31 October 2005

Trick and treat

Twenty M does Halloween up right!

What Hath Bob Wrought?

Cognizant of my perfidious bog-roll asshattery of Friday last, I approached the office on tenterhooks. Irish Bob’s car was already in the parking lot and the engine was cold. Obviously, he had come in early to arrange some sort of hideous payback.

In the remote event that I fell for his prank, I decided to pour a half liter of liquefied jack mackerel into the ventilation intake of his Mercedes. He should be able to enjoy this during the next thaw. I re-parked my car in an adjacent lot, behind a panel van; no sense in making it easy.

The entry door creaked ominously. “Morning, all!” I called out cheerily. I would beat Bob’s plans out of a witness later.

Bob was standing on the other side of the kitchen, separated from me by a knot of coworkers.

“Morning, Evil” He said.

“Grand day, eh Bob?” I replied. I nodded to the techie holding the coffee pot. He put it down guiltily. Ahhh, the coffee…. doctored, no doubt. I poured a cup and sniffed appreciably.

“It smells extra rich this morning!” I said dreamily.

The herd jostled about the coffee urn nervously, while Bob smirked.


I walked towards my office, pausing to switch cups with the human resources director. A few short minutes later, he made a very uncomfortable looking dash to the bog. Bob tried to intercept him, but the man was frantic. He brushed past Bob and into the executive bathroom.

“So Bob, I noticed a can of Cayenne on your desk. Doing Cajun tonight?” I asked innocently, but loudly.


Bob turned a nice shade of chartreuse. “Erm, fancy a pint, Evil? I’m buying.”

“Well, it’s a bit early, but as long as you are buying…”

“Great! I’ll go get my car!” He dashed back to his desk to grab his keys and the tell-tale cayenne. Bob is about as subtle as his equivalent weight in falling masonry.

“Em, it’s turning out to be a fine, warm day, why don’t we walk?” I asked. He agreed.

“I believe in Mackerels, where you from? You stanky thing, (stanky thing)…” I sang softly as we strolled towards to the bar.

“What’s that?” Bob asked.

“Oh, just a damn song stuck in my head.”

29 October 2005

Oh, dear Lord. Not again.

Putz and Flash are here this weekend to tailgate and go to the game. Last night after consuming enough alcohol to power a V2, we went to the area's only Michelin rated restaurant.

Whilst dining, the Putz arose, and announced in loud song:

"IIII'm OFF to drain my lizard!
My Wonderful Lizard of love!
Because, because, because, because, Becaaause!
Because of all the wonderful things it does!"

He finished with a flourish, spun on his heel and plowed head first into an eighteenth century oak pillar.

Five to one says he gets arrested this weekend, although I have to warn you if anyone does take the bet, I'll be egging him on.

28 October 2005

Bog Rolling.

I have had it. Every time Irish Bob uses the executive toilet, he runs it out of paper and never replaces the roll. Yesterday, he not only used the last of the bog paper, but also the last Kleenex and hand towels.

If it weren’t for my secret stash of HandiWipes (Alcohol Free!) I would have been up the proverbial creek without a paddle, spatula, ice cream scoop or other helpful device. So, today I restocked the paper, but left it far, far away from the commode.

The view from the Loo. The sign reads “Bet you’d like this, wouldn’t you? But your stubby little legs won’t reach it, now will they?”

He just came out and hissed “Watch your back, Evil. Paybacks are a bitch!” I watched him stalk back to his office with his bathroom reader tucked under his arm.

He was only wearing one sock.

Upper Decker

Dear Sir/Madam,

I am Mr. Smith A. Decker, The Secretary General of Pemol Company Limited, London.United Kingdom. We are a group of business men who deal on raw materials and export into Europe/America.

We are searching for representatives who can help us establish a medium of getting to our costumers as well as making payments through you to us. If you are interested in transacting business with us we will be very glad.
Subject to your satisfaction you will be given the opportunity to negotiate your mode of which we will pay for your services as our representative in Europe/America.

Please if you are interested forward to us your contact detail:
Contact address:
Martial statues:
Please contact us via email for more information: ddsmith@inmail24.com

Mr. Smith A. Decker

Well. This is obviously an offer that is on the up and up. I mean, why shouldn’t I trust Mr. Plumber A. Decker when his command of the English language is clearly on par with the average F.T. reading City denizen. Besides, anyone that would inquire about my “Martial Statues”, deserves a response.

Dear Mr. Decker,

Thank you for your proposition. I run Corletti and DePalma Cartage Company out of the Bronx. We too, deal in all sorts of materials and goods that may have fallen off trucks or got misplaced on the docks. We also run a garbage pick-up service, multi-state cigarette distributorship and handle union pension funds. We got associates in Europe, Central America, Chicago and Vegas so moving materials isn’t a problem for us, neither is payment collection. All our customers pay up quickly; for a cut, we’ll see yours do too.

If you want to get in touch with me, our number is 01-(212)-574-0324. Don’t mind that the phone is answered as “Big Tony’s Pizza”, just ask for Vinnie DiAngelo. Don’t bother asking for Big Joey Corletti or Vitto DePalma as both of them recently suffered tragic shaving accidents resulting in the loss of the upper half of their heads.

And if you’re looking for martial statues I got plenty I can let go cheap.


27 October 2005

The worm turns

Alright, so I’ve gone through my blog checklist and lo and behold, I think I’ve covered all the bases as far as what I wanted to accomplish. Perplexing MI-6? Check. Acquired help for my overly large Weather machine? Check. Gained minions, to sign up for an absolutely diabolical pyramid scam, check. Insulting that hairy rat-bastard El Barbudo, Check (No, no jealousy about his 2005 “Marooney” award here, nope!)

Let’s face it, for the marginally talented writer (me) a blog isn’t going to amount to much in the way of readership. It’s not going to make me famous, rich or help me take over the world. Why, then? Well, I like to write.

Basically, it’s the philosophical equivalent of a wormy mutt scooting his bum over your brand new silk carpet, in search of relief.

Thank you, dear readers, for letting my scratch this itch.

Oh, and you may want to get that carpet (your brain) professionally cleaned.

26 October 2005

And my career counselor said I'd never amount to anything...

How can I possibly waste more time at work? Well thanks to those evilest of bloggers; "Anthrax" Harry Hutton and "Door Kicker" Hungbunny, I am left with a dilemma to resolve.

A dilemma, I might add, that is worthy of my massive brain power, yet not too challenging to the championship caliber hangover that I am currently sporting. (Long story, involving scissors, superglue remover, poodles and overly thankful poodle owner; considering I was the one who glued those annoying little ankle biters together in the first place.

Have you ever seen a ball of poodles? It's quite the sight.)

My blog is worth $10,161.72.
How much is your blog worth?

Look! "Where's the Ka-boom?" is "worth" $10K! And it's all thanks to porn.

As it turns out, both of their blogs are worth nothing, whereas mine is worth a cool $10K. Considering that they both have actual readers and that most of my page hits are from my own personalities, I found this hard to fathom. Then it occurred to me that the valuation engine must be predicated on the one commodity that greases the wheels (and other things) of interweb commerce; pornography.

It is my fixation with all things sleazy and the posting of links thereof that gives me value.

Pound sand, Mr. Tony Robbins!

25 October 2005

Bucking the trends.

The other morning, whilst trying to deter an undead alarm clock from its evil plans, I inadvertently smashed my bridgework to porcelain shards through the enthusiastic application of a 6lb framing hammer to the bed-side table.

Up until a few months ago, I didn’t have the need for any dental work, but then one fateful Hard Liquor and Handgun night, I engaged a local tooth removal specialist in a spirited discussion of the sexual orientation of NASCAR spectators. This triggered a mysterious meteoric vaporization of his truck, and a trip to the dentist for me.

Now, dental care is surprisingly advanced here in central Pennsyltucky. They even claim that the toothbrush was invented here; a claim that is given some credence by the fact that if it were invented anywhere else, it would have been called the “teethbrush”.

Dr. Grundig (not his real name. That has an umlaut in it, I’ve changed it so I won’t get sued.) was able to make me a new set of chompers in a day or so. I gave him a ring asking for another set.

“You’ll have to come in for a fitting.” He said.

Did he think I’d gained gum weight in the last two months? Apparently so, as he refused to budge.

Again, I sat in his chair as he hummed “All I want for Christmas is your two front teeth” and shoved both hands, a foot and more plumbing than an urology clinic into my mouth.

“So.” He said. “How do you fancy Pittsburgh’s chances against the Ravens next week?”

“Not bad, Robert.” I replied, the eventual answer sounding like “N’gawa, m’tambo” in fluent !Kung. One can peg the glottal stop sound with your mouth full, if you are willing to crack one of your dentist’s knuckles with a bicuspid.

And that probably explains his shriek and my new dayglo orange buck teeth.

UPDATE! Now the link goes to something that's germaine, well kinda.


I was testing out my new WCR9000 (Weather Control Ray). I guess I had the silly thing in reverse.

Mad Clown Disease

I love autumn. I love the turning of the leaves, the crispness in the air. I love the fact that this autumn brought me a better internet connection.

Oh, sure, there was nothing inherently wrong with porn from my 56K modem, but high speed porn from a satellite; space porn, is sweet, sweet porn indeed.

However, there is a darker side to this fall that ties into another harbinger of autumn; the annual southern migration of the vast herds of Canada Hippies.

Now hippies are not aggressive creatures, in fact, the only know hippy attacks occur when the victim is mistaken for a bag of tight, sticky bud and set alight. The real threat arises in a disease that they carry; Mad Clown Disease.

Now, I have already found evidence of this insidious brain wasting disease in the Canada clown population. There is a hippy Canadian clown called “Ropey the clown” (No, I am not going to link to him, he caters to people with “adult clown fantasies …”). I shudder to think what would happen should our domestic hippy herds get exposed to this awful disease.

I mean, if this type of spongiform encephalopathic disease were to eat away half of some poor aging hippy’s brain, he would run a terrible risk of ending up in public office.

Update! It turns out that Ropey the clown is Californian, not Canadian. I know, Iknow, what's the difference? Well one of them has some slathering wierdos in their population and the other tends to have a few more polite Canadian types in the mix. Apparently, it all depends on the season.

UPDATE !! The situation is worse than I thought. There are whole colonies of these Hippy clowns out there. Alert Arlington Copely Hynes, and send
Arnold your guns. He's gonna need them.

24 October 2005

Beep, Beep, Beep

Way back in the filmy past, I used to have one of those thingies on my bed-side table that would go “Beep. Beep, Beep” at ungodly hours of the morning; something to do with work apparently. Eventually, through virtual toil and more importantly, acquiring sufficient dirt on the board members, I was promoted to upper management. Now I arise at the crack of noon, and greet the dawning of each day by rolling away from the window and going back to sleep.

It took the beepy thing out back, stuffed its mouth full of holy wafers, drove a stake through its heart, then set it on fire. I was fairly confident that it had shuffled off this mortal coil.

That is, until this morning. “Beep, beep, beep…” I took the hammer that I keep under my pillow (for just such an emergency) and rigorously bashed the bedside table, alas, to no avail.

It turns out that some men are working on the train tracks, and it’s the back-up warning from a D-8 Cat that I was hearing.

Now, I actually like the train tracks being close to the house. I sleep through its passage, and every once in a while it slows down enough (mysteriously greased tracks) for my goons to unload some of the choicer bits of cargo.

Furthermore, it plays an essential role in gene pool filtration. Every so often, some hillbillidiot will decide that the crossing guards do not imply to him and insists that his bitchin’ Camaro takes the lead in the tango with a 1500 tonne freight train.

But none of this matters today. These bastards are disturbing my beauty sleep and there aren’t any good cartoons on yet.

22 October 2005

The Cats of Tindalos

Now that I am officially “old”, my back forces me to change my sleeping locations with depressing regularity. The offending room with the too firm/soft bedding is then either bricked up or cleaned out by a gang of grim char-women wearing self contained breathing apparatus and bearing flamethrowers; depending on the contents of my bank account and whim.

This migratory behavior through the bedchambers of the rambling, eldritch Von Scientist mansion has the added benefit of temporarily perplexing the cats.

“Tonight, we shall sleep on the fat one.” They invariably say to themselves in their inscrutable cat language. “He is both soft and warm.”

They wait until I am deeply asleep, then slink onto the forbidden bed. They position themselves carefully on the covers, playing Lilliputians to my Gulliver, while one will nuzzle my face.

“Ooh, ah, Gretchen, you minx, well, why not?” I answer from a dreamy half asleep state. It is just at this perfect moment that the evil little bastards choose to shatter my reality.

“HORK, HORK, HORK, HORK…” One of the cats is making a present for me to find with my bare feet.

“Notonthecarpet,youlittleBastard!” I shriek, trying to vault out of bed and carry the spasming creature to bare floor. Alas, I am firmly be-catted.

“HORK, HORK, b’Cwaaa-ACK!” Too late.

I suddenly realize that my face is being licked by a tongue that has of late, been delicately cleansing a felinary terminus.

Oh, where is the dog, my protector? She eventually arrives, and judging by her breath, has been mining the cat box for tootsie rolls. She too jumps on the bed to join in the slathering tonguely mayhem.

“Off, OFF, OFF, OFF!” Yells an awakened and furious Gretchen. To my horror, the edict includes me. I clean up the hairball and retire to the couch with blanket and pillow.

But sleep does not come. I know they are out there, stalking, waiting.


What a freaking pillock.

21 October 2005

Broad Banned

Well, that took a lot longer than anticipated, but now, thanks to a shiny new satellite uplink, I am now have broadband and therefore am the envy of my neighbors who know what a computer is and care about internet pornography.

While this rules out most people within a 20 mile radius (traditionalist “dead tree” types), I am sure that there must be one or two that will be irritated by my gloating, so here goes:


Gloat (smug smirk).

Now, those of you that live in cities are thinking “What’s the big deal? We have had broadband for years.” Well my friends, the deal is that I live amongst the hillbillies like Jane Goodall lived amongst the chimps, so I have had to deal with a dial-up connection that was only marginally better than two tin cans and a bit of string. And that's with two slow kids that can't keep the string taut.

So, what do I get, now that I have more antennas on my house than a Chinese spy ship trawler? Well more spam for one.

And a burgeoning case of carpal tunnel syndrome in my left wrist.

19 October 2005


So the boss wants me to take some clients golfing. Not mini-golf mind you, that I can do since you are supposed to be drunk, but real golf.

Now I’ve been golfing before, and I put up a damned good score, if I happened to be bowling. This sad experience leads me to believe that golf was invented by a group of drunken, sadistic Scotsmen who would whack a wee ball, walk a lot, drink some whisky, repeat the process until they were all well sozzled and firmly ensconced in Whitehall.

This, and the youth of today, explains the sorry state of the Empire which can barely hold on to a few sorry bits of foreign soil. (N.B. Should you Brits want New Jersey back, we can make a deal.)

Think I’m full of it? Consider the golfing nomenclature:

Irons and woods: An S&M loving Scotsman’s dream.

Wedge: Painful life lesson involving elder sibling and one’s underwear.

Sand-trap: See “Wedge” and add a handful of grit.

Water hazard: Painful life lesson involving elder sibling, commode and one’s head. (See “Swirlie”.)

Hole-in-one: Yikes!

Replacing the divot: Well, you get the picture.

If we don’t stop these mad Scotsmen they’ll take over the world, mark my words!

Do you really want to see statues of this
fellow in every city?

18 October 2005

Die, glurge, die!

Here's a nifty little bit of glurge stomping at the Blandwagon.

And if anybody sends me pics of puppies or kittens, so help me, I'll glass 'em.

Well, why the Hell are Evil Geniuses so thick?

Twenty Major is off on a tear, and once again he’s right as rain. Too many so called “Evil Geniuses” are guilty of the rankest stupidity, vapidity and self-aggrandizement.

I place the blame firmly on academia. For far too long, so-called “Evil Professors” have been lowering the bar to make themselves look better. What are these twit’s qualifications? Ooh, they’ve slept with their students. They’ve fudged data to show that SUV’s help the environment… Big, freakin’ deal.

I’ve slept with their students too, and written reports that prove that asbestos is a great additive for asthma inhalers. Does that make me evil? No, but inventing the zombie drug that forces elderly people to become War-mart greeters, when inside they desperately yearn for escape so that they can return to their homes and tell those damn kids to STAY OFF THEIR LAWN! … well, that’s a step in the right direction. So is convincing War-mart to put a restaurant in front of their registers because every customer must want to eat in the same place where they buy their underwear.

And don’t get me started on how to handle law enforcement. Jesus, people, when the “double-O” types come for you, all you gotta do is shoot them in the back and bung their corpses into quick-lime, lava or your laboratory black hole. Don’t, for evilness sake, reveal your entire plan, then leave him dangling over piranhas/rotating saw blades/Michael Jackson while your strumpet looks on in pity. That’s just begging for an escape, plan foiling and an eventual 9mm/lava/liquid helium high colonic.

No, if you really must indulge in that touchy-feely exposé crap, save it for Oprah.

Or better yet, send in an Evil Scientist robot and have it blow up the whole damn set.


El Barbudo responds:

Well it's all your fucking fault Dr Evil fucking Scientist. Evil geniuses (geniui?) get as far as they do because of their charisma and the force of their personality. Then they get the scientist to do the actual work of creating the lethal virus/killer ray/poodle. The Evil Scientist, who may be a great deal more intelligent, is just a follower who acts on instructions and has no fucking personality whatsoever.You have to remember Dr E, there are those who say "build me a world destroying killer poodle" and there are those who build them. Where are your fucking leadership skills? You're weak Dr E; weak I say!

16 October 2005

The old men and the sea

“Behold the fisherman:
He riseth up early, and disturbeth the entire household.
Mighty are his preparations.
He goes forth full of hope.
When the day is far spent, he returneth smelling of strong drink,
and the truth is not in him.”

(Gluteus Maximus, “Mea navicula pendens anguillarum plena est”, 323AD).

”Let’s have tempura halibut tomorrow night!” Exclaimed Becky, who happens to be the beautiful, charming and infinitely patient wife of the Putz. Coincidentally, she also has the ability and to commit legal battery in biblical proportions; up to and including sending folks to the happy farm.

We were anxious to please her, believe me; but the portents were ominous. There was a small craft advisory. Mercury was in the house of Venus. The moon was surrounded by a green ring and the dog had eaten the prime rib. Well, not eaten exactly; the roast was too big for that. Bereft of a carving knife, Shadow could only chew the roast frantically like a massive wad of bubble gum; her frenetic efforts spraying gobbets of fat and huge ropes of saliva which festooned the kitchen cabinets and floor like the guts of a Santorini priest’s chicken.

Besides, we had to get up at 3AM. Nothing doing.

So, well before dawn we were on the 34 foot skiff-hulled aluminium “Can-Can”. Case would take us 75 nautical miles down Stephen’s passage to the five finger reef. There, he promised, we could sate our fishy blood lust.

Now, 75 nautical miles is normally a four hour trip, but Case was willing to get us there in three, as long as we didn’t care if a few of our fillings were slammed loose.

A whale giving us "the fluke". Rude bastard.

We anchored off five-finger reef and rigged the halibut poles. Around us humpies blew, broached and dove in search of their own chow. We wished them well and concentrated on our own dinner. Soon I had a strike, and was happily reeling in a halibut. Or, so I thought. Turns out I’d caught a championship sized double-ugly. That is, if anyone cared to rate double-uglies. They don’t taste very good, and are covered with venomous spines. If you ever want to see three grown men dance about like a bunch of spastic crack-addled river-dancers, just put them on the deck of a small rocking boat and throw a large pissed-off venomous fish into their midst.

Muwahaha! There'll be halibut tonight, my fish challenged friends!

Or not. I'll shut up now.

After catching and releasing three more of the ugly brutes, we decided that we ought to move on. We attempted to raise the anchor, but it was jammed and the windlass froze up. Oh happy day! After breaking the anchor free by engine brute force we hauled it up by hand. Without the anchor, the sea proved too snotty to pole-fish.

“Not to worry.” Case said. “I’ve got king crab pots in Wyndam bay. We'll do crab tonight.”

Brilliant! After an hour of kidney punishing pounding, we arrived at Wyndam bay. We rigged the crab pot lifter and lifted up about 100 feet of line before the pot puller also seized. Unburdened by a plethora of common sense, Putz enthusiastically proposed that we pull the put by hand. Similarly bereft of reason, we agreed.

We pulled up about 50 more feet of line before giving up (the pots empty weigh in at 200lbs empty and were laid in 480 feet of water). Yes, we wussed out.

However, if Case would push the boat to its spine-jarring limits, we could get back in time to buy some halibut and crab at Cosco and no one would be the wiser. Case did so, and we disembarked to get the sea food.

First, we stopped to catch the two-for-one happy hour shot special at the Red Dog; purely as a precaution against the chills, mind.

Late that eve, we returned to Becky triumphantly, brandishing the traditional Alaskan fruits of the sea; take-out Chinese.

07 October 2005

And now for something completely different...

A week in Alaska. I am unlikely to be posting, unless I can find a salmon with WiFi.

Or, perhaps a moose.

Parking Mad

Irish Bob recently recounted a story to me. He was driving through Manhattan in a sweat because he had an important meeting with one of our more loaded clients and couldn't find a parking place. Looking up toward heaven, he said "Lord, take pity on me. If you find me a parking place I will go to Mass every Sunday for the rest of my life and give up whiskey, ponies and loose women." Incredibly, an open parking place appeared. Irish Bob looked up again.

"Never mind.” He says. “I found one."

06 October 2005

Pennsyltuckian haute cuisine

And you lot complain about British cookery.

O tempora, o mores!

What sort of depraved vulgarian would be so crass as to give an overly informative blow-by-blow description of his colonic infestation?

Well, me, of course. However, this has all changed, thanks to a massive infusion of tinidazole. Today the dam held. The town is saved. No more poo blogging. My world no longer revolves around my gigantic arse.

And a good thing too; it was a decaying orbit.

05 October 2005


During the conversion to haloscan I lost all my lovely insults. Please use this opportunity to vent your spleen, you stinking bastards.

04 October 2005

Ample Sample

I call into my GP and request a phone-in prescription for an anti-protozoan drug.

“No can do.” Comes the reply. “We need a stool sample.”

“You’re thirty f$%&ing minutes away!” I shout back. “I’ll be giving you the sample from my car seat!”

The bastards do not budge, so I drive in. When I get there, the place is buttoned up. “Out to lunch” the sign says. I call the Doc’s mobile.

“Hello. Where would you like your sample? Through the mail slot, perhaps?”

They demure. Apparently they are at a medicinal to-do at one of the fancier restaurants in town. I can, they suggest, bring the sample there.

“I’m not bringing a sample into a restaurant; besides, I haven’t a sample vial with me. I understood that my healthcare provider would supply them.”

“Zip-lock baggies.” Is the reply. I am to tuck one discretely under the wiper of Doc’s Mercedes 500CL. So I gamely drive on; buy a box of baggies and pull into the restaurant parking lot. Of course, this being a gathering of doctors, there are 8 freaking 500SL’s in the parking lot.

Sod it. I am not walking into a restaurant with a merry “Hey, hoo! This bag of shite is for Dr. Yu!”

I’ve got enough baggies for all eight Mercedes. A quick trip behind the dumpster, I do the deed and tuck the bags under the wiper blades.

I get home, (none too soon,) and shortly the phone rings; I have my prescription.

“You did the parasitological screening that fast?” I ask.

“No, all four of us got your quart baggies, so I figured you did, in fact, have a genuine need.”

“Um, only four? Who did the other Mercedes belong to?” I start to sweat.

“Oh, a group of lawyers I think.” She replied. “Why?”

I stand mute, listening to the first drops of rain patter against the window panes.

Oh, the Humanity!

Now, I've f@#$ing done it. I migrated to Haloscan and managed to delete all the old comments prior to migration.

All of your hard work, your genius, your beer fired rage, gone; dashed to shards with a few careless key clicks. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. How can I make it up to you? Liquor? Dancing girls? Yankees voodoo dolls?

Let me know; not that I'll actually do anything that requires significant any effort on my part.

Besides, now you won't have to type in the stupid "qwkjht" codes.

03 October 2005

I'm a rocket man, Rocket MAAAN!

I brought back all of the usual souvenirs from central Asia; silk and woolen carpets, cunning wood carvings, intricate copper work, Matryoshka dolls of the current dictator “Beloved Leader” (internal dolls showing him in his KGB uniform; the innermost being a small but functional bomb), painstakingly calligraphed and illuminated Arabic miniatures and of course, Giardiasis.

I should have known better; I am a seasoned traveler (literally, during a trip to Papua, N.G.). I know better than to drink beer that comes in bottles with hand written labels, but they were the last dozen on the shelf. The bartender assured me that this was a special authentic central Asian beer; brewed naturally from mare’s milk in the semi-cleaned lower intestinal tract of a not-so-recently deceased yak.

He further intimated that this was the secret of Genghis Khan’s remarkable success. The Horde, after drinking this “Beer” would storm any wall, destroy any gate, run-over any small child, in order to get to a loo.

It turns out he was telling the truth. Anyone want a bottle? I've got some left.

And that's the way I likes it.