Every morning, when I wake up in my 1987 Cadillac Allanté, I go swig-for-swig off a bottle of Pepto Bismol and the cocksucker-red flavor of Mad Dog 20/20 before my mail is delivered by a young Laotian man named Haimi, which I guess is Lao for "the seeker".
As that rotund knight, Dan Daily is every ample inch the shameless pragmatist, a cowardly braggart who makes no bones about his preference for swigging sack over defending king and country.
Plus of course Rooney smokes and drinks, as confirmed again this week by news of his appearance at a wedding reception at the Grove hotel in Watford in the wee hours of Sunday when, presumably unable to locate the hotel ice baths, Rooney settled instead for swigging red wine and generally behaving in an agreeable if slightly goonish fashion.
Black flies (I think they're black flies) and mosquitoes have lain in wait for me to stop for a swig of Gatorade.
Well, what better reason for another swig from a hip flask?
To pace ourselves, we take five-minute breaks every hour for a swig of water.
A runner sucks or bites down on the tube's valve for a swig.
He pauses for a swig of tea, and he's off again.
As the evening wore on, young women, among them the Duck's press representative, clambered or were reluctantly pushed onto the bartop; some danced with bravado while others swayed unsteadily, occasionally leaning down for a swig of white wine.
At one point I stopped for a swig of water, and when I slapped at the whining mosquitoes that danced on my neck and hands, I slipped and slid over some tumbled pieces of rock, grabbed at branches to stop my fall, and landed just in front of a bas-relief of warriors, maidens and fish alive in stone.
There's even a subtle hop bite at the end of each sip that keeps you reaching for another swig.
