Big Breaking Beer News

When I waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge this afternoon like I owned the place (one of my favorite things to do) there was only one stool left at the bar and I hopped right on it without hesitation. The TV set that normally plays hacker videos and illegal sports like senator tossing on Saturn and nuns bowling for dollars on Uranus was broadcasting a Breaking News report from a pirate TV station on Earth.

Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender, refused to record the broadcast for fear of losing his bartender's license. That's right, you gotta be licensed to serve think-a-hol and other think-a-holic beverages in this part of the space-time continuum. But he did manage to write down the URL for the Internet news story, the source for this pirate TV broadcast. I had to slip the old beady-eyed bugger a solar fin for the address so I could put it into this story. Click on the TV image for the story.

We Lounge regulars are crying in our own beer and suffering from big-ass sympathy pains for every Russian beer drinker affected by this new law. It's the least we can do. Now Mum's the word on this shit or I'll find a way to sic that Earthling broadcaster on you. I hear he eats scorching buffalo wings for breakfast. So there you go.

Holiday Cheer

The Secret Room Part 2

Continuing with this little story... About three weeks ago I found myself at Think-A-Holic Lounge again after a long summer absence. I was on my way to the male species room for a little relief when I decided to lift the lid on the peephole they installed on the door to that new back room here at the Lounge. The hair that's left on my head stood straight up and I got goose pimples all over my hairy arms when I saw what was causing all that pig-like squealing and snorting and those creepy undertones of what I thought were illegal sports betters making cute, innocent pigs fight one another for sick fun and profit.

Well, to make a long story short, the snorting and squealing was coming from pigs. Two of them, in fact. And the unmistakable sound of gambling junkies in a secret room placing bets on illegal sports action was, indeed, the sound of our big-ass head bartender Angus McCloud and a handful of regular Lounge lizards. Their fists were full of solar dollars and solar fins and solar sawbucks and I even saw an occasional Intergalactic Quid note being peeled off big fat bill rolls. They muttered and blabbed and barked out new bets to each other out of the corners of their mouths.

But the pigs — two pale-pink, full-grown, big-ass bacon makers — weren't going at each other with hoofs and snouts and teeth. Nossir. They were both sitting on their haunches in front of their own personal computer with a big-ass plasma screen and specially made keyboard with only five keys on it. That's when I saw a big brown eyeball staring back at me through the peephole and the door was opened by Angus McCloud himself.

"Got money?" he said, pulling me into the dimly-lit back room. Before I could reply, he closed the door and locked it. Then he flipped the peephole lid back down and led me to the betting table.

to be continued...