Stinky walk home. Even more jesus. Smoke smell followed me everywhere. Held my Dad's crystal skull today, which I think caused the smoke to follow. I kept my head down the whole walk home. Couldn't think of anything to say to all the buildings. I am short and they are tall and I was intimidated.
Suction cups keeping me out of the shower. Even more Father's Days. Even More Jesus. Then those suction cups kept me in. I was cold.
I watched a superhero movie with a classical soundtrack. I should be dancing gracefully, naked. Impossible, I'm a dude. So I'm gonna lay so still, as to not to be mistaken as dancing, naked. Soapy Violins. What I meant to say was so many violins. Give it a rest already.
So, after reading this the next morning and showing it to Wife, I was given the following explanation:
Apparently, after sharing Evil Twin's Even More Jesus, and drinking many things, including a sip of scotch, I walked home. Upon arriving home, so disgusted with the smokey smell of my clothes, I disrobed in the kitchen, down to my briefs, and headed upstairs in an attempt to lay on top of Wife. According to Wife, I narrated the entire process, and when I arrived upstairs she sent me straight to the shower to wash the stench of the fire from my person.
Once in the bathroom, the suction cups of the shower curtain impeded my progress and I yelled for help. No help came. I slipped into the shower by slinking beneath the suction cup barrier and may or may not have nearly drowned while laying in the tub with scalding hot water pelting me in the face. Wife recalled it to me as she overheard me shouting the following:
"SUCTION CUPS! I need help babe. BABE! These suction cups are really strong..."
(sounds of struggle and the squeaking of dry skin meeting wet surface)
"I'm in. It's hot! It's all up in my face! My grill! BABE!"
Logically, it follows that once I was on my feet that I would loudly narrate the washing process. At least up until the point when I attempted to exit the shower and was faced again the endless struggle that is my shower curtain's powerful suction cups.
Eventually, I returned to bed, naked and pretty much soaking wet - towels had eluded me - and I scribbled for a few minutes on a note pad. The last thing I said to Wife before I fell asleep was "I want to dance."
In summary, Evil Twin's Even More Jesus is a near flawless, perhaps actually flawless, Imperial Stout. I already have another bottle waiting in the basement, so perhaps a more substantial review will appear over at Beergraphs.com in the coming weeks. In case you missed it, I had two pieces over there last week, here and here, and should have another before this week is out - unless of course my inability to use web-based technology has finally caught up to me.
I need more beer on my shirt! The world needs more beer on its shirt!