Lanes Thursday, February 11, 1988

Pouring a liquid somnambulism adroitly is a much prized skill in the forsaken era-places of the world. Hops, barley, malt, and beans must combine in what are regarded as precise proportions, lest connoisseurs quip bitingly of its rumblings, stirred up in their own unenhanced bellies. (The art of prosthetopalatism has not yet been revealed to many of these wretches, and so the opinion of their countrymind guides them on a path of the blind, which, upon their estimation, solveth all problems at only the modiucm risk of causing them too.)

If, as has been claimed by Pejuniski and Poplar, this custom has a fashion to it, and is not merely the product of environmental neurographics doing their dirty work in chordates, the fashion can be put simply in a single word: schlerosis. For those who do not appreciate lager must be brought into the fold with haste, and those who reject it on moral principle--a haughty word for low experience--do not qualify for an opinion on account of their opinion. The draught is brown and rotten, filling their teeth with holes, but they love it. And that must be said of it because there is no higher love in this time.

-CB Lanes