A week or two ago we were sitting around debating what form of libation this election might require. Tequila, suggested D. Hmm, maybe. A novel idea, because La Fin du Monde, while entirely appropriate, tastes like licking an ashtray and hey! you can do all kinds of fun stuff with tequila. But then we happened across something from our current Tidings magazine:
The next day, I woke with the taste of the evil liquor in my mouth, a head full of jackhammers and the realization, to my horror and agony, that I was, unfortunately, still alive.
and we remembered aaaallll about tequila. So no.
Fizzy? — nah, could jinx things.
Plain old wine? — nah, too boring.
Scotch? — nah, gives me migraines*. But whiskey generally sounded like a solid, non-presumptuous drink which could lend itself to either celebrations or the drowning of sorrows, so we settled on Irish whiskey which does not (in moderation) give me migraines. Our local LCBO had a grand selection of Bushmills or Jameson’s, so Bushmills it is. The garden-variety Bushmills, not the fancy-froufy stuff. Serious but fiscally sound whiskey** for a serious and (we hope) fiscally sound election.
And so we sit back and wait for the ice cubes to freeze and the polls to close.
GO VOTE! You still have an hour.
* I still blame this fact on Mel Lastman, because it is his victory speech (complete with drunken wife swanning through the frame in the background until, between cuts, someone took the drink out of her hand) that last incited me to drink scotch and realize it was a massive migraine trigger.
**D calls it “cooking whiskey” but he is snobby like that.