You'd hope a man who loudly and publicly bragged that his binge-drinking kept the Yankee winning streak alive would have the nerve to show his face after "his" string snapped nearly 24 hours ago.
But even that faint longing denies the very essence of the alcohol crowd, those starving gluttons who must imbibe disgraceful amounts of foul-tasting, soul-deadening brews and distillations. For what could compel them thence but cowardice?
But be not afraid, El Duque. You did not fail, for you never had a hope to succeed. Indeed, to the drinker, success itself is a condition as foreign as the lawless interlopers who clean my houses and care for my lawns, their supple young flesh stretched taut over straining muscles. One maid in particular seemed quite interested in a dalliance with me at a time when my wife was out of state arranging care for an ailing relative. I told myself I was imagining things, that this big-busted tease could not have a sincere erotic interest in a man old enough to be her grandfather. But then I remembered that fame and money -- both of which I possess in great abundance -- can be aphrodisiacs in themselves. I thus had no choice but to arrange for the child's immediate deportation.
Back to my point. Guzzling gin like a whorehouse Irishman doesn't make you, or anyone else, a winner. Quite the opposite! Alcohol is the DNA of the craven invertebrate who foolishly wastes today's opportunities in order to shield himself from tomorrow's precious possibilities and yesterday's disturbing memories. Memories like those large dark eyes, her figure stooped over a marble coffee table, the sway of her breasts as she rhythmically swept the lemon-scented dust-cloth in widening circles over the glistening surface.