It was the worm. The worm made me do it. I finally decided it was time to drink the bottle of mescal I got from duty-free after my trip to Mexico several years ago. It has been my tequila-like-substance experience that the shit don’t get better with age…. And, maybe it was watching Fear Factor one too many times (one time is too many), but I was starting to dream about the worm in the bottom of the bottle.
My, um, constitution isn’t as strong as it was in years past so sitting down with a couple of limes, some salt and an “I heart Las Vegas” shot glass was not an option. So I found one of those “bucket ‘o margaritas” mixes in the pantry and started stirring. (It should be noted that the last time I did bucket ‘o margaritas my aunt passed out from heat exhaustion at the Livingston Rodeo and the kids ended up using the empty margarita bucket & a super-soaker to wage war on some friendly locals. I have pictures somewhere…)
Yes, I had to wipe the dust off the margarita glasses and, yes, I was again amazed at the vast array of alcoholic beverage glassware I own.
Honey even got into the festive spirit and decided to imbibed in neon beverages with me. After the first sip we had the conversation we usually have about tequila-like-substances. He said it tasted like an ash tray. I said that meant that, some time in the past, he had done a shot with a cigarette butt in it. I told the story about losing my tent in the Gila National Forest and being directed back to it by a friendly herd of local elk…. I’m not making this up. I couldn’t make up shit like this.
Alas, it is a testament to a kinder and gentler me that this evening did not end with native-style horseback super-soaker ambushes or gentle guidance from friendly bipeds. We quietly finished our drinks and ambled off to bed… but at least I didn’t dream about the worm.