Some have suggested that I may have been a little intemperate (so to speak) in my correctional remarks to Professor Reynolds concerning the true national beverage. Well, perhaps, but the man insulted my chosen method of inebriation. Never do that, particularly when I’m inebriated. And he didn’t insult just mine, but that of every right-thinking American. And I thought that my comments were actually quite moderate–being a born’n’bred Yankee, even after a hundred and thirty six years, there are many phrases with which I could have replaced the words “from Tennessee” that would have ultimately parsed to the same meaning, but been freighted with much more derogatory connotations. I won’t elaborate further, because this is a family web site.
And in fact, his verbal faux pas wasn’t just against the manhood of the nation at large–I won’t be shocked if his fellow Volunteers don’t ride him out of Knoxville on a rail for more local, parochial reasons after his ill-considered comment. After all, just what is it that Tennessee is known for (aside from that country caterwauling from Nashville, and Graceland)? What is it they brew just down the road from Knoxville, in Lynchburg? It ain’t bourbon, that’s for durn sure. Bourbon is from (ready for this?) that den of all that is unholy, just to the north–KENTUCKY!
And as to his mistaken notions of what real Americans drink, just what was it again in those bottles that Carrie Nation was smashing, as she marched down Battle Alley with her ax? Hint: it wasn’t Demon Bourbon.
I invite the good Professor to do a google on “Demon Rum.” He will find that this phrase appears literally hundreds of times, as evidence of its long-standing role in promoting cameraderie, buccaneering, vital barroom pugilistic festivities, domestic abuse, and getting ugly people laid, throughout hundreds of years of American history, all the way back to the planters on the piedmont and pirates on the Spanish Main. Try a similar search on “Demon Bourbon,” and you’ll be lucky to find a reference to some wimpy guy in his white suit and string tie, rocking on his veranda, drinking his mint julep (no doubt with pinky extended as he sips), or Bourbon Street, which isn’t even in a true American city–we all know it’s really French (damned cheese-eating non-capital-punishing surrender monkeys).
But I will apologize for a couple of other comments–I was indeed overwrought. Based on years of experience and verbal intercourse with him, I know that Glenn is not really a commie, closet or otherwise, and I have no verifiable information, one way or the other, concerning his nocturnal urinary habits (nor am I seeking any–it’s a lot more than I want to know), so I retract that as well.
However, I do expect him to now see the error of his imbibulatory ways, and hope that we can put this ugly little contretemps behind us…over a bottle of Bacardi 151.