoes, or fight a gang of street toughs for a small, unknown charity. You see Rye has a funny effect about it, which is why it makes normal mortals into maniacs. You can’t just drink SOME rye. It’s not going to happen. Once you’ve had one or two, your inclination is to consume it until there is no more. Anywhere. On Earth. Of course most of the time you’ve polished off a forty and you’re barely able to stand, so the likelihood of you busting into a closed store and blasting down all their rye until blood gushes from your eyes, and not even tasers can stop you is pretty slim. I can feel that desire mounting though.

Mounting…har har.

It’s also making me a little twitchy because I’m listening to a hard live set of Gareth Emery given to me by a friend. The combination of the two, Rye juxtaposed with techno music, is the kind situation where you feel the need to engaged in a fierce break dancing war. I admit freely that I can’t really bust a move like a good dancer can, but god damn it, you give me a piece of cardboard and I will rock so hard, your hair will fallout and people will cry. This is the kind of madness that Rye empowers you with. You become a demi-god, an avatar of a realm that only people drinking rye know of, or can enter. The inclination of the weak minded is to fight against it, but this will only lead down a path of darkness and loathing. You have to roll with this new found font of power, the only thing you can really do is take a long deep breath, focus on the impetus to lash madness at the world, and realize that Nietzsche was giving you the directions all along. Godhood, is merely a state of mind.

Crom