Having just learned the meaning of the title of this post, let me admit to already being in love with it. It’s a euphemism, friends, Romans, countrymen; it’s a delightful way of saying I’m snookered. And not the snookered that comes with being snooked from the delightful game of ‘snook’ (I confess to not knowing if there is such a creature); no, instead, although I possess enough faculties to recall the existence and possible appropriateness of using a semi-colon, I am without a doubt, and thanks to the help of the BBC for suppling me with the term, snozzled.

That is, drunk.

Also, cocksuckers.

The last, I admit, is the influence of having watched nearly three seasons of ‘Deadwood’ within a week. “But Skip,” you rightly protest. “Surely there are better ways to spend your time. There are blankets to feed and homeless to give out; there are 1-800 numbers to call so as to pledge your charity and love and fine attention to detail of the altruistic sort. What be-ith your path?”

Cocksuckers.

Well, okay. I take my education in 19th century territorial speech (as presented by those peckerwoods at HBO programming) a bit too seriously. But, as lax as their attention to history might be, they do present a compelling case in the support of whiskey. Specifically, in my case, scotch. Their bartenders in the show dispense fermented corn and grain in prodigious amounts (fuck off; I spelled “prodigious” without your help), so earlier this week I ventured forth from the confines of a dog pile of devastating illnesses (walking pneumonia, stomach flu, and astounding good looks… if you must know, you nosy wankers) to hunt for the elusive whiskey bottle. Instead, what I stumbled across was a bottle of single-malt Glenmorangggggie.

Skip’s Total Knowledge of Single-Malt Scotch:

It only has one malt. Not even a shake, nor smoothie, nor cup of swirled yogurt, but one malt. One. Uno. Less than two, but more than less than one.

So, is that what trapped me tonight in rapture of its blitzed glory? No. Kinda. Mostly, though, I blame the Shiraz. ‘Shiraz’, my friends is Australian for “We pretend it’s wine.” And pretend well they do, indeed; I was almost convinced as per my grand education at the America School For Vino. (This is true, so do not doubt me at my word. You may not find such a school even after the sweatiest, most grueling Google search, but fret not. I would never lie to you; I, who has been truthful from Day One. I also darn my socks. The socks I received after graduating from the America School For Vino. See? Proof.) But just to be sure, and in honor of my wife who cannot help suss out what is genuine wine and what is genuine wine in her current state of glorious knocked-up, I downed the whole bottle in her honor. After that, I chased it with a shot of scotch so as to teach that wine a lesson.

Which finds me here, at the computer, idly wondering what happens after I push the letters on this keyboard. Tomorrow, I fear, I will find out. I, a courageous adventure, will discover after reading this entry, the malaria of my mind. I only hope that I insert the correct number of commas.

Also, thanks to Deadwood, I hope to open a saloon at the end of the week. The gals all have hearts of gold, it seems, and the whiskey flows freely. Plus, let’s admit, the double doors gracing the entryway are kind of cool.