I find it easy to come up with excuses to drink these days. If you are interested in a bit of frivolity, inspired by the tall tails of Mark Twain, I will leave this here.
Anything in a Drink
I heard tell once of a man who would put anything in a drink. Now I usually stick to beer and specifically ask that it never be adulterated with fruit, but that man drank gin. Now gin is a beverage that should never be imbibed without having some sort of additive in it. Olives, vermouth, tonic … it is not so important what it is, the crucial point being that something is put in it. The story I heard went like this:
Tom Collins, the man’s name was Tom Collins, presumably the similarity of his name to a cocktail was purely coincidental, was, over the course of several days, merrily making his way through a bottle of gin when he came to the unhappy discovery that there were no olives in the house. A search was made of all possible places to find olives but none proved successful. On other occasions Tom had improvised a solution to such a dilemma and this time was no exception, though at that time there really was a decided lack of anything fitting for a mixer. Undaunted, he procured, of all things, a shotgun shell and with a well practiced movement of a knife he transferred the buckshot to the waiting glass of gin.
It was never determined if the buckshot had been of a sort that had been improvised during the loading process or if there were some other phenomenon at work, but a peculiar side effect was noted. And later, after much discussion with those who drank gin, it was decided that the shot mixed with gin was the likely culprit. No matter the cause, for many hours after imbibing the gin, Tom sparked every time he touched anything; sparked as though he has spent the day walking on new carpet. Well that sort of injury is of a sufficiently minor sort that it is never cause for alarm, though the unexpected response to the seemingly harmless act of touching a handle or knob can, over time, cause even the most hale and hardy man a good deal of irritation.
Not long before that time a dog had taken up residence at the house next door to Tom that had the habit of barking more that was necessary to alert his owners to the presence of various presumed dangers. He was sufficiently passionate about barking, and such was the repetition and timing of his howls that there was some speculation that he was singing songs, presumably of his own invention.
On the day that Tom was sparking relentlessly, his grandson, the grandson’s name was Joe, happened to stop for a visit. Joe was of an age that many things caught his attention for several months, during which he would devote himself completely the hobby until his interest had run its course, then he would be caught up in some other curiosity. At that time, the youngster had equipped himself with the latest of a series of spud guns he had built with what parts were available to him and a few purchased for the purpose of building the gun.
It was a short time after the younger had arrived at the home of the elder and the neighbor dog had finished the chorus and was starting on to the second verse of his latest composition that the spud gun was being presented to the grandfather for his inspection and approval. It was offered in a safe manner, with the business end pointed in what was thought to be a harmless direction. The gun was charged with an ample amount of propellant and loaded with a spud. It seems the firing mechanism was not designed to accommodate the accumulation of static electricity because when the spark from Tom’s outreached hand had transferred to the gun, it discharged.
The projectile would likely have landed harmlessly enough in a nearby field if it hadn’t first encountered the underside of a roof and careened directly toward the crooning dog. Let me say at once that the dog was not seriously injured, or at least not permanently so, by the impact of the missile. But the ego of a dog can be a fragile thing and, as likely as not, the blow from the spud seemed to have deeply wounded his pride. No song singing dog, while practicing his song writing craft, on his land and in his free time would go unscathed by such a response to his singing. His pride was wounded to the point that he slunk away and hid and it was several weeks before he had even the gumption to offer a short bark now and then to herald the arrival of visitors.
Mind you, Tom had a heart that would accommodate near any dog, and he would never wish harm to any, but there were several times that the long and frequent ballads from the neighbor would try his patience. And gun safety, even spud gun safety, was always practiced in his presence lest the violator be immediately and boisterously corrected.
The spud gun design was subsequently improved, there is more peace and quiet in the neighborhood and with certainty we can say, you can put anything in a drink.
For Dell Dean, a man who can put anything in a drink and make it all work.
May 2016