Looking at my past ten posts on The Tyler Effect (or, my entire illustrious catalog), I've noticed that eight of them are entirely about, or in some way explicitly reference, alcohol.

I would worry about the topic getting stale, but we all know that alcohol keeps indefinitely, like honey or cocaine. No, instead of eshewing the topic indefinitely, I'll make you folks at home a deal. One more post entirely about alcohol, and then I'll move on to other topics a little while, because variety is the spice of a Bloody Mary.

Now, if you expect me to deviate from alcohol entirely, or purposely avoid it in my future writings, you needn't stick around any longer. I want nothing to do with your ilk, and the mere fact you're reading this in the first place tells me I've done something wrong, terribly wrong with my writing. Alcohol, being as wonderful of a friend as it has been to me, will always work its way into any kind of my writing that is worth it's weight in… how the hell do you weigh writing?

For those of you kind enough to stick around, for the people who have given me a hell of a lot more support in these first ten posts than I expected to get in my first few months here, thanks. That goes for my friends that have been reading, strangers who I've never met but like my work anyway, and all the good writer folk here at Points In Case who've gave me a damn warm welcome thus far. Special thanks to The Supreme Court Sullivan, who, unlike my other readers, is able to fire me.

I'll think of this post as a toast to the variety that is soon to come to TTE.

And without further ado, and with little to no explanation whatsoever, I give you

Alcohol, Personified.


While never having tried Absinthe myself, because I've yet to try and order it from Europe, I can imagine Absinthe being a lot like a slightly crazed, questionably sober Amazon explorer from the early 20th century. You know the one I mean; mesh pith helmet, carries a well-worn machete at his side, always hinting at his desire to go live with the natives, learn their customs, and lick their psychoactive toads.


Beer is the everyman, with a broad drinking range from borderline alcoholic to casual drinker. Beer doesn't want anything fancy out of life, just a good football game to watch on Saturdays and maybe the occasional Thai call girl. Beer is comfortable in every kind of bar imaginable, but if Beer hasn't been there, then I'd be really suspicious about what kind of outfit that bar is trying to run. Back out the door slowly, and be on the lookout for a MADD member waiting in the shadows, dagger drawn.


Born and aged in The South, Bourbon hangs out with an eclectic mix of folks. No matter if the party is a cocktail to-do at a colonial-era house in Savannah or a post-high-school-football bash in the middle of a Texas field, Bourbon is a damn fun guy to hang around, but will remind you that he can (and will) whip your ass all across the Mason-Dixon if you step outta line.


Rich fuck.


Gin, to me, says class more even than expensive champagne or cognac or any other high-dollar spirit or drink. You know why? Because Gin doesn't flaunt it. Gin knows that he comes from money, bit he'll never say so. He knows he's welcome to dine in the palaces of kings and queens, but he'll take the time to go visit his less-reputable friends on Skid Row. Always well-dressed, witty, and a charmer to boot, Gin is one of those guys that it's good to say you know.


Ahh, Rum. When people think of Rum, they think of the beach. And why not? Rum spends all his time fixing up his old boat, listening to the good Jimmy Buffett tunes, and rolling the occasional joint, for special occasions, or maybe just 'cause it's Saturday. He can be found on any given beach, in any given country, but feels most at home in the Florida Keys or some islands a bit south thereof. He's got some good seafaring stories to tell if you bum him a cigarette (only when he just ran out would he ask you for one), but his best tales are his for the keeping.


Scotch grew up with Gin, but Scotch was never taught not to be an elitist asshole. Unlike Gin, Scotch brags about his new car(s), the highfalutin box socials he might make an appearance at, and the new suit he just had tailored. Unfortunately, there's not much regular folk can say back- Scotch really is that good.


It's tasteless, colorless, cheap, available, and everyone (for whatever reason) can't get enough of it. Yes, readers, Vodka is Lindsey Lohan.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go hang out with Bourbon and a few friends for a while.