It Would NOT Make A Good Swizzle Stick

Saturday night, my phone buzzed signaling an incoming text. It was from Farmer H, who had gone to the auction.

"Bought you some liquor//red"

"You bought ME some liquor?"

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not a drinker, you know. She doesn't give a rip if anybody else drinks. She's no Carrie Nation. Brew up your bathtub gin, fire up your still, make a little craft beer for home consumption. Makes her no nevermind. But why would Farmer H be buying her liquor? Surely he realizes that she does not drink. Is he trying to push her off the wagon? And is red an especially tasty or potent form of liquor?

There was no response. I assumed that perhaps the text had been meant for Genius. He's a drinker, you know. Has a home bar and everything. He still thinks he's on his college liver, one presumes, having just graduated in December. But the working life will catch up to him soon enough.

When I heard that Farmer H was home, signaled by the crank of the La-Z-Boy, I went out to the steps and hollered up at him.

"Why did you buy me some liquor? Was that meant for me? Or Genius?"

"Licorice. I bought you some licorice. Red."

"Oh. Well..."

"I couldn't spell licorice."

"What kind?"

"Red."

"I KNOW that! Strawberry? Cherry? Nibs? Twists? Peel-apart? Ropes?"

"Bites."

"Bites? What flavor?"

"Cherry. Five boxes."

"Oh, like movie boxes?"

"Yeah. I got five boxes for four dollars."

"Where are they?"

"Up on the counter."

"Up...?"

"Up here. In the kitchen. Where you put your stuff."

"Okay."

"Want one?"

"Yeah...but my knees hurt from walking around the casino."

"I'll get one for you."

How nice! I thought.

"Just drop it down."

No need for Farmer H to walk down the stairs. I figured he'd drop it on the steps, about midway down, and then I'd reach over and get it. Neither one of us would have to go up or down. Here he came. Stopped by the railing. I could see his legs up to about his waist. He was going to drop it. I waited. And then

HE FIRED IT AT ME LIKE A 110 MPH FASTBALL! RIGHT AT ME!

It came out of nowhere, like a Hillbilly-Mom-seeking missile. YIKES! My instinct was to turn my hands over, hoping that box would land in them, and they'd absorb the force. They did not. A corner of the box hit my palm heel, and then ricocheted off to the tile floor. That's how the corner got crunched, absorbing that fastball force.

Unless that came from hitting my palm heel. Looks like Farmer H bought me 17.5 servings, which would be 297.5 pieces of red licorice. I know it's not ACTUAL licorice. But that's what we call it around here.

I hope he was just being nice. Not trying to make my jaws too tired to talk to him!