by EDGAR ALLAN POE
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In fact, the real Edens of the land lie far away from Drinkers Tavern — how very far, then, beyond the reach of the casual city hasher, who, having made arrangements with his liver for a certain amount of drink upon city streets, can hope to fulfill his agreement in no other manner than by quaffing, can in hand, through only the most beaten thoroughfares and thoroughbars of the city!
But, even of this delicious region, the sweeter imbibements are reached only by bypaths. Indeed, in America generally, the traveller who would behold the finest landscapes and finest forrest beers, must seek them not by the railroad, nor by the steamboat, nor by the stage-coach, nor in his private carriage, nor yet even on horseback — but on foot. He must run, he must leap ravines, he must risk his neck among precipices, he must follow the marks of Sex Toys for Tots and Silence of the Goats, or he must leave unseen the truest, the richest, and most unspeakable glories of the hash. And beer. Did I mention beer again?
A singular exemplification of my remarks upon this head may be found in the Wissahiccon, a brook, (for more it can scarcely be called) which empties itself into the Schuylkill, about six miles westward of Philadelphia proper and improper alike. He will thus strike the Wissahiccon, at one of its best reaches, and, in a skiff, or by clambering along its banks with 26 hashers, he can go up or down the stream, as best suits his fancy, and in directions scattered by our hares, will meet his reward. More light-footed hashers may delight in uncovering a wild Pantyphille emerging from the underbrush. More experienced, perhaps Three-Balled, hashers will endeavor to hash smarter, not harder. A concerningly geographically-challenged hasher may be struck dumb by the realization that the end location is the same as the start.
Now the Wissahiccon is of so remarkable a loveliness that it must be venerated with strong drink and strong song, some, provided by transplanted Road Runners, of the genitally-interactive variety. Its bounty so overcumming, some hashers may even find themselves announcing imminent offspring to share in its beauty.
Thus ended my romance of the Wissahiccon. Will someone please tell me how to get back to 1844?
- Edgar Allan Poe (2017 / 1844)