May God damn you, Hitch

And in the end, when the Cosmic Barkeep has flicked on the house lights and I’ve tossed back my final gulp of the sweet nectar that is oxygen, when I stumble bleary-eyed out the exit doors of Ye Olde Moertle Coyle and tumble wretchedly into the back alley of damnation, it is your face, Mr. Hitchens, that I wish to see brightening that damp corner of Hades reserved for we heathen unbelievers, holding aloft a bottle of that most notorious Speyside single malt and bellowing “There is no last call ‘round these parts, lad!”