I once loved the milky white viscous flow emanating from my torrent phallus. Walking into the Tube is like skipping to chapter 1-2 on the Clockwork Orange DVD without the satisfaction. One would want to love the Tube for its modern decor, dim lights, and undeniable musical chalice; once you are seated, however, you quickly realize how bent over you are awaiting the inevitable white gloved finger to exploit all your weaknesses and make you hate everything you love about drinking beyond reasonable means. For this I simply say, "Fuck you, Tube! Fuck you."