Label: The Static Cult Label
I tell you, nothing brings you back down to earth after a Boxing Day hootenanny more than some blown out, in-the-red, vein popping, noise-violence. You know, the servants have the day off, whilst the gentry dines on a pre-prepared buffet of cold cuts and mulled wines...it's all very taxing, cutting your own meat, lifting your own fork, and chewing your own food. How do the plebeians do this labor year-round?! I am bushed!
So, to reward my hard work, I am sitting on the davenport, sipping a six year old Orujo, enjoying a San Cristobal de la Habana (I have a friend at the Embassy), and allowing the dulcet tones of El Buzzard to cleanse away all the unpleasantness of yesterday's hard won gains.