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20160219_134054-1“Evelyn’s dead,” I heard from my office as I made my way down the hall. “Your turn, Maddy.”

Sure enough, there Evelyn was, sprawled out on the floor like a film noir crime scene. The kids were playing a game they call “Death Limbo.”

I know it has sort of a Roman Catholic ring to it, but it has nothing to do with that.

Essentially, one child holds a lightsaber while the others contort to make their way beneath it. If you touch the lightsaber, you die. Evelyn touched the lightsaber. Actually, it’s more likely that Harrison tapped her with it as she attempted to pass.

20160218_153702Death Limbo

Kids love games like this, that is, games that pretend to involve death. Don’t you remember playing on the living room furniture, pretending that the recliner and sofa were safe, but the floor was molten lava? Or perhaps the coffee table was a pirate ship and the floor was an ocean of hungry sharks, one of which was your six-year-old sister? The trouble with that particular rendition is that somehow the shark, bored because no one was coming into the water, always managed to evolve into a land shark.

Everyone but the shark dies in that version of the game. It is, indeed, a massacre.

If we parents were smart, we’d adapt those games to serve general household maintenance. There would be games called “Death Laundry” and “Death Empty-the-Dishwasher.” I’m currently devising the “Death Do-your-Homework” and “Death Why-are-you-still-playing-with-your-Legos-I-told-you-to-get-in-the-Shower-twenty-Minutes-ago” editions to present to Hasbro. I’m sure both will be huge hits.

As a whisky reviewer, I’m starting to wonder if there are a few distillers out there playing a game of “Death Whisky” with the consuming public, except it involves really dying.

I’m keeping a short list of editions (Scoresby, Lauder’s, and the like) that in mid-sip, I was convinced that I was about to pass on, and if it weren’t for God’s grace in designing the human gag reflex, I wouldn’t be here right now.

inverhouseI’m thinking that I’ll be adding the Inver House Blended Scotch Whisky to that list.

The nose of this whisky is light, but brutal. I have nothing to share but great sadness. Okay, maybe there’s a little bit of glazed almond, but that’s a mere false beauty serving much in the same fashion as the alluring nectar of a Venus Fly Trap.

The palate is equally noxious, providing a momentary distraction of almost weightless peat. But again, this is only there so that you don’t necessarily realize that the whisky has trapped you and is even now consuming you.

The finish is short, with a little bit of malt remaining. I should say that few make it to the finish. The only reason I can share it is because much like Wesley and the iocane powder scene from the movie “The Princess Bride,” I’ve spent many years consuming such poisonous things and have built up an immunity.

This is to your benefit, my friend.