Six dead people we wouldn’t have a drink with (Even though they’re awesome)
He ousted the British using only abstract concepts. He basically said “Nyah Nyah” to every school bully who shouted “You’re gay for not fighting.” He was the man, a beacon of hope, a figure of inspiration, a leader of men. Would we grab a cold one with him? Er, we already have plans. We’re cool with the Mahatma being a vegetarian, but he’s the judgmental sort of vegetarian which means that every bite of chicken would go down with a reproving lecture on foods that give you “a happier existence”. And oh he didn’t drink (we were getting there, smartass) which means his “cold one” would probably be a ….water. Not cool.
Sharanya; Hi Helen, karaoke?
*writes on hand*
Lit students everywhere: Five words: Tradition and the Individual Talent. Yep, there’s that familiar pang of annoyance. This is not literature, that is not literature. Hey Mr. Choosey-beans, come on man. TS Eliot was brilliant but he’s also a snob and incredibly hard to please. That works well, if you like your drinks with a big side helping of I’m-more-intelligent-than-you-sucker. Which we don’t.
Lennon forms a quarter of a big old pie of super awesome. He is a treasure. But as a drinking buddy, he is the equivalent of that nauseating guy that just got dumped and won’t stop talking about it.
Imagine there is no buzz; it’s easy if you try. Nothing to drink or dance for, John is sappy and a bore. See, thinking of drinking with Lennon is making us rhyme. We hate rhyming.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Charming. Creative gold. Well-dressed. Impeccable prose (almost poetry) to his credit. He knew his cocktails. And he definitely knew a thing or two about partying, yes, yes. Oh, but his choice in women. He’d probably babysit his all-over-the-place-but-engaging-wife right in the middle of my “Nick Carraway was the perfect flawed narrator” speech. Damn. So close.
If you like running all around a bar trying to stop a crazy lady from breaking bottles, jumping on a bar and throwing fries in the air, go ahead and ask Sylvia Plath for a drink.
P.S – If she suggests you go oven shopping, run.