Happy Birthday, Lewis Grizzard

Today, October 20, is the anniversary of the birth of our lord and savvy-ior, Lewis Grizzard.

There's an appreciation of Lewis by most everyone from the South. However, when you become a Georgia fan, you begin to understand an entirely new appreciation for the man and what he represented for every Dawg out there. Obviously, Dawg fans everywhere have shown him the love in return for his contributions.

We wouldn't be here without Lewis (or we might just have another ridiculous name), so we'd like to share one of our favorite columns from the man himself. Rather than being about football, it covers two other important things in life; stupid rules and whiskey.


Whiskey Nazis In The Night

It had been a long day. My head hurt. My neck hurt. My stomach hurt. Airplane food.
There had been the long flight after sitting at a typewriter for five hours and also talking to a man who said I needed more life insurance.

I told him what I needed was a beneficiary.

The cabdriver who took me from the airport to my hotel had been sullen. It was raining.

I checked into my hotel. Some silly looking little man gave me a card I was supposed to put in a slot in my door to get in my room.

Those things never work for me. Whatever happened to metal keys?

Before I went to my room, I decided to stop by the bar and get a drink to take up with me.

Just one. It might ease some of the pain and help get me to sleep.

I ordered my drink. The bartender brought it to me. I started to walk out of the bar with it. The bartender said, "You can't take that out of here."

I asked, "Why not?"

He said, "It's a rule."

I said, "Whose rule?"

He said, "It's just a rule. I don't make 'em, I just follow 'em."

I vas just following orders.

Then I knew whose rule it was - the Whiskey Nazis.

I'm against drinking and driving. I'm against anybody not old enough to have studied geometry drinking at all.

But you give the Whiskey Nazis some rope and they'll eventually hang you with it.

"Listen," I went on, "I understand about bars possibly being held responsible when a customer gets smashed and then goes out and runs into something or somebody in his car.

"But I'm just taking this drink up to my room."

"How do I know you aren't going to get in your car with it? There's an open-c ontainer law," said the bartender.

"How you know is, I don't have a car here," I explained. "I came from the airport in a cab driven by a jerk. I'm a registered guest here. Here's this little card they gave me to get in my room."

"You still can't take that drink out of the bar," the bartender said.

At that point I realized the simplest thing to do would be to leave the drink in the bar go to my room, and, if I could get in, order one from room serivce.

But, like I said, it had been a long day, and I've got a stubborn streak.

"Exactly what are you going to do if I walk out of here with this drink and take it to my room?" I asked.

"Call my manager," the bartender answered.

Probably a guy in jackboots.

I said, "So call your manager."

As the bartender went for the phone, I exited the bar with my drink, took the elevator and went to my room.

My card worked this time, and two minutes after leaving the bar I was alone in the room with my drink and nobody came later and kicked in my door and hauled me off to headquarters for interrogation.

The bartender and his manager didn't know my name nor my room number.

I had beaten the Whiskey Nazis.

You can't do this. You can't do that. Where will all this end?

I had my drink, went to sleep and dreamed the Speech and Thought Nazis got me for publicly agreeing with Sen. Ernest Hollings.

*taken from http://www.lewisgrizzard.com