We thought we had seized on a brilliant plan to find our Hot Cowboy in eastern Oregon, based on knowledge gleaned from Disney movies and rom-coms. To wit: ride our bike on every desolate and sparsely-populated road in said eastern Oregon until we run into Hot Cowboy. Surely he’d see us zipping along charmingly in our spandexy bright clothing whimsically adorned with every bit of cold-weather cycling gear known to man (because it's cold as fuck out there in October), and stop to chat, right? Right?
 
No. That would be a no.
 
We’re not going to chalk this up to any deficiencies in our plan, nay, but rather the extremely slim pickings of available men basically everywhere.
 
So as we head into the holidays single and alone – again, still – we’re raising a glass to ourselves and saying “fuck it, more booze.” Join us, with these wee pickles in a combo of gin, lime, and mint. We’re putting the “fie” back into festive.
 
We’re not sure what that means, exactly, but that’s because we’re already drunk.