At the International Musicians Conference, a teenage rocker and an elderly composer of baroque minuets met at the bar:
“Tanqueray Malacca neat, please.”
“What is that shit?”
“This, young man, is the finest gin I have ever tasted.”
“Uh, yeah. Gimme a Pabst Blue Ribbon.”
The old man rolled his eyes. “There are layers of flavour, delicate sensations that help my mind drift from the cares of the day. That swill you’re drinking is literally liquid bread.”
The young man shook his head. “Hey man, lay off the hating. Moist is moist and I can down these easy.”
“Ugh. Philistine.”
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