“But I don’t want to do reviews of beer.”

“Well, you should.”

“But I don’t want to.”

“You’re sort of being a booze snob.”

“Wait. What?”

“You’re being a booze snob if you’re only going to write about whisky. Why not beer, too? Or wine?”

“But I don’t just write about whisky. I write about other liquors. Haven’t you ever read my stuff before?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you’ll see that I don’t just write about whisky.”

“But you don’t write about beer.”

“Because I don’t really want to.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“I’m a Lutheran. Of course I like it.”

“Then you should write about it. I’ll bet people would read it.”

“I don’t care if people would read it. I don’t want to write about beer. I want to write about whisky. Maybe you should write about beer.”

“I’m not a very good writer.”

“Well, you’re just being a word snob.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You only choose to communicate by way of the spoken word and you exclude the written word. You’re a word snob.”

“No, I’m not. I just don’t write very well.”

“Do you know how to write?”

“Yes.”

“Face it, then. You’re a word snob and you’re making excuses. You choose only to talk when you could write, too.”

“That’s just stupid.”

“Yes, it really is, isn’t it?”

Not sure why I’m sharing this, except to say to someone in particular—and you know who you are—that when you try to shame someone into doing something you want, especially someone older than six, it’s probably not going to work. And the last thing you want to do is to try it on someone who has a blog. It could very well end up as a post… like this.

I don’t want to write about beer. When it comes to writing about alcoholic beverages, writing about beer is just about as interesting to me as writing about water. Both are, essentially, thirst-quenchers in my opinion. Beer rarely rises to the level of anything more than that. Now, that’s not to say that there aren’t countless types of beers out there, all with distinguishably unique qualities. My point is… well… I don’t know what my point is. I just don’t want to review and write about beer, so stop asking. And whatever you do, don’t call me a booze snob. I’m pretty darned eclectic, my friend.

In fact, for cryin’ out loud, look at what I’m dealing with… I mean, reviewing… right now—the Jameson Cooper’s Croze. I waded down into the mire of “variety,” both good and bad, in order to come back from its swirling tars with either a commendation or a warning. In this case, I’d say it’s the latter.

If you like the smell of toothpaste flavored cake frosting with a little bit of cigarette ash sprinkled in, then this stuff is for you. And you’ll savor the exact same thing on the palate, although you’ll get a splash here and there of vanilla, as well as a nip or two of cashews. I hope you aren’t allergic to tree nuts.

The medium finish will have you reaching for a toothbrush. I mean, you might as well, right? The toothpaste remains, except now it is distinctly homemade—baking soda, salt, and instead of spearmint, someone added the tiniest drop of citrus—and it’s all mixed together with a charred wooden spoon.

Did I like it? No. Would I use it as a mouthwash? Maybe. Do I ever intend to do reviews of beer? Well, my word-snobby friend, I’ll get to that right after I begin a regiment of reviewing the vast array of toothpastes.