Now that you stopped funneling your family secrets my way, cutting off the lifeline of ideas I had for daytime soap plotlines, you can kiss goodbye your chance at being invited to the first public tasting of Pat’s Truth Serum Ale. That’ll be a big bummer for you. While all your friends are reveling in the first sips of this specialty beer, which will have been dry-hopped with my very own secret mix of horse manure-fed Willamette cones, tangerine peel, coriander, and sodium pentothal, you’ll be home drinking Bud Light and watching the Daytona 500 from little monitors set up in your chicken coop.
Of course, I fully realize that one of the two of us might be dead by the time my Truth Serum Ale is ready for consumption (in 3 to 5 years, depending on government regulators), which would make this complaint of mine somewhat moot. Another possibility is that you develop your own competing truth serum product (aged in French oak -- clever!), which you use to spike my breathing space such that I find myself telling everyone off. “Your front teeth are too large.” “I never understood your weird art.” “You were crazy to buy that stallion for alternative transportation.”
Sorry to bring on the negative karma, but I tried a little truth serum in my Count Chocula this morning and this is the result.