So pick up a bottle from behind the saloon bar, hold in big fist, pull out cork <squeak>, pour <glug glug glug> a generous half-glass brownish slugaroo, knock back in one, grimace but only just, wipe mouth with back of hand, feel the mix of capillary lotion and weedkiller scald the oesophagus and enter the stomach in a fiery ball, emit sharp sigh of satisfaction <haar>.

If you can't rant after that, there's no hope for humanity.

Merry !@#! Christmas, Izzy!