“Barry,” my cousin Mike said, “I think it’s time.” It was clear that my brother didn’t feel the same way, but he only shrugged, which Mike took as agreement. “Dave,” he said, giving the words as much gravity as he could muster, “Go get the dictionary.” I was nine years old, and a tag-along. I’d walked in on my brother telling a story about how—during school that morning—a girl he knew got her period in the middle of French class. And I laughed like the dickens. And then they called me on it. After I’d lugged the dictionary down from the spare room, Mike told me to look up the word period and read out the definition. “The end of a cycle, a series of events, or a single action?” “Keep going,” he said. “The full pause with which a sentence closes?” “Not that.” “An interval of geologic—“ “Gimme that!” He yanked the book towards him, read down the page, and pointed me towards the definition he’d found. Menstruation: the monthly discharge of blood from the uterus of nonpregnant women from pu...
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Strawberry-Banana rummy goodness.
Or Jager Bombs.
I would have to say "The Crazy Canadian". I am not sure how many different kinds of alcohol went into this thing, but it tasted great.
Or maybe get my hands on some Absinthe. Who doesn't need a little wormwood in their diet?
I drank it with piety and devotion, holding the cold can against my sweat-slicked cheek between gulps, and would turn to hard liquor only when I'd begin to feel bloated in the mornings, returning to my true love after the scotch and water had reduced me to my natural form, lithe as a polecat, bleary-eyed, secretive, tediously confessional.
Ah, Kirin. I'm told those of you who live in Ontario's larger cities can have it whenever you please from the liquor store; I, sadly, must order it and wait.
or
Parrot Bay & Pineapple