As always, I play the pesky, micromanaging inquisitor with the guarded, snuffly voice.
(I choose to blame 45% of the nasal tones on the pocket cam's tinny mic.)
(I don't really have an excuse for thinking the bottle was opened two weeks ago, no matter how many times Mike says "a week ago.")
(And what is YouTube's excuse for making all of my cruddy little videos 20% darker and therefore 20% cruddier?)
Sorry about Blair Witchin' the angles. I forgot it was a videyeer and not a pitchur.
Update: Dad says that he never claimed it would go flat. He just feels it doesn't taste as good after a month on the shelf. We'll have to test this. (Is this the beginning of a new reality show? Mythbusters, Family Edition?)
Things I mean to write about later: Viva Michoacan (sp) on Sunset, how Entertainment books are Actually Pretty Neat, LASER SCISSORS!, how I've never had a cupcake cake, the places Terry goes, and the delicious similes in Craig Ferguson's novel. It's like rediscovering Tom Robbins, but more Scrotchety* and with fewer sex lectures.
(So far.)
*(Scottish + crotchety)
(Also, I'm going to meet some Holocaust survivors later this week, but it doesn't seem right to mention that when discussing laser scissors, cupcake-cakes, and words that sound like "crotch.")
Oh, and I heard a new Top 40 song that I like!
If 1996 is new.
(It is.)
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