NOTHING COMES BETWEEN A MAN AND HIS HOOCH...

... Not even his kid. Wow. As a new dad, I find this little gem a tad hilarious and uncomfortable all at once.

Man fined for buckling in beer, not toddler
Police 'shocked and appalled' after Australian leaves 5-year-old on car floor

By The Associated Press

DARWIN, Australia - An Australian man has been fined after buckling in a case of beer with a seat belt but leaving a 5-year-old child to sit on the car’s floor, police said Tuesday.

Constable Wayne Burnett said he was “shocked and appalled” when he pulled over the unregistered car Friday in the central Australian town of Alice Springs.

The 30-can beer case was strapped in between two adults sitting in the back seat of the car. The child was also in back, but on the car’s floor.

“The child was sitting in the lump in the center, unrestrained,” Burnett told reporters Tuesday.

“I haven’t ever seen something like this before,” he said. “This is the first time that the beer has taken priority over a child.”

The driver was fined 750 Australian dollars — about $710 — for driving an unregistered and uninsured vehicle and for failing to ensure a child was wearing a safety belt.

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WHAT MAKES A SHIT BEER?

While Hemingway, I'm sure, liked his booze a bit more "refined" - some Fernet-Branca, perhaps some gin and undoubtedly 'ol reliable scotch, we're betting that he dabbled in his share of suds.

Especially with all that time in Cuba, who wouldn't want a nice cold brewski?

I love beer; I love people who love beer and therefore, I love this post which argues, what is the shittiest of shitty-ass beer.

The worst, skunkiest hooch you can drink, in fact.

So, grab one from the fridge and settle in. This one was is too good not to post.

Enjoy!

Click HERE to read all about shitty beer

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BUKOWSKI - SKID ROW'S POET

In most of my circles, I get the impression from most of my uppity buddies that the works of writer Charles Bukowski are grossly undervalued. I'll hear something like, "Bukowski? Whatever ..." Blow me. You know who you are.

It's a crime. The more and more I discover his often anti-social prose - and believe you-me, there's a ton of it - the more I discover something new and intriguing. In this quick update, check out this poem that explores the notion of a simple evening out. Lord knows, we who love scotch, have been there.

Big Night On The Town

drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it's night, you're lost, where's your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.
damned bar's sloppy wet, it soaks
part of one of your shirt
sleeves.
It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak.
you order a bottle of beer.
Madame Death walks up to you
wearing a dress.
she sits down, you buy her a
beer, she stinks of swamps, presses
a leg against you.
the bar tender sneers.
you've got him worried, he doesn't
know if you're a cop, a killer, a
madman or an
Idiot.
you ask for a vodka.
you pour the vodka into the top of
the beer bottle.
It's one a.m. In a dead cow world.
you ask her how much for head,
drink everything down, it tastes
like machine oil.

you leave Madame Death there,
you leave the sneering bartender
there.

you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Star Turd
where love died
laughing.

- Charles Bukowski

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