It's like the There's a Gun Under the Counter and juice drinks for the kiddies, plus a surprise beach booth next to the one that sells iced carbonated sodas for patrons of the beach. Someone will look up at the sign, feel some alarm, and then think, "Aw, persimmons! It's just a bunch of screwy kids in their ad campaign, makin' ya think you're under some kind of threat and then immediately dismiss it with their mentin of treats fer the kids." And while you moan about the surreal departure from humor more familiar to your liking, two teens in back drawn hoodies slink up to the booth, make a demand, and then everyone pulls their guns out from under the counter and issues a stern rebuke to the teens' ambitious proposal.
So: back up to the Title: Rollin', Rollin', Brollin. Only a soft mind would be thrown off by the string, and then the keener edges among them may recall that it is Josh Brolin that I dislike. Why would I include him in a weave of merriment such as looms across the screen right now?
I wouldn't. So what's that mean?
It means it' time for bed soon. It means the peppermint bark ice cream is particularly to my liking, and I can almost perceive it peeking against its cardboard walls, winking at me, daring me not to like it, insinuating the second bite can't possibly render as well as the first. As with cigarettes! The first puff is delicious, and the second puff is a downward slope into lousy flavor. So it is not with this ice cream, however. It spreads its thighs out and rolls itself all around my tongue, tucks its shins between my jaw and cheeks, and then throbs with a number of lascivious undulations all over my papillae. My heart stopped a couple times.
So yeah, I'd say it's good. The only thing that peeping at me demurely from a yet-unaccessed area of carton will result in is alerting my reconaissance who will report to me with sufficient intelligence to strike on the region. 280 calories enter; one man leave.
It suddenly became crucial for me to logon and hack out a blog post, which I haven't done today (or I disremember) and I don't know what I'm supposed to say, but I'm writing. The font looks a little more copperplate or colonial than New York Times, and it emerges on the screen like type carved in 89% cocoa emerging through a milky screen of white chocolate. I'm continuing to write, directionless as I am, sheerly for the pleasure of watching these confections emerge.
My wife has availed me of her sleep aid: she got half and I got half. It has hit me considerably quicker than it does her. I think she's in the kitchen washing dishes--I've asked her to let me do that, she insists she finds it soothing, calming--and listening to Keith Olbermann, the man for whom she would momentarily throw me over and I would begrudge he nothing. He is a fine man and I would not stand in the way of her happiness. Similarly, should a young woman taller than 75' tall approach me and request my company, I have been granted leave in just such a situation. Or in the case of Tina Fey. Which of those two do you suppose I'm likelier to meet?
Sunday Night I made an amazing hot toddy. I've never made one before and didn't know how it goes, but apparently it involves hot water, flavor, and alcohol. I'll look it up later. For this I used an average-sized jelly jar, maybe 12oz. I dumped in my favorite negus, one ounce of Glogg (gotten from World Market; IKEA's is too weak; Trader Joe's makes a very good one), one ounce of Dimple Pinch scotch whisky (it's a Speyside so too peaty for plum pudding; Dalwhinnie would be better), and ten ounces of boiling water. Stir briskly and go find a comfortable place to sit.
A good Glogg will mask most of the leathery peatiness in a Speyside, I think. It was damned tasty and quite hearty. Maybe a shot of espresso would pick it up nicely.
Of course, I would never have gone off the Bullshot were it not for the girly screams of the men and women around me. Nothing's to stop me now, I suppose.