The Ron Burgundy Scotchy Scotch Scotch blows into town like the bad off-notes of a diesel-fueled Harley Davidson knock-off running cherry juice as coolant.It reminded me of a Quinceañera celebration I was once at where there were ice sculptures used as tequila-tini shooters. Imagine instead old moldy grated Parmesan cheese sculptures pouring moldy peach grappa into the gaping maws of the eager revelers. That is to say, John loved it. Great Athena’s War Pig!
We also got Black Sabbath s’mores, toasted toadstools on pizza with with skunk sausage and Limburger cheese—which is to say, Stephen loved it. By Heimdallr’s Gjallarhorn! We also found essence of eco-conscious NPR charcoal (with a really, really tiny carbon footprint) that was somehow watery and viscous. (Which is to say that I, embracer of paradoxes, loved it.)
Peated backwash like the brackish tide lifting all rusty scuppers (and whale corpses) with a spicy surface scum on top of the kelp: Sriracha-flavored matzo ball soup in turkey broth. Which is to say, the 11th commandment should read, “Thou shalt serve Scotchy Scotch Scotch to thine enemies when they dine with thee.” By Jehovah’s tablets!