That Good Ole Mountain Dew

For the past month, our good friends over at the Glarrow Porch have helped perpetuate our permadrunk with a steady incoming stream of glistening ‘Bama moonshine. And this stuff is amazing. Top-Shelf Moonshine, if such a thing is fathomable. It’s sweet and smooth, not nearly as biting as some of the lesser “lightnings” I’ve had, such as some of the cheaper, pestilent mashes of Tennessee and the abominable “Deep-Dish” style moonshine of the greater Chicago area. This stuff has an airy corn-blend with subtle and delightful after tastes, and it packs a wallop of an alcohol content. It’ll set your drunk-game back about 4 beer points if you’re not careful.

Amazingly, my girlfriend Robin, a mild-drinker at best, loves the shit. She’s a borderline “fiend for the fire-water” or “Hooch-Honey”, if I may be so bold. Robin lives in Auburn, however, and is typically only around 2171 on the weekends, so she rarely gets to indulge in that lovely, backwoods potable.

Matt won’t touch it. He tells me that drinking the moonshine makes him feel like he has “fire-ants running down my esophagus”. Let it be known that I’ve previously commented on the nature of my roommate’s alcohol tolerance, stating that it was akin to “a young Japanese girl’s”. But he’s getting much more adventurous and successful with the sauce, I’m happy to report.

The reason for today’s post is to point out how easy it is for me, at any time, to walk into the kitchen and get completely fucking bombed on ice-cold Quicksilver. It’s a great situation for me. But jars of moonshine, like the love of a puppy or the years left on Earth for Sen. John McCain, are fleeting and ephemeral. My well runeth dry. So, Mr. Glarrow, if you’re reading this, I want you to know how much I appreciate your contribution to my debauched lifestyle, and if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like it if you continued to do so. Let me know how much money, mason jars, wide-legged trousers, anything I can give back to this endeavor to ensure an ample supply of this God-given “wake-up juice”. And if you go to jail for this blog post, I’m quite sorry, but I’m hard-up, and Robin’s birthday is right around the corner.

Postscripts: The wall separating 2171 and 2173 (Luke’s) was nearly set ablaze today. For the photo above, I had attempted to set the jar of moonshine on fire. I narrowly escaped arson-questioning from the cops. Also, a warm-hearted “Happy Birthday” goes out to Mr. Christopher Saba.