Dear Luv Doc,
Me and my lady are getting out of Dodge before all hell breaks loose. I want to go to the mountains. She wants to go to the beach. Which one of us is right?
– Peacing Out of Pleasant Valley
I guess I should be thankful that you didn’t ask me to choose between cats and dogs, because that answer is also obvious: Dogs. Cats don’t drink vodka. Ask Tito. He didn’t become a billionaire by betting on pussycat owners. He met the devil at the crossroads (and by “the devil” I mean his marketing manager and by “the crossroads” I mean the water cooler in the Tito’s offices, which I think we can all safely assume are filled with … drumroll please … Tito’s) and the marketing manager said: “We can either be a vodka for dog people or a vodka for cat people, but we can’t be a vodka for both.” Marketing managers do that kind of shit. They create these random dualities and pretend like there’s no other alternative … like there can’t be goldfish people or ferret people, or snake people. Fucking snake people. You just know they have herpes. But anyway, the devil looked Tito dead in the eye and said “choose” and Tito searched his soul and made a decision he will have to live with for the rest of his days – or at least until he changes his mind. He said, “Dog people.” Well, specifically, he said “Tito’s is vodka for dog people,” thereby categorically eliminating his affiliation with pussy lovers across the globe.
Make no mistake. Tito’s is global. Global AF. Tito’s is the Michael Jordan/Muhammad Ali of vodkas. Tito’s bomaye! Well, so to speak. By the way, Tito’s is available in Kinshasa, which is the capital of the Democratic Republic of Congo – formerly Zaire, where Ali defeated Foreman in the “Rumble in the Jungle,” the prize fight that spawned the term “Ali bomaye!” The fight was originally promoted as “From Slave Ship to Championship” until Mobutu Sese Seko, then president of Zaire, who personally put up the prize money for the fight, had all the posters burned. It was Ali himself who came up with the name that stuck. Ali met the devil at the crossroads and his name was Don King, presumably no relation to the marketing manager at Tito’s. Nonetheless, Kinshasa! What a score! And I know what you’re thinking: “Kinshasa? What even is that?” This is why you’re not a billionaire: Kinshasa is the world’s 13th-largest city with a population that is more than six times that of Austin’s. Imma put this mic down right here. Gently. Because microphones are expensive.
The devil looked Tito dead in the eye and said “choose” and Tito searched his soul and made a decision he will have to live with for the rest of his days – or at least until he changes his mind.
So yeah, it’s a good thing you didn’t ask me something really ridiculous like, “Beatles or Stones?” or “Coke or Pepsi?” or “Slytherin or Hufflepuff?” because, like I said, the answer is obvious. Here’s why: I have never walked into a mountain tavern and had the bartender ask, “What kind of rum would you like in your piña colada?” – not because that is a preposterously ridiculous question: It’s Bacardi, and get your fucking foot off the furniture you pirate cosplaying pervert! No, I have never been offered a piña colada in a mountain tavern because mountain taverns are always out of pineapples, coconuts, and limes. Which begs the question: Are the mountains even a vacation at all, or just more work than you signed on for? You go to the mountains to make life harder for yourself. You’re pitching tents, cooking your own meals, shitting in a hole in the ground, waking up freezing at night and discovering all the air has leaked out of your mattress. Truly, just the thought of it is enough to risk having your foot taken off by a hungry hammerhead. Take your lady to the beach. You can save the mountains for when you’re hiding from the fascists.
Listen to The Luv Doc Podcast about this week’s Luv Doc column!This article appears in August 29 • 2025.
