So I can preempt you and assuage any hesitations you might have in regard to that actually happening:
1. If that’s the case, I will never - never - move up in rank past “young’un.” Calling up the dinosaurs has been part of the jig since freshman year of high school, when Goldschläger was king and Zima was queen. I’ve learned to embrace it - it’s part of the fun of drinking with me. I have a mason jar to lend you if you have any questions.
2. Any kind of change in tone would be marginal at best. Really! Listen: leave me at the wheel for a day. Seriously.
Closer look here. Have you been reading this enough? It is bad, truly. Please make it harder than that, which, really: ducks in a row.
3. Summer’s here, my god, that shit is here, only the smell is forthcoming. A visit to the Astoria Beer Garden proved my memory to be totally incorrect in it being a decent place; I’d make a joke about a it being a schnitzel party, but it really was that depressing.
4. The “widow” thing has yet to work for me, but I haven’t tried it on Sean Young. Sean Young? You thought Sean Young was hot? I think they actually have a term for that.