My pticheval was grey. And marroon, too. And it did get me to Paris. Where I now sit, sad hotel desk before me.
A bottle of Andechs Doppelbock smiles at me from the left of my keyboard. "Stop being such a tart, Andechs." She doesn't answer. Unsurprisingly. Few bottles of beer possess lips, much less the power of speech.
We'll be becoming much more intinately involved shortly. If I can get her to pop her top. These German birds.
C'est l'heure de dire bonsoir. Priez pour moi. Demain, il me faut faire quelquechose difficile. En utilisant mon pauvre Francais. Je suis perdu.
Whisky’s Role in Early Settlements - Whiskey in the St. Lawrence Lowlands Earlier, I have written of the vivid reminiscences of Walter B. Leonard, a retired showman from the North Country of N...
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