Piss-water

Incidentally, [Richard] Feynman once told me, while we were watching some show, that fancy-shmancy mathematical physics as applied to physics is not worth “a bottle of piss-water”.

He leaned back in the rickety wooden chair, pulling from a brown quart bottle of Oriental Brew, the cheap local beer. Snorting, he swallowed hard. “No more of this nasty Korean piss-water, either.”

His life has no direction. There is no dynamic to his actions. His real estate is sitting there, he’s drinking piss-water, and that’s it!

“Try some American beer!” / “No way, it tastes like piss-water. You’ll never get in the mood for the game with such a beer.” / He smiled and he ordered a pitcher. And then came another one and another one. After five pitchers of piss-water, we got drunk.

It’s a bit more than a weird dream, I think before the image of a tequila-faced Antonio drinking piss-water at the edge of a pool flashes suddenly before me.

If he and Holy Halfai hadn’t tried to stone a woman just for dressing well, we wouldn’t be left drinking piss-water.