I never had a glass skull yell at me before. Yet there it was, atop the shelf in my mudroom, taunting me as I walked past.
“Haven’t you waited long enough?” it asked.
“You sound like Dan Aykroyd,” I replied.
“Take me down,” it insisted. “Pull my stopper and try me already. The world is ending. What are you waiting for?”
I nodded, “You have been hanging around quite a while — the bottle to be opened on a special occasion.”
“There’s no such thing,” it argued.
“It’s not the Apocalypse.”
I acquired that bottle of Crystal Head Vodka from an estate more than a decade ago — a relic from my picking days when I sold dead people’s stuff to people who are going to die.
“Glup! Glup! Glup!” the bottle snorted as I poured a couple of shots worth into a tumbler. “Cheers, dummy!”
“Cheers,” I echoed and drank.
It stared at me.
“Disappointing,” I sighed.
“Anticipation is the philosophy of fools,” the bottle said.
“I thought that was hindsight.”
“Either way,” the bottle said, “you’re not acknowledging the present.”
“Either way,” I replaced the stopper, “I’m a hypocrite.”
“Part of the human condition,” it said. “By the way, what’s so disappointing about me?”
“You taste very much like rubbing alcohol,” I answered.
“Then put me back on the shelf,” the bottle said. “You might need me when you have to start making homemade hand sanitizer.”
“Now who’s the hypocrite?”