I DON'T drink beer often but, when I do, I don't prefer Dos Equis. I am the least interesting man in the world.

On my back porch as I write this, I do not have two attractive women leaning toward me in provocative enchantment at my every word, even as I sip my choice of beer, which is actually Newcastle Brown Ale. I have noticed, however, and I do not hesitate to relate that, with every swig, I do become more interesting.

Because my porch is unscreened, there is what sounds from his buzz to be a rather large fly orbiting around my head, one of my least favorite experiences that invariably causes me to think of my most favorite poet, Emily Dickinson, who wrote "I heard a Fly buzz when I died." I hope this doesn't mean I'm about to kick off.

I believe, now that I am on my second bottle of brown ale, that I am unarguably more interesting now than when I took my first swig. In fact, I am beginning to imagine two very attractive women, one on either side of me, leaning toward me enough to expose wonderful cleavage. I suspect that were I to verbalize my thoughts it would be in an enticing but obviously intelligent Hispanic accent.

The sagebrush plants near me have been trimmed of their lower growth which, to me, makes them more pleasant, like miniature trees. Since, as I have admitted often, I am unabashedly a tree hugger of long standing, this gives the sage a more appropriate appearance, like a rock star with long, scruffy hair, or lesbians with butch hairdos.

The second bottle of brown ale is now about 3/4 gone and I can tell you without fear of contradiction that I am more interesting. It is clear to me that I need not cavort with indigenous tribes in faraway places, or pull huge tarpon into a boat in the blue Atlantic, to be considered as the most interesting man in the world. In fact, to hell with this fakey Hispanic accent; I'm sticking with my unaffected, plain-talking man-on-the-street patois.

But the two gorgeous women sitting here with me have Hispanic accents and look like Selma Hayek.