The Gin Life

I hate gin. It tastes like bile from the stomach of a diseased monkey. I can't even smell the stuff without gagging and retching. To me, it smells like hell. When I go to hell it won't be brimstone and fire but a big vat of gin I swim in for all eternity.

This isn't a case of I got wasted on gin one night, puked my guts out and now I can't drink it. That's the usual reason a person can't touch a certain alcohol. But not me, not with gin.

I spend a lot of time in bars and really don't want to discriminate against anything on the shelf. So I decided to get to the bottom of my prejudice.

I did meditation, re-birthing (maybe mom had gin in the delivery room), hypnosis, music therapy. Nothing. Then I visited a past life tarot reader. A seer who uses the tarot to see your past lives...

It was prohibition and my husband was a gin runner. He made it in the bathtub of our small, dark tenement apartment in Pittsburgh. Our stink must have been getting to me because I insisted we needed our bathtub back. I wanted out of this outlaw life. It seems the hubby was quite happy being a thug. I was all set to pull the plug. And I almost did it, I almost pulled that plug but just then the bastard put his big paws around my neck and drowned me in the gin.

Now do you blame me?