Word
I find myself the fine conasour of such fine, delicate beverages simply defined as malt liqueur. But when I journey to the local stores to pay my well earned $1.99 for an exquisite 40 oz. bottle of Steel Reserve 211 do I obtain the perfect transportatain device? NO! Instead I receive a blasphemous brown paper bag smaller than the purchase in hand. Do I intend to drink on the street corner while peddling small amounts of hashish. (Shakes head). NO! Nothing goes better, I say, with the pure $200 kobe rib than a tasty bottle of Mr. Old English. But does this wonderful bottle come with the fine carrying device such an astounding drink should be obtained with. No I cry. Give us what we good citizens deserve Mr. J and T Corner Liqueur store clerk. Give us something worthy of such worldly delicacy. So give me a damn black plastic bag so I can hide the fact that I'm an lush from my neighbors. Word.