During the early 1800s in New Orleans, Antoine Peychaud developed the original recipe for the Sazerac. Although first produced with its namesake brandy, over the years the recipe evolved* to include rye whiskey and later bourbon as the primary spirit. This is a waste of perfectly good bourbon that would be better consumed over ice or in the form of a Manhattan, so we use Crown Royal in our Sazeracs here at the Prizzo Skeezy.

Friday evening, after about four Sazeracs, I headed over to the Hair of the Dog event at the Leopard Lounge. Soon after arriving, I ran into recurring Propeller Skies character Trey and chilled at the bar with him for a while. While I was at the bar, I ordered a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale (SNPA) from the. Hottest. Bartender. Ever. Just to be clear, she was smokin’ hot. I think her name was Natalie, or maybe it was Elena. Or it could have been Magdalena. Whatever, the important point here is that she is incredibly hot. However, her stunning hotness did not make the beer taste any better than usual.

After hanging with Trey and drooling over Natalie, Elena, or maybe Magdalena for a while, I headed outside and chatted with Jane, Eric, and a few other people I knew. After ordering a few more SNPAs from the hottest bartender ever, I was out of loot and starting to get bored. So, I decided to head home.

On my way out, I ran into Jacqui, who was just arriving. She bought me a beer, so I changed my mind and stayed. We hung out and talked for a while. I wandered off to use the facilities.

On my way back, I somehow got stuck talking to a teacher. Teachers are the worst, because all they do is go on and on about their flippin’ jobs. Their favorite topics are [1] I work so hard and [2] I don’t get paid dick. Look, the last time I checked Georgia is a right to work state, so quit fucking whining and get a job that pays better and requires less work. After what seemed like eternity, the teacher went looking for her friend and I took the opportunity to ditch her.

As The Quiet One knows, a night of drinking is incomplete until a sign is stolen. On my way home, I noticed that the bourgeois art gallery across the street was having an event. I also noticed that their patrons are apparently retarded, because they posted an auxiliary sign directly across the street from the gallery. In keeping with tradition, I jacked the sign. Approximately three seconds after I liberated the sign, some tree-hugging hippie that worked for the gallery yelled, “excuse me.” I kept walking. He then yelled, “excuse me, that is our sign.” I took off running. Punk ass hippie never even had a chance of catching up.

notes:

* Except in Cobb County, where the recipe experienced gradual changes over time.