The Truth about Bourbon

It's time to come clean about a topic that has surfaced on several occasions here in Lahlahland. Yes, I'm talking about the brownest of the brown, the mellowest of the mmmmmmmmmms, the sweet mama-hold-my-hand-while-I-drink-it-neat bourbon. While I do enjoy it upon occasion (yes, Bobby, I do recall that magical mid-summer night during which we were granted the super bourbon-drinking powers but not the waaay more useful-- trust me, super hangover-survival skills), I feel rather silly because while I may cry for it at the end of a post, it's a bit of a conceit. All that bourbon would cloud up my standard bitchiness, I really think it would. Bourbon-based bitchiness is a whole 'nother stop on the toll road to Hell. (Yes Bobby. I know Bobby. Enough Bobby. ) My bourbon-induced tallulah bankhead/auntie mame/dixie carter (early seasons of Designing Women--you know, before she got so preachy) is precious because it is so very rare. I don't have any real sources for that last statement, I'm just assuming that it's precious and best if rare.

I'm too old for all that stuff. There's no respite after a hard night on the Bonbourbon. More likely there's a four year old sitting on your head arranging his stuffed animals so that they're all just looking at your old hungover mommy self with no small bit of marble-eyed disdain. I have had this happen. Not an urban myth.

I'm glad we got that all cleared up, aren't you?