Flowers are nice. Terrorists should be turned into human mayonnaise. At this moment, my guitar doesn’t have any strings. I love Florida and want to live there – like, right now – although I just read an article saying that African crocodiles have somehow begun to flourish there. That sucks, because they get pretty big, are fearless, and eat about 200 people a year. I saw a car driving down the street with what looked like, among other things, a child’s safety seat strapped the roof. It made me a little uneasy.
I think I may need back surgery, but my yard looks great this year. There’s a cardinal sitting on a branch just outside the window nearest to me as I type. No, not a Roman Catholic. A bird. He just flew away. No, not the bird. The Roman Catholic. I think the wind caught his chasuble and sent him up and away like a kite. Weird. Social media has truly become a surrogate reality. All my best friends are avatars. I didn’t like that movie “Avatar.” It was too propogandish. Ever see the movie “Harold and Maude”? Good flick. From the 70s, but still worth watching. Cat Stevens did the soundtrack.
Are kids actually capable of rinsing their dishes and putting them into the dishwasher after a meal? I don’t think they are. I think there’s some sort of chemical that stirs up in their brains that causes them to experience instructional blackout as they get closer to the device. I feel like chess could really be my game. But there’s a problem. I’m completely disinterested in trying to make it my game. I’d rather read stuff. And write stuff, too.
Is it okay to not write “happy birthday” on someone’s Facebook page if most of what they post annoys me? I hope Twitter goes bankrupt, by the way. They do a lousy job of fighting spam accounts. I really need to clean the basement. Actually, no, the kids need to do that. It’s their junk.
I think a very large bird was murdered in my backyard by something even larger. I checked online and the feathers appear to be from a hawk. Or maybe someone left a traditional Native American headdress back there and it just came apart. But that wouldn’t explain the guts. Not too worry. I just finish mowing. It’s all cleaned up.
I wish I could own a Great Dane. I can’t, though. My son is dreadfully allergic to pretty much everything, especially dogs.
Do you think God will actually allow America to continue existing for much longer? I can’t help but feel as though He just reached for His driver and is in the process of teeing us up on a very short par three. I haven’t played golf in at least fifteen years. I think chess might be my game. Or racecar driving. Sometimes I think I should have been a racecar driver. But not NASCAR. Well, on second thought, that’d be okay. I could handle seeing couch pillows and belt buckles with my number displayed.
Now you know what it was like for me to sip the Buffalo Trace White Dog Rye Mash. This dram is a shotgun blast of booze and so many threads of spontaneous flavor that I find it difficult to objectively like or dislike the edition.
But I think I mostly like it.
The essence of the nose is all rye, although it so strangely bears itself as a dry red cabernet being heated in a saucepan in preparation for some mushrooms or maybe a flank steak. Very ADHD. If I were blindfolded and completely unaware of what was being set before me, I would have selected the latter rather than the former.
The palate gives salted sweet corn minus the butter, sour oatmeal spruced with grape jelly and cream. And then there’s the spicy cedar plank. Where did that come from? This stuff was fed from the still directly into bottles with no aging.
For the octane level, this stuff is easy to sip, finishing with strong rye and only a slight burn.
Yeah, I think I like it. Good job, Buffalo Trace. A fine whiskey. I’d almost written you off, but now I know I need to give some of the other White Dog editions a try. They’re not Great Danes, but they are “dogs” that I could keep in the house nonetheless.