I just this weekend came into receipt of a parcel containing four pristine bottles of premium Ceylon Arrack—a total 700 cL of a satisfyingly salubrious Sri Lankan aqua vitae.
This has remained my primary eventide elixir since I found it as a gift-wrapped oblong box before the steps of my roommate's portico. From just a cursory coup d'œil of the thing, diaphanously bedecked with déshabillé and shamelessly exposing all that glorious grace that was the dilapidated condition and awkwardly crude placement of the conspicuously defiled delivery. This left no small blot on the postal service's escutcheon, and the perpetrator of this postal peril should be viciously beaten with a blunt metal instrument until barely conscious and left soggy and drenched, severely disfigured, and slowly drowning facedown in an ankle-deep, sanguine, viscous puddle of congealed blood.
an apparent victim of an incautious and crass merry-andrew of a mailman with no obvious capacity to distinguish between the gentle placement of something and caroming it onto concrete with a shockingly unnecessary degree of violence. What did the postmaster envisage happening by having entrusted the parcel's transport to a incautious, careless, and crass mentally unhinged merry-andrew of a mailman? Luckily, the contents were unscathed. But I'm not sure which I'd rejoice more over: the consumption of this delectable imported libation or actually having this stupid, clodhopping cocksucker of a courier break the bottles to bits just so I can revel in a rhubarb with this repugnant rubecatching cathartic pelting
It was meant just as an amicable gratuity, and vouchsafed by a close confrère (a fellow debaucherous dipsomaniac and brazon bon vivant, currently half a world away for a homeland habitation spent partaking of the joys of family and hearth, whilst jauntily living out the epilogue of a year-long sabbatical),
This has remained my primary eventide elixir since I found it as a gift-wrapped oblong box before the steps of my roommate's portico. From just a cursory coup d'œil of the thing, diaphanously bedecked with déshabillé and shamelessly exposing all that glorious grace that was the dilapidated condition and awkwardly crude placement of the conspicuously defiled delivery. This left no small blot on the postal service's escutcheon, and the perpetrator of this postal peril should be viciously beaten with a blunt metal instrument until barely conscious and left soggy and drenched, severely disfigured, and slowly drowning facedown in an ankle-deep, sanguine, viscous puddle of congealed blood.
an apparent victim of an incautious and crass merry-andrew of a mailman with no obvious capacity to distinguish between the gentle placement of something and caroming it onto concrete with a shockingly unnecessary degree of violence. What did the postmaster envisage happening by having entrusted the parcel's transport to a incautious, careless, and crass mentally unhinged merry-andrew of a mailman? Luckily, the contents were unscathed. But I'm not sure which I'd rejoice more over: the consumption of this delectable imported libation or actually having this stupid, clodhopping cocksucker of a courier break the bottles to bits just so I can revel in a rhubarb with this repugnant rubecatching cathartic pelting
It was meant just as an amicable gratuity, and vouchsafed by a close confrère (a fellow debaucherous dipsomaniac and brazon bon vivant, currently half a world away for a homeland habitation spent partaking of the joys of family and hearth, whilst jauntily living out the epilogue of a year-long sabbatical),