There comes a time when a man is pushed to the limits of tolerance, usually by the ignorant utterings of others. After spending the last decade or more on the sidelines, air-blogging in my pajamas, the Elder's misguided musings on vodka have finally drawn me into the fray.
Leave aside for the moment the issue of (his) palate, abused by decades of uninformed injesting, as there is scant hope that we'll be able to reverse the damage that's been done. Rather, let me address the issue full-on from it's intellectual imperative--the need to stock the Strategic Booze Reserve in the event of cataclysmic disaster.
VODKA - Even the etymological origin enlightens those seeking insight. From the Ukrainian word "voda" or "water", it is the veritable life-blood of human existence! Be it grain, potato(e) or sugar-beet, Vodka has been and continues to be the mother's milk of distilled libations in the constellation of adult-style beverages. More to the point, I approach this issue from the perpective of the intrinsic value that this life-long companion brings to the table of survivalism.
If you're cold, take a shot and you're warm. If you're hot, a poltice for your forehead and a dab behind both ears works just like nature's air-conditioner. Out of fuel? Pour it in the tank. Gangrene or infection? No more, with vodka protection! Dark outside? A vodka powered lamp by your side! Wolves at your door? Molotov cocktail that's for sure! Wait, did I mention the one thousand-and-one cooking uses?
Who knows. Maybe it was a life of plenty and his constant coddling that caused our compatriot's wussified approach to this serious subject. Perhaps...
But the line was crossed when our self-satisfied correspondent's "expert" opinion changed into astro-turfing malice. As a 100 proof Ukrainian the only mewling associated with vodka drinking I've heard is from those "wee-weed" wimps who lack the fortitude and cast-iron gullet needed to imbibe.
Are you man enough to look across the table at your comrade, bellow out, "Na Zdoroviya" and knock-back half-a-glass of "Bozhiy Slyozy"? (God's Tears)
Follow that up with a hearty chunk of rye-bread and a piece of pickeled pork-hock. Repeat as needed. Instestinal parisites? I think not!
Long after Mrs. Elder has buried your lifeless form under all those empty bottles of Milwaukee's Best, me and my Mrs. will be sitting in the bunker shooting down chilled shots of Stoli Elite, and toasting to your memory. And oh, by the way? Hangover? Not so much.
The Elder Raises A Glass: Ha ha, the Ukraine. Do you know what the Ukraine is? It's a sitting duck. A road apple. The Ukraine is weak. It's feeble. I think it's time to put the hurt on the Ukraine. Welcome aboard.
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