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“Daddy, you snore when you’re sleeping,” the little girl said, shoveling a mound of Fruit Loops into her mouth.

“No, I don’t,” I replied decisively, but also somewhat annoyed by the turn of conversation so early in the morning.

“Yes, you do,” she continued. “I got up to use the bathroom last night and I heard you.”

“Maybe you heard your mother,” I said.

“No, it was you,” she giggled through a slurp.

“Maybe it was Harrison. Or the Sasquatch living in the attic.” I set my coffee down. “And how would you know, anyway? Your bathroom is, like, two miles from our bedroom, our door was closed, and you’re like a zombie when you get up to go pee at night. Sometimes I’m afraid I’m going to hear a noise, get up to check, and see you in the corner of one of the boys’ rooms with their brains in your hands.”

“It was you,” she garbled through another mouthful. “I used the bathroom in your bedroom because ours is gross.”

“Well, you snore, too,” I said resolutely, taking a sip. “And you fart in your sleep.”

“But my sleepy sounds are sweet little girl sounds,” she volleyed. “Yours are scary.”

“Well, if you think the sounds of lawn mowers at two o’clock in the morning are sweet little girl sounds, then I guess you’re right.”

“Well, you sound like a lawn mower and a chainsaw.”

“You sound like a lawn mower being pushed by a guy with a chainsaw and dragging our old noisy dishwasher… on lawn mower wheels… because that’s the only way it would probably work in the yard.”

“You sound like a lawn mower in a tornado.”

Well, you sound like a tornado full of lawn mowers—a mowernado.”

“You sound like a mowernado with chainsaws and dishwashers and bombs and garbage trucks and Godzilla.”

“Well, you sound like your brother, Joshua.”

“I’m going to tell him you said that,” she said, giving a grin.

“Good. Finish your breakfast, Princess of Snoretopia.”

“Well, if I’m the princess, you’re the king.”

“But, my dear, you and I both know the Snoretopian prophecy has decreed that one day, from among the royal Snoretopian bloodline, a master snorer will arise and take the throne. It will be a young maiden whose snoring is like none other, someone whose snoring rattles the mountains and boils the rivers in this fair province. And again, since she’ll be from the royal bloodline, she’ll most likely be a daughter of the king.” I took another sip. “Face it, honey. It’s probably you. Your snoring is the worst. I still have to replace the window in your bedroom because of how loud you snore.”

“You have to replace it because it leaks,” she argued.

“It leaks because your snoring rattled it loose from the frame.”

With remarkable skill, she rolled her eyes, gulped down the last of her Fruit Loops, and stood up from her seat. “I’m done,” she said. Having put her bowl and spoon into the kitchen sink, she skipped off and around the corner of the living room. With the thumping of her feet up the stairs, I heard her call back, “I’m telling Josh what the King of Snoretopia said about him.”

I didn’t reply this time. I took another sip of coffee and typed “ways to stop snoring” into the internet browser on my smart phone. Not for me, of course, but for the princess. I don’t snore. Just ask my wife. She’ll tell you that what I do is probably best described as choking but not dying. And this only happens when I sleep on my back. When I sleep on my side, you’d think I actually did die because I don’t make a sound.

Either way, as the ante was upped in the morning conversation, in a similar fashion, the Splinter Group from Napa, California has a better game with the Straight Edge Bourbon Whiskey. I say this because I’ve had their Slaughter House edition—which was actually released after the Straight Edge—and I couldn’t quite find the footing to ever want to buy it again. But this prequel whiskey is pretty good. In fact, it’s better than pretty good. It’s really good.

The nose of this ambered dram is a fine-tuned offering of what one might expect from a better Bourbon. In other words, you won’t question the oncoming vanilla and cinnamon. And as the palate delivers on the expectations, it also surprises. With the vanilla and cinnamon comes a gentler bit of plum and rye toast.

The finish brings everything together with a short wash of mild spice and a little bit of the barrel wood. In all, it’s everything one might appreciate in a calming nightcap that eases the throat and nasal passages for a snore-less night. It most certainly lends toward a revisiting with the Slaughter House edition to see if I missed something. Perhaps my mood for the review was affected because I’d been kept awake by the sleepy sounds of the Princess of Snoretopia roaring through the castle.

It’s possible. It’s also quite possible that the Princess didn’t make a peep and that my late evening restlessness was due to me choking but not dying.