Egg Nog, motherfuckers. It's like drinking a slice of cheesecake, and if that doesn't sound good to you, you are living a terrible, hateful life. I give no truck to lesser seasonal hot beverages: you're either drinking egg nog or you're pissing yourself due to your atrophying muscles and inability to do a single kegel.
"What if we took some eggs, beat them into some cream & vanilla, and then added a shit-load of sugar and also nutmeg?"
"Fuck yeah, we will."
"Well hold on to your nuts or ovaries because I'm going to then mix in some brandy or rum."
"It's the only way to not only survive, but thrive during the cruel winter."
Look at those cider-swilling morons over there, dancing the May Pole around an apple tree, getting their fingers caught in a press, and grating cinnamon like dweebs. Cinnamon? Come on. Nutmeg is the most badass spice, and it's also a cool-ass thing that soccer players do to shithead defenders. Let's face facts here: cider is just pretentious juice, like that guy you know who went to Paris for a semester his junior year of college and now wears scarves everywhere and no coat.
Head to the Dairy Section. Grab a big-ass gallon jug of thick, cream-yellow nog. Heave it at the nearest cider drinker. They won't have the agility to dodge it or the core strength to bat it away or catch it. They are weak. After you've knocked them down, pick up the egg nog container, empty it with only a few Lipitors and some chasers of Remy Martin, and start turning down all the sex you'll be offered.
Blood is thicker than water, but egg nog is thicker than any of that shit.
BoC Night at Staples is Tonight
I drove past beautiful San Emidio yesterday as I made my way to Lesser California. The day started strong, as I passed a flipped over Saab up an embankment outside of Westley, headlights still on and a sad guy on a mobile phone standing next to it. It must have just happened. Also notable was The Sepulveda Pass Experience: a red Audi rear-ended a 7 series BMW. Final count: 1 flipped car, 3 fender benders, 3 CHP writing tickets, 2 CHP clearing debris in Culver City by stopping the freeway completely, one smoke-spewing landscaping truck weaving in an out of the carpool lane at 82 MPH like a trickster god.
This is it. The day I get stabbed, and have to rely on Spade to avenge me. We'll be meeting up at Yard House at 6:00 for pre-game drinks.
Prediction: I get denied entrance at Staples for sewing several liter cartons of egg nog into the lining of my Sharks throwback jersey.