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“It’s time to convene the gummy bear council,” the younger of the two girls announced, having just finished making several miniature Play-Doh bears from a mold.

“Yes, it is,” the older one replied. “We have much to discuss.”

Rarely do I intervene in such fanciful moments, but I had a pressing matter that involved me sharing the content of an article with the boys who were upstairs worshipping at the PlayStation altar. Apparently, the World Health Organization announced recently that video game addiction is now officially being considered a mental disorder.

Anyway, as I rose from my chair preparing to employ my best, most annoying dad voice for my sons, I asked Madeline, “What exactly does a gummy bear council discuss?”

“Plenty,” she answered. “We talk about waging war on other groups, accepting their peace treaty offers pretty much after we’ve conquered them, and building a bridge over the river of tears. We need more bridges from Gumdropolis into the wastelands. It’s depressing over there.”

“Anything else?”

“We talk about our alliance with the frog people and the ginger bread people. They were fighting, so we conquered them both and then forced them to be friends.”

“Why were they fighting?”

“Because the ginger bread queen got mad at her husband about something, and then she did something that made the frog people really mad.”

“What did she do?”

“I don’t remember,” Madeline said, tapping a slender finger to the side of her head and bringing her story to a pause. “But I remember that all of her servants died in the war.”

“How many servants died?”

“About a thousand.”

“Wow. Sounds like a brutal place,” I said. “So, what’s the council going to talk about today?”

“We’re going to talk about who else we should conquer,” she replied with pep. “Maybe plan out some stuff. Or figure out what color to make our new gummy bear clone army. There are a few more places around us we want to make really happy.”

“Remind me never to vote for you, Madeline, if you ever run for office,” I said very plainly. “Although, if at some point you do manage to seize power in America, I’d like to be your Minister of Whisky.”

“Why would I give you one of the most important roles in my kingdom if you didn’t vote for me?”

“I’ll wait and watch the polls,” I said. “If it looks like you’re gonna win, I’ll go ahead and pull the lever for you.”

“Good,” she said with a smile and finished arranging the gummy bears at the plastic plate serving as the council’s table.

“Just promise me the position,” I said, begging confirmation of my soul’s sale. “And that you’ll outlaw video games.”

“Yes to the position,” she said. “But I’ll think about the video game idea.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

“You’ll like that I’m already planning to move the White House to Florida.”

“Girlfriend, you sure know how to sell your candidacy to the undecided voter,” I called from half-way up the stairs. “I’m definitely voting for you, now, honey.”

I took a moment to share with my sons that their mental disorders had now been officially recognized and then I made my way back to my unopened whisky stash to choose what would be forever remembered as the celebratory dram for the day I was pledged a place in my daughter’s cabinet. Today’s choice: The Forty Creek Confederation Oak Reserve.

Unfortunately, my memory will be forever seared by a lack of enjoyment with this one.

Initially, the nose gave a vinegary trail, one that just couldn’t get far enough out of the way to let shine what I suspected were caramel and fruity undertones. They’re there, but I’m guessing they’re in chains in the gummy bear dungeon below gumdropolis.

For the most part, the palate was fine enough, offering some peace-keeping morsels at the foot of the gummy bear queen’s throne—nibbles of chocolate, lemons, and whatever that stuff is inside of a Cadbury egg.  The problem, however, is that everything is overly peppered with cloves and wood spice, causing the overall balance to be off.

The finish was short and dry, offering only a fingerprint of the alcohol and a pinch of barrel spices.

As prophetic as the selection was, I suppose I should have chosen a differently. I’m guessing that if the time ever comes for my daughter to impose her happiness upon the rest of us, many among us may be thinking the same thing.

P.s.   Let the reader know that after my review, I let this whisky sit for about an hour before coming back to it to finish it off. Apparently, this was just enough time for the dram to rid itself of the sour that seemed to be hiding its better qualities. The problem, however, is that no one opens a bottle, pours a dram, and lets it sit for an hour. That’s dumb. The positive side to this as a prophetic dram is that perhaps after some time ruling over all of us, my daughter will get better rather than worse.