Now, I don't go there like I used to. Not like when I was a professional college student at least. Heck, before we would even leave the house on Thursday nights to go paint the town we'd swallow down a whole fifth of that bottom shelf bluegrass brew. The kind that tasted worse than it would make you feel the next morning. All the Pedialyte in the world couldn't fight off a twelve dollar Kentucky Gentleman hangover. A man should really be awarded a medal of honor for fighting such a battle against that Bardstown, Kentucky distillery.
But there's something about the taste of that charred oak corn liquor and spices when it hits your lips. It's a time machine. It tastes like a tailgate on a late fall afternoon. There are dogs on a charcoal grill, sundresses on every girl as far as the eye can see, and if you hadn't lost your quarterback in week one due to a late hit you'd be bowl eligible by now. It tastes like sitting around in a cold garage with your buddies all night just talking about cars and dreaming about women in a way that would make Alan Jackson proud. And in the same breath it tastes like something that wouldn't make your mama proud. Hell, it tastes like something that wouldn't make me proud come to think of it. It tastes like a round of overpriced shots that you raised to a long lost buddy.
It tastes like my life. I sure love that taste.
