A Brief History of Whiskey


Short of drinking the flames and blood of Drogon, the largest of Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons, consuming whiskey is the manliest thing one can do. Whiskey has been for centuries the drink of deep thinkers, thoughtful loners and recovering alcoholics who have fallen off the wagon.

Here with a brief history of the spirit is Squire Eric Ortega, for whom whiskey is water and water is simply water.

Pictured: Not Eric Ortega

If my short time as a consumer of many alcoholic beverages has taught me anything, there are at least two types of drinkers: those who know the history of the alcohol they imbibe, and those who buy a big ass plastic bottle of Kamchatka Vodka with the handle on the side. That is an oversimplification but the sentiment slightly rings true. For the purposes of examination, let us take whiskey. There is nothing more manly and American than having a good swig of Jack or Beam, but the drink is not uniquely American. The family tree of distilled beverages may reach as far back as ancient Mesopotamia, but the whiskey that we recognize today as the one on BevMo shelves or going into your Old Fashioned likely arose in 15th Century Ireland and Scotland.

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Large Eyes, Small Body


As for diets, you can keep them. By you I of course mean myself. I should really start a diet, but as Tom Petty once said, “The waiting is the hardest part.” The waiting for the pounds to shed, the muscles to build. I’m sure this is what he was talking about.

Despite the lack of anything green in my refrigerator, it is true that I spent the better part of yesterday planting cactus, which inadvertently sprouted the idea of aliens on my patio. Today All the Pretty presents Large Eyes, Small Body, about a human in search of nothing in particular.

Don’t forget to check out the latest in our series on beer by our resident Cicerone. You’re going to like the way you look.


“He’s spent the better part of the morning planting cacti,” said the creature known as Taum with an obscene amount of enthusiasm. This was his first visit to the Milky Way Galaxy, his mind bending in order to take in the scope of the only known galaxy teaming with humans. With his face pressed against the window of his pal’s intergalactic cruiser, Taum watched in awe at the mundane task laid out before the human several yards below.

“Most humans are boring like that, bro,” said Mully. “Can’t wait ’till my Dad turns this place into something useful.”

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Across the Pond and the Pint


Welcome our newest contributor, Bec Birch O’Neal. When she’s not traveling the world, she’s educating the masses on beer and the production of such. Now we’re becoming legitimate, like Pinocchio without the threat of burning in hell. This isn’t about your personal beliefs, take that up with the man upstairs. Let’s talk beer.

Beer is a currency paid out by the ounce. One pint is sixteen ounces. Adjusted for inflation, a pint is still sixteen ounces. It’s the only currency that remains steady as time progresses. For we Americans, the world of British beer is a mystery, and the same can be said for the English when approaching American styles. No worries. Let’s ask our resident Cicerone for a little help in bridging the gap.


Boredom in England comes in the form of a wet Sunday afternoon when the Yorkshire Puddings have run out and there’s nothing good on television. Your friend has invited you to the pub and you tell yourself you’ll be back in time to feed the cat.

“Same again?” the bartender asks.

“Sure,” you reply, questioning whether the cat has any biscuits left in its bowl.

You receive your 4th pint of a 3.8% ABV fizzy lager and it costs you £2.55.

WARNING: You have now entered into the BEER COMFORT ZONE.

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A New Lease on Life

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Hola, mi amigos. Como esta? I am practicing my Spanish. I grew up near to the border, so I have a head start on that as it is. This isn’t about me, though. Today we have a story comprised of want, needs and desires. You could call it the story of man, but you shouldn’t. It’s called A New Lease on Life.

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Jimmy Hendrix ripped in to Voodoo Child just as the bells began to ring, signaling the end of a period and the beginning of a Summer. Though he’d grown up on Hendrix, Zeppelin, Zappa, ELO, The Doors, he grew tired of the repetition — every classic rock station played the same forty tracks, and if it weren’t for his busted iPod that seemed to only play Hendrix, Zeppelin, Zappa, ELO or The Doors, he’d have moved on to something more shoegazey by now.

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Trevor Loves Candy


A woman in red is unaware that I've taken a creepshot.

What is it with models and modeling? Getting paid to stand around looking pretty is good work if you can find it, but now the market is over saturated.  Better luck next time, Ace. Is it okay if I call you Ace, or would you prefer Mr. Handsome? If I’ve come across as unprofessional, I apologize.

Anyway, here’s a story.

On the way home from his aerobics class, Trevor stopped at the local candy shop to reward himself for a job well done. He’d been attending a different fitness class every other day for the past two days. Now drenched with sweat, he believed himself to be worthy of a box of sweets.

Upon entering the shop, Trevor noticed something peculiar: a man in black standing against the far wall overlooking the taffy.

Too bad,” Trevor thought. “I really wanted to spend some time with the taffy. I’ll give him a few moments.

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Gamblin’ Gilroy


‘Twas midnight before I rendered myself conscious. Wen’t about gettin’ the drinkin’ done before I ought to go home, which ’twere a mistaken. Shoulda gone straight kajigger, turned ’round ’bout half way and realized I’d made my first mistake: drinkin’. Drinkin’ ’twas always my folly.


Gamblin’ Gilroy ’twas what they calls me, ’cause I always gamble with the drink. I’d never touched a pair of dice or a card in all my life, but the drink is what did me in, though I doubt I could turn away a card if I were to be offered, considerin’ the value therein.

My first run in with the law happened on a New Year’s day when I ’twas ’bout twenty. I took to the drink early in the morn’ only to find myself stricken with the devil’s grip, a rigor mortis of the soul after nigh on fourteen swigs of the elixir. Found myself in Mr. Herplip’s hattery, a placer where rich folk find themselves hatted one way or ‘nother.

In the tank they called me Gamblin’ Gilroy ’cause I gambled with the law and lost, though I never did touch a yonder card or die. I took to the name ’cause it kept me from the drink. I thought ’bout my sitcheeation day in and day out until I figured it were high time to move on, find myself a job and stay sober.

Now I’m on my 100th day away from the drink. Not a touch or lick of whisky hath touched these sinnin’ lips, hell, even water that’s been near a distillin’ plant ‘taint allowed ’round these parts.

They call me Gamblin Gilroy and I gambled with sobriety and won. ‘Till Delivish Devon showed up, offered me a drink in exchange for my 100 day coin. ‘Twas just a coin, I figured, hell I’d been good up ’till that point and ‘twaint nothin’ keepin’ me from bein’ sober after one swig.

Whatever lay in that bottle ’tweren’t a simple spirit. After one sip, my body took to the tongues and leapt about like a whirlin’ dirvish on the floor of a hot tin roof with a cat aside. I gave up my coin in exchange for that there bottle and err’ since I been on the bottle of Devilish Devon’s sauce.

I’m still Gamblin Gilroy, also known as Drinkin’ Daryl and Saucy McOnthesauce. Peter the Drinker and Billy Bumashot, “No Credit” Sam and ‘Taint Welcome ‘Round Here Skeet. I goes by many names but my real name is lost to me, given up with that 100 day coin.

Gamblin’ Gilroy is what I prefer, I guess.

Facebook Thinks I’m Gay


I have ignored it for too long, and now it is time that I’ve come out of the electronic closet. Facebook thinks I’m a gay gaming skeez, and I’d like to set the record straight, as it were.

Many years ago upon being Facebook indoctrinated, I never would have guessed that Mark Zuckerburg and his team of gremlins would choose my sexual preferences for me, as if I’m a generic character from Mass Effect with all of his attribute points set to flaming, when they should have been set to flame resistant.  Continue reading