[hris

The Humours of Whiskey

Let your quacks and newspapers be cuttin' their capers And curing the vapors the scratch and the gout, With their medical potions, their pills and their lotions Upholding their notions, they're mighty put out.

Who can tell the true physics of all things pathetic, And pitch to the devil, cramp, colic and spleen. You'll know it I think if you take a big drink With your mouth to the brink of a jug of poteen

So stick to the cratur' the best thing in nature For drowning your sorrows and raising your joys. Oh what moderation gives hope to a nation Can give consolation like poteen me boys.

No liquid cosmetic to lovers athletic Or ladies pathetic can give such a bloom As the sweet by the powers in the garden of flowers E'er gave their own bowers such a darling perfume.

And this liquid so rare if you willingly share To be taking your hair when it's frizzled and dead. Oh the sod has the merit to yield the true spirit, So strong it will shake all the hairs from your head

So stick to the cratur' the best thing in nature For drowning your sorrows and raising your joys. Oh since its perfection, no doctor's direction Can cleanse the complexion like poteen me boys.

As a child in me cradle, the nurse from her ladle Was swillin her mouth with a notion of Pep. When a drop from her bottle fell into my throttle. I capered and scrambled right out of her lap

On the floor I lay crawlin' and screaming and bawling 'Til me mother and father were called to the fore. All sobbing and sighing they feared I was dying. They found I was only crying for more.

So stick to the cratur' the best thing in nature For drowning your sorrows and raising your joys. Oh lord how I'd chuckle if babes in their truckle Could only be suckled on poteen me boys.

Through youthful digressions and times of depression, My childhood's impression still clung to my mind. And at school or at college, the basis of knowledge I never could gulp 'til with whiskey combined.

And as older I'm growing times e'er bestowin' On Erin's potation, a flavor so fine; And how ere they may lecture on Jove and his nectar Itself is the only true liquid divine.

So stick to the cratur' the best thing in nature For drowning your sorrows and raising your joys. Oh lord, 'tis the right thing for courting and fighting There's naught so exciting as poteen me boys.

Come guess me this riddle: what beats pipes and fiddle? What's hotter than mustard and wilder than cream? What best wets your whistle? What's clearer than crystal? What's sweeter than honey and stronger than steam?

What will make the dumb talk? What will make the lame walk? The elixir of life and philospher's stone. And what helped Mr. Brunel to dig the Thames Tunnel? Wasn't it poteen from ould Inishowen?

“Bonjour mon chien noir.”

I have reviewed the terms and conditions of modern existence and would like to formally decline participation.

To the algorithms:

Fuck you.

To the productivity gurus:

Fuck you.

To the meetings that could have been emails, the emails that should have been smoke signals, and the smoke signals that somehow required a password reset:

Fuck you.

To the relentless optimization of the human soul into quarterly metrics and subscription tiers:

Absolutely and categorically, fuck you.

I reject the sacred cult of hustle. I reject the tyranny of motivational LinkedIn posts. I reject the expectation that every hobby must become a side hustle and every side hustle must become a personal brand.

I will not monetize my joy. I will not network at brunch. I will not describe myself as “passionate about synergistic solutions.”

I am simply a raccoon in a collapsing shopping mall looking for expired cinnamon pretzels and meaning.

And honestly? The raccoon has the right idea.

I believe in leaving parties early. I believe in soup. I believe in staring out windows dramatically while pretending there is an orchestral soundtrack swelling behind me.

I believe the human spirit was never meant to answer Slack messages at 9:47 PM.

To the self-checkout machine accusing me of placing an unexpected item in the bagging area:

You specifically can fuck all the way off.

This manifesto is not about anger. It is about liberation.

The liberation of saying:

“No.”

“I don’t care.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“I will be lying on the floor for an hour contemplating the moon.”

I aspire to become impossible to market to. A statistical anomaly. A dead zone in the attention economy.

I want my existence to confuse advertisers. I want targeted ads to slowly give up and start recommending medieval fishing equipment and bulk gravel. (Ok, so maybe it already does.)

Some call this nihilism. I call it spiritual pest control.

So yes:

Fuck you. All you motherfuckers.

Now kindly, respectfully, spiritually, and with great administrative urgency:

Fuck off.

_elizabethnichols