I was in the gas station - a Town Pump, naturally - picking up a few things when this cheery fellow caught my eye.
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Mead is really hit or miss - miss, mostly. But here is this fellow, horns on helmet, arms crossed, satisfied smile...
This guy, this guy is a guy I want to know, a guy who, surely, drinks this mead he is sponsoring with gusto - mead made in Montana - from the horn of a bighorn ram, a ram no doubt killed in the unlimiteds, probably by thrown spear. How can anyone look upon this legend and think different?
So, a bottle of this surely legendary chokecherry mead came home with me.
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My excitement was indescribable. This night - that night? - I was going to toast the gods. Raise my horn in mirth shouting, 'Skål!', to the heavens.
As day turned to dusk, the horn was filled and a sip was taken...
...a sip of disappointment. A more disgusting draught never passing my lips before that day nor from that day forth, I cursed this seemingly-jolly promoter of - nay, liar!, con-artist! - such a vile brew.
Never again.