Five Bottles of Rum

I am the proud owner of five bottles of rum. I guess you could say I'm lucky, but let me tell you, there's a lot more than luck that goes into acquiring five bottles of superior quality South American rum. When I married Alex it was not simply because she's brilliant and beautiful. No, like any chessmaster, I was thinking ten or twelve moves ahead. Sure, I knew it was a smart match, but I also knew that by pledging my undying devotion to someone with deep roots in Venezuela, I was, for all intents and purposes, laying a pipeline for a nonstop flow of liquid gold from Caracas. Oil, you say? Bah! We're talking rum here, people. Ron anejo, to be specific. My wife's latest journey to tropical climes produced no fewer than five bottles of that dark elixir without which any bar is incomplete. That's one problem I shouldn't have for a while.

What makes rum so great? Well, for one, it's the beverage of choice of pirates everywhere. I mean, sure, pirates will quaff a flagon of ale without thinking twice, but lets face it: pirates and rum are inextricably bound. One sip on a chill wintery night and you'll know why, when you find yourself transported instantly to the high seas, awash in sea spray and warm, tropical sun. You're captain of a commandeered British ship, a swarthy band of cutthroats at your call. You know that this scurvy, sunburned lot would lay down its life for you in a second, and in the next second would cut your throat. You set a course south of west and cast a look over your men that would curdle the blood of Satan himself. The bottle in your hand is empty. You toss the vessel overboard and repair to your quarters, your charts and compass, and a crate of Venezuelan bliss.

If that's not reason enough, then I can also tell you that rum straight up, on the rocks, in a daquiri or mixed with cola is completely delicious. If you find yourself jealous of my exquisite collection of five bottles of premium South American rum, I don't blame you. If you don't, something must be terribly wrong with you, and you're no friend of mine, you miserable, land lubbing cur.

Arrr!

nwb