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There’s this thing called götterdämmerung. The word doesn’t convey the type of excitement you have to muster when speaking the world aloud. You must say it deliberate, staccato speak, very quickly, and at the top of your voice. It’s pronounced just like it’s spelled. Everyone try it with me. On the count of three. 1, 2, 3-

GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG!

Okay, that was good, but it could have been better. I worked extra hard to find out how to get the fucking umlauts above the O and the A, the least you could do is put some muscle into it. Weider! Eins, Zwei, Drei-

GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG!!!!!

Jah, zehr gut, zehr gut. Mag ich berëhre Ihren kleinen Mann?

So anyway, götterdämmerung is defined as “a turbulent ending of a regime or an institution.” Hell, I don’t care if it means “a dirty adult diaper,” the shit is just fun to say. Anyway, I’m undergoing my own personal götterdämmerung. No regime or institution is ending, but rather my good feelings about certain people and places are ending. Vague, I know, but purposefully so. I don’t want you, my faithful readers, dredging up this missive decades from now, when I’m running for public office, and airing my skid-mark stained laundry. Of course, I’ve already said enough stupid shit ’round these parts to get me shot in some countries, so I suppose it’s a moot point already. Still, I’ll err on the side of caution.

Anyway… I revealed my götterdämmerung to ein health care professional, who gave me some Happy Little Helpers, and then told me that I could no longer imbibe the Goode Drinke. Apparently, the Happy Little Helpers and the Goode Drinke will wage violent, bloody war on the battlefield of my liver.

Many moons ago, when stress was just a human resources buzzword to me and money was plentiful, I would drink only in celebration. Current moon, I drink for just the opposite. Now I must stop, for whatever the reason, and I’m asking you all, next time you pick up a drink – say a toast and celebrate.

Part of the joy of drinking, at least in my opinion, is in the pageantry. Thoughtfully smelling the bouquet of a wine in a sparkling glass and critiquing the taste… bragging about the oldest scotch you ever drank… the indulgent salt-lick/gulp/lemon-squeeze of a shot of tequila… ordering a round for the bar… the way cold beer and hot summer days go together like… well, hell, nothing go together quite like cold beer and hot summer days. And the greatest of all the pomp is the toast.

I scoured the hallowed halls of learning and knowledge and poured over countless tomes for these toasts. (Read: I spent about ten minutes on Google.) I want you to commit your favorite one to memory, sans my grating commentary, and next time you’re out with your mates, raise your glass and say it loud.

“May you be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows you’re dead.”

“May you live as long as you like, and have all you like as long as you live.”

“My heart is as full as my glass when I drink to you, old friend.”

“May the saddest day of your future be no worse than the happiest day of your past.”

“May the grass grow tall on the road to hell for want of use.”

“May you live to be a hundred years with one extra year to repent.”

“May misfortune follow you the rest of your life, but never catch up.”

I found lots of “rhymes” that all seemed pretty stupid. This one is no exception, but I like it all the same.

“Rye bread will do you good;

Oaten bread will strengthen your arm.”

British naval tradition boasts a whole set of toasts that are given in the officer’s mess. I could write a whole other essay on just how naughty “officer’s mess” sounds to me right now, but for now let’s just assume it’s the dinner table where all of the officers dine, which it is. Each day of the week the officers offer up a different toast. They are as follows:

Monday: To our ships at sea

Tuesday: To our men

Wednesday: To ourselves (as no one else is likely to concern themselves with our welfare) (parenthetical addition part of toast, not my commentary)

Thursday: To a bloody war or a sickly season (I’ve never been much of a sailor… hell, I get scared in the deep end of the pool… so perhaps I’m just ill-informed, but aren’t bloody wars and sickly seasons things that sailors wouldn’t be crazy about?)

Friday: To a willing foe and sea room (alright, just what in the fuck is a “sea room”? They’re just making shit up now.)

Saturday: To sweethearts and wives (may they never meet) (again, parenthetical addition theirs not mine)

Sunday: To absent friends

I found these two German toasts which were just too adorable not to share. Fucking adorable, they are. I will point out that it is nearly imperative that you are drinking some sort of extremely chewy beer from a pewter stein before launching into one of these.

“Erst mach’ dein’ Sach, dann trink’ und lach!” (“First take care of business, then drink and laugh!”)

“Solange man nëchtern ist, gefëllt das Schlechte. Wie man getrunken hat, weiss man das Rechte.” (“When one is sober, the bad can appeal. When one has taken a drink, one knows what’s real.” A-fucking-men.)

In closing, I’ll leave you with this quote from Fight Club, which is what I always use as a toast. Tyler (Brad Pitt) uses this as one of his oft-repeated mantras to brainwash and build the Paper Street Soap Company. I don’t think this line appears in the final cut of the movie, but it is in the deleted scenes on the DVD and on the soundtrack.

“This is your life, good to the last drop.”

This coming from a guy who makes soap out of plundered human fat. Classy.