June 07, 2009
Originally published November 8, 2003
The boys are asleep after a tumutious day. I am tired and ready for bed myself. My right arm is sore from throwing a football as far as I can to watch Quinton catch it. That boy is getting better every day and my passes seem to fall shorter every other weekend. He's hitting his prime and I am going downhill fast. Father Time is one mean sonofabitch.
Somebody gave me a bottle of gin for Christmas last year and that sucker has been in my liquor cabinet since then. I had a bad experience with gin when I was in high school and I remember the feeling that I was puking up pine bark from drinking that stuff back then. I never wanted any more gin since that ugly evening. Tonight, I had wine, vodka and beer to choose from, but I decided to open that bottle of gin.
I poured a drink with some club soda and lime. It tasted pretty damned good. I'm on #2 now and it STILL tastes pretty damned good. Gin is not bad, as long as you don't down an entire pint straight out of the bottle as I did once a long time ago and puke your guts out afterward. I might have been bulletproof in those days, but I damned sure wasn't drunk-proof or hangover-proof.
I see now that gin is meant for sipping, so that you can savor that pine-resin flavor instead of cursing God as you hurl your cookies into the bushes on the side of a dirt road while you hope that your asshole doesn't come out right through your mouth. Bejus! I wished for a quick death that night.
Tonight is much better than my first experience with gin.
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