“I know exactly what I’m going to do today,” he whispered into the silence while sitting at the edge of his bed. “Yes, sir, I do.”

Sliding both feet into the mouths of his Chewbacca slippers resting near the bedside table and reaching for the Sponge Bob bathrobe hanging on the shoulder of his life-sized cardboard cutout of Philipp Spener, he announced with verve, “I’m going to be an idiot.”

Giving himself an inappropriate but thorough scratch, he lumbered down the stairs toward the kitchen muttering repetitiously, “And I know exactly how I’m going to do it. Yes, sir, I do. I know exactly how I’m going to do it.”

Pulling a sharpened pencil out of the left cheek of his greyed underpants (because he always keeps one there), he attempted to jot down some ideas on his hand. Finally realizing that he couldn’t write on his hand with a pencil, and only after drawing blood in several locations, did he reach back to the right cheek to get his permanent marker. Having already learned that it’s a really bad idea to make lists on your hand with a permanent marker, he etched the day’s determination on the kitchen table.

“Let’s see… First, I’m going to go down to the mall to find some people doing some adiaphorous things and I’m going to try to make them feel bad about doing them. Oh, I got it! I’ll find people who like to drink soda or shop at Pier One or eat fast food or use plastic things or drive cars or sit in restaurants that put a bazillion goofy pictures on the walls as decoration or chase deer around the woods taking pictures of them or hang around under bridges. I’ll catch them doing these things, and then because I don’t like doing them, I’ll make them feel like they are forsaking God. They’ll probably thank me for helping them out! Awesome! Ok, second… umm… I know. When I’m done at the mall, I’ll hop on Facebook and stalk these societal pariahs there, too! Brilliant! Okay, time to get dressed. But first…”

He hopped up from the table, grabbed his toolset from the garage, removed the table’s legs, carried the tabletop out to his car and tossed it into the trunk.

“I don’t want to forget my list.”

Do you ever feel like you’ve met someone like this? I do. Not a lot, but enough to be noticeable. It seems that since the release of The Angels’ Portion: A Clergyman’s Whisky Narrative, I am running into these folks more and more. I guess that goes with the territory. The real popular celebrities have their stalkers. I am by no means a celebrity, but with the slight notoriety that appears to be approaching on the horizon comes a whole new group of crazies. In my case, it would appear to be people who have confused and polluted Christianity with a strange mixture of Biblicism, Pietism, and a few other ridiculous “isms” that make an exegetical guy like me want to throw up in a box full of books by Southern Baptists.

I don’t do this of course, but only because the aforementioned folks are hoarding such books and would never let a whisky-drinking reverend like me near them. They’re far too precious for them to let me, Father Anathema, nearby. Instead, I find it better to just follow the lead of those famous Penguins of Madagascar and “smile and wave, boys. Just smile and wave.”

But there’s one more thing that I do. I open a fine bottle of Scotch whisky and toast to their folly, because in the end, it just means more Scotch for the Lutherans who know better, and for that, I am quite thankful.

Tonight’s respite from absurdity arrived in the form of the Glenglassaugh Revival edition.

I’ve not yet had the opportunity to try a whisky from this particular distillery, and this particular bottle has been sitting in the back corner of my cabinet for quite some time awaiting its turn. Although it does not hold an age statement, it is reportedly quite young — I think three or four years old. I tend to shy away from the toddler whiskies because they just never seem to have reached a level of maturity worthy of the dollars spent. This particular edition, however, is from a fledgling distillery trying to get back into the Scotch whisky game after a few decades in the mothballs and I was hoping to give these earnest Scots a little bit of support.

In my humble opinion, the nose is that of at least a twelve-year-old dram. The labeling notes sherry, but I sensed a sturdy port wine. The palate was somewhat raw and a little biting at first. I rarely add water when doing a tasting, but I made an exception in this case. I knew right away that it needed the help. It took only a few raindrops before I tasted what reminded me of a cherry flavored Jolly Rancher.

The finish was medium in length, very warm, and sweeping along with a subtlety of auburn nuttiness — by no means obvious. I really had to concentrate to identify this one.

Overall, I wasn’t all that impressed, and yet I should say that I’m glad I gave this whisky a chance because from what I know, it seems like the guys at Glenglassaugh are doing the best they can with what they have. I certainly wouldn’t assume that they awoke one day, put on their Chewbacca slippers, and announced that they were going to reopen a distillery with the goal of being labeled as “adequate.” They deserve to be “friended” on Facebook. But watch out for that other guy.