Mr. Robin gets to the bottom of most of our social ills...and, strongly recommends locking your children in the basement of a church!

Gather round my fellow babies. CCB is here to continue what we started yesterday. Namely, a rant about the dangers of flavored alcoholic beverages.

Something for which I, Mr. Robin, have personal knowledge, which I will relate as a public service.

You see, there was a time, back in the day, I think it was New Year’s Eve 1974 when there wasn’t anything for teenagers to do in Cosmic City. Not like it is now where an angry mob of parents lock their kids in a church basement all night.

There happened to be a home west of town where the parents stayed upstairs and the kids could party in the walk-in basement downstairs. Hey, it was 1974!

And, because it was 1974, Mr. Robin had gotten a brand new powder blue leisure suit. Mr. Robin was hip. Mr. Robin was hot. Mr. Robin weighed all of 120 lbs soaking wet and looked like a stick wrapped in powder blue material. Leisure suits were all the rage back in the day. Now, they sell them as Halloween costumes for people who want to dress like a geek-pimp from the 70’s.

So, at said party at said residence west of town mass quantities of alcoholic beverages were being consumed. Mr. Robin became rather partial to the Cherry Vodka, at first mixing it with 7-Up, but as the evening went on, it was Cherry Vodka straight from the bottle.

At some point, around 1AM, Mr. Robin’s friends helped him into the backseat of a car driven by a close friend who wasn’t quite as drunk as Mr. Robin.

Suddenly, the whole locking kids in a church basement doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.

Back into town we went before driving to the home of a friend whose mom wouldn’t let him out of the house. We saw lights on in the rec room of the house. Our friend and his brother were still up playing pool on a table they received for Christmas.

I no sooner crawled from the back of the car and standing in the snow began spewing cherry vodka everywhere…particularly down the front of my brand new powder blue leisure suit jacket. Tsk, tsk, tsk. The snow by the way is now crimson.

Thank goodness the people at whatever cleaners that was down north of the tracks…Hunter’s, I think…were able to get the stain out of that material. Somehow Mr. Robin got through that episode without the parents finding out.

Now, you’re probably asking yourself why the hell I’m digging up ancient history and revisiting the sins of Cosmic City (and me) back in the day?

First of all, it’s to encourage parents to lock up their children in a church basement. I would start Christmas Eve and not let the little f*^$ers out until Jan. 3rd. They’ll be fine. Let them eat communion crackers and drink grape juice (assuming they’re Methodists).

Secondly, yesterday CCB exposed the blatant ruination of perfectly good whiskEy by a bunch of demented, atavistic Canadians who thrill in adding cinnamon oil to the golden liquid. AND THEN, have the gall to pack it away in Mylar balloons stuffed inside of a box. Perverts.

So today, we’re going to show near-scientific proof, we’re talking empirical nirvana here, of flavored alcohol rotting brains. It’s a conspiracy man!

Take for instance, the case of a 30 year old woman in Florida (recently reported by the Huffington Post web site) with the last name Schmude who allegedly ran afoul of the law by allegedly driving drunk.

Of course, with the last name Schmude, she probably had good reason to drink and drive. After all, when you run low on the booze you have to get more…am I right? It’s not like 911 is going to send Officer Friendly over to your house with a fresh re-supply.

So, Ms. Schmude, has an accident while allegedly driving drunk. The cops get there and find that she is topless and has her jeans pulled down mid-thigh. The officer on the scene noted that the inside of the vehicle reeked of alcohol. Hmmmm…our first clue (take notes people).

At the hospital, the officer read her rights and informed her that she was under investigation for DUI. She allegedly became combative at that point and went on a 20 minute rant before mercifully passing out. Finally, she wakes up and belches loudly. The ER bay filled with the smell of alcohol.

She allegedly began licking her lips and moaning and offering the officer present sex if he would let her go. Second clue!

In the end, she alledgedly admitted to drinking quite a bit of Ciroc. AHA! Pay dirt!

For those of you who are not as worldly or socially hip as Mr. Robin, Ciroc is a stupidly expensive flavored vodka made with French grapes. You can get Ciroc in apple, pineapple, coconut, peach, and red berry flavors…barf.

Now most dedicated readers of this blog (all five of you) are likely expecting me to begin taking swings at the French or trying to tie the French and Canadians (perverts making the cinnamon flavored whiskEy) into some weird international conspiracy to zombify Americans (as if we aren’t already there).

But no, I’m not going to. Do you know who owns Ciroc? What manner of deviant bloodsucker it is that has left The Poor Dove Schmude with a mountain of legal problems and a hangover that would kill a bull elephant?

Why none other than Sean “P Diddy” Combs hisself. P Diddy, formerly known as Puff Daddy, Sean Puffy Combs, and for a time, just plain Diddy.

And, I know, the Republicans among you are raging now that I would blame an entrepreneur such as P Diddy, Puff Daddy, Puffy, and just plain Diddy for The Poor Dove Schmude’s troubles. After all, The Poor Dove Schmude was doing the drinking. I think if I were her attorney, I would make an impassioned plea that it really wasn’t her fault. That the system was to blame. After all, it’s not like 911 is going to bring you more Ciroc when you run out.

So, what have we learned over the past two days?

• Flavored alcoholic beverages suck and make you do crazy things.
• If you’re stuck with a weird last name, change it…before it’s too late.
• When you’re knee-walking drunk, remove your leisure suit jacket.
• It’s best to lock your children in a church basement over the holidays, unless of course you’re Catholic in which case they’ll eventually find the communal wine.
• Offering sex to a police officer is seldom a good idea (insert your own caustic comment about the OHP here).

That is all.
 

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