But lord, little doggies, damn if I’m not tired of intoxication. When happy hour hits, I dream about sipping a nose-tingling glass of Seltzer Ronnie’s finest, or perhaps nipping an ice-cold Diet Coke. It’s refreshment with a kiss of caffeine! Nonetheless, no one ever wants to split a frosty DC. My compatriots want me to guzzle beer till my consonants turn butter-soft.

When the beer offers flood in around 5 p.m., I’ll fake-protest, like a coquettish teen on prom night. (“I think this is a bad idea… but I like bad ideas.”) Then I’ll snap like a twig beneath a hunter’s foot. After all, there’s lots to love about a post-work pick-me-up. Unlike, say, kicking puppies or punching storefront windows, sipping a beer with friends is a socially acceptable tactic to blow off steam. A beer soothes live-wire nerves and creates a liquid kinship.This allows you to un burden your troubles to a friend who, thanks to that sixth beer, won’t remember a word. It’s safe psychotherapy for emotional cripples, aka mankind.

Among friends and under the influence, it’s OK to exclaim, “I sometimes fantasize about smashing my bicycle into joggers who run in the bike lane.” But among colleagues and superiors, being an unvarnished conversationalist is about as smart as skinnydipping in the Gowanus Canal. It’s impossible to hold your liquor and your tongue.

Thus, you understand last week’s problem: The men who wanted me to drink held my journalistic future in the balance.

“Hold on, hold on—you’re a journalist who wants a future?” you ask, incredulous. “You should be happy to eke out a Dickensian existence on the merits of your adjectives and pronouns.”

Though the joys of toiling as a freelance journalist in a freefalling profession are le gion—growing chunks of my days are spent puttering around in pajamas, finger-scraping peanut butter from a jar—I do dream about a flush future when, say, I can purchase my own TP instead of pilfering it from bars and restaurants. Bold hopes, I know. But this fantasy felt incredibly attainable thanks to an email flashing in my inbox: “We’re looking for someone to write a book about beer,” read a publishing company’s inquiry.

Holy smoked sausage! This was my chance to be an honest-to-god drunken author and legitimize my drinking! I’m not just a drunk, Mom and Dad. I’m a published drunk. I wrote back rapidly, refraining from employing too many exclamation points. I set up a meeting with the firm’s vice president, arriving in an ironed button-down. I used words like hop yields, wild yeast inoculation and barrel aging. The words unlocked the VP’s smile. The VP shook my hand. “Now we need to go have a beer,” he said, gathering his coat and inviting a couple coworkers. “Where should we go?” “Without a doubt, Rattle N Hum,” I replied.

Since opening last fall, Rattle N Hum (14 E. 33rd St., betw. 5th & Madison Aves., 212- 481-1586) has knocked Ginger Man (11 E. 36th St., betw. 5th & Madison Aves., 212-532- 3740) off its throne and become Midtown’s choicest destination for beer lovers. Credit goes to owner Patrick Donagher, formerly of Brooklyn’s Cherry Tree  (965 4th Ave., Brooklyn, 718-399-1353). In four weeks of night-and-day construction, Irishman Donagher kitted out the spacious, soaring tavern with communal wooden tables, a four-tap cask-ale station and 40 drafts. The taps encompass Allagash, Lagunitas, Dogfish Head and other leading lights of the craft beer revolution. Needless to say, Rattle is the best way to murder a workday.

But you’re still on the clock, I reminded myself, as I super-glued my posterior to one of Rattle’s stools. I navigated the publishing crew through the beer list, suggesting highlights like bitter Arcadia HopMouth. I opted for Victory’s Prima Pils, a crisp refresher with an ABV around 5 percent—I could kick back three and retain my wits, whatever those were.

Well, that was the plan. But when beer’s in play, my plans dissolve like Saltines into tomato soup. We started ordering highbutane monsters like sweet, strong Lagunitas Gnarlywine and Stone’s roasty Imperial Russian Stout. This was easily the world’s most perplexing interview. Did drinking prowess make me a better candidate? Or did it raise a red flag? Sometime around beer four or five, I got my answer:

“I think you’re just the writer for the job,” the VP said, leading me to celebrate by ordering another round.

jbernstein@nypress.com