Monday, December 31, 2007
Happy New Beer!
Just as crusaders once cried "Saint Michael!" to invoke their patron, so do we cry to invoke ours. And he does come, golden like a kwitis tail, guided to the bottlefield by the torotots of war.
Of course we celebrate. In fact, we not only cry gold, we even whine white and red. And as we feast and debate on whether or not tomatoes are a legal candidate for the dozen, we only look at and only listen to how people have worked fire this year: into p5 rockets, into p250 Judas belts, into p500 Dragon's Shooting Stars (tm?). And we revel, for we have saved much this night (tm!).
All breaks loose when the bell finally tolls: cars and cardboards scream in discordant unison, cloth is suddenly down with chickenpox, and children turn into kangaroos. Everyone must participate in the ritual; rodents, despite their small size, are nevertheless difficult to summon.
After the revellion, the air is thick with soot. So much soot, in fact, that if you listen hard enough, right before he goes to sleep, you can hear Dad's old lungs sigh.
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