|Creating new definitions at Noah Webster's dictionary factory and end-of-the-roll broadloom and carpet outlet, circa 1986. Notice the ultra-hygienic factory environment to prevent cross-contamination of words and carpet samples.|
"So," Litvack said, eyeballing me over a speared Chefboyardee ravioli, "what do you think of my new brew?"
"Litvack, my good man," I laughed, shaking my own ravioli shard in his face. "Brew is not the word for this incredible creation. Bacchus himself would roll over in his grave to know of this concoction, except, well, I guess he's a god so he can't be dead but, I mean, last picture I saw of him he was pretty overweight so good chance he might've been bowled over by a heart attack by now. But let me reserve my comments for after a proper tasting." And so I did, with a thorough mouth swishing that I'd learned from a French sommelier, famed for his canary-yellow pants and his face disfigured by a truffle pig, followed by my own specially devised spitting technique that takes its inspiration from a high diver plunging into a wash tub. It takes hours of practice and dedication and is highly scientific as the diagram below illustrates.
"It has a delicate nose," I began my prognosis, "that belies the stronger flavours that lurk beneath. I get a hint of tobacco, apple, blackberry and old shoe leather, may I conjecture the tongue and perhaps even lace off the remains of a 2002 Easy Stride Mallwalker. Subtlety is not this wine's finest point but then again, we're eating it with Italian cuisine that demands a vintage and style of wine to match the heartiness of the Chefboyardee. I expected some oak, Litvack, but I'm not disappointed, because, well, only a horse's ass would put any wood shavings in with the underlying squirrel meat you thought you could sneak by me."
"Chipmunk, actually," Litvack replied, but I could see by the twinkle in his one cataract-glazed eye that he was just playing devil's advocate and that I was right.
We finished both bottles of Litvack's finest and the rest gets a little hazy. I think we wrestled for a bit, there were some cat feces and a litterbox involved, Litvack left and returned with some firearms and his stuffed goat, the authorities were called at one point, Mrs. Grabowsky's quilted house coat caught fire and Litvack was arrested wearing only his smiley face boxer shorts, cat poop smeared across his chest. Ah, c'est la vie, tout le monde, that's life in Gay Paree and once I scrape the charred bits out of Mrs. Grabowsky's wig I'm sure I can convince her to let me remain in the rooming house.