Bigot's gloom-laden face said it all. Sitting at the bar of the Slaughter House BC, he stared morosely into his glass of whiskey. Naturally, I felt so sorry for him as he seemed hopelessly trapped inside this self-made pit of despair, dejection and grief. With comforting words that embraced a tiny hint of empathy, I softly remarked : " Looks like you've got the whole world on your shoulders....."
A forlorn looking Bigot slowly looked up, and replied : " It's the curse of drink. When I get results like I've just had, I get angry. Real angry. The agony and torture I've just experienced this evening made me turn to the bottle well before the session was over. It was the drink that made me want to shoot my useless buffoon of a partner......but the real curse of alcohol is that it caused me to miss..... allowing the bastard to get away scot free......"
Well, there was no answer to that........
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