The Class Act

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Well, well.  Imagine my surprise.

It does not seem that long ago to me at all that I came to you, seeking to state for the record my overwhelming bad-assedness, in a demonstration of both my triceps and my devastating cocktail.  Rarely does a bad-ass of my stature have an opportunity to express myself on the internet, instead being limited to lesser mediums like painting or your momma, and so it pleased me enormously to take advantage of this unique challenge.

Do you see my chest?  It is not puffed out exclusively because of my overwhelming pectoral, intercostal and deltoid muscles.  No!  That overwhelming chest is at least partially swollen with pride.  Pride that is now deflated, not unlike the tires on Mike’s car that were mysteriously, savagely slashed.  

It is a real, genuine shame when we cannot all be happy, I think.

You see, it turns out that my invention, Chillin’ like a Villain, has turned out to be one of the absolute least-popular items ever to appear on this website.  Can you conceive it?  Can the thought cross your mind without you bursting out into bellowing, enraged laughter at how crazy that is?  In my case, the laughter was nearly enough to weaken my towering, terrifying triceps as I held Mike up against the wall of his office building, where we coincidentally ran into each other just a few weeks ago.  I had been in the neighborhood, wondering why my recipe could have fared so poorly.

When Mike was done enthusiastically waving to passers-by, none of whom seemed at all interested in joining our conversation, he finally offered an explanation.

“It’s just that, well, there was maybe possibly a lot of swearing going on in there, and it could be that maybe our audience wasn’t thrilled by that.”

My muscles and I allowed a long silence to ensue.  I thought perhaps we collectively might help inspire a better answer.

“It wasn’t, you know, classy.”

Damn.  For real?  Damn.  Sometimes it is words, and not unthinkably huge biceps that can crush full cans of chick peas by the mere act of flexing, that can do the greatest harm.

Me?  Not classy?  Did he not see my exquisitely maintained mustache, fashioned after that of Dr. Watson from the Sherlock Holmes adventure novels?  Could he not observe how my denim shirt was immaculately tucked into my denim pants, as only a man of distinguished professional acumen would do?  Did a mere trick of language do so much damage to my desire to be known worldwide as a refined, elegant and respectable god damned bad-ass?

While I mused over these thoughts, Mike took the opportunity to excuse himself from our dialogue by jumping on a passing streetcar, pulling his coat over his head, and leaping off again a block away.  When I came to his house to finish our discourse, I discovered that he and Tina had left the country for an undetermined amount of time, and hid their cats with nearby family.

Normally I would express my disappointment in conventional ways, such as a politely-worded sticky note on their door, or possibly setting his garage on fire.  But before I could act, I found myself asking the question:

What would the classy bad-ass do?

I realized that if I were ever to win over the audience, it would take fewer harsh truths about their mother’s sex lives, and more elegance.  I would have to go the extra mile, and help everyone understand the kind of class act they are dealing with.

So I broke into their kitchen and left them a present.

The Class Act

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Please forgive the quality of this photograph, as I was in a rush and did not have the time to set aside the keys to my 2008 Toyota Prius.  To make the Class Act, and truly show how respectable a Bad Ass you are, one requires to undertake the following:

  • Prepare a tumbler or martini glass, preferably chilled for maximum coolness
  • Pour out a full ounce of Gentleman Jack Rare Tennessee Whiskey, since it has all the goodness of actual whiskey, but is clearly for Gentlemen.  Behold that the bottle is square, like all the finest and most upstanding liquors.  Add that to your shaker full of ice cubes.
  • Top it with 3/4 of an ounce of Amaretto, which is sophisticated for tasting like cherries but then actually being made of nuts.  It is also very frequently housed in a square bottle.
  • Finally, to celebrate that you are one of the special ones, add 1/4 ounce of Goldschlager.  It doesn’t matter if you can’t even see the gold flakes any more!  You will know it’s there, and so will all the people who matter.
  • Top the whole thing off with your favorite Coke, chilled to perfection.
  • Add cherries.  What classy shit doesn’t have some cherries on top?  Yeah.  That’s right.

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Damn, look at that.  It’s got whiskey, it’s got nut-that-taste-like-fruit liqueur, it’s even got real literal gold in it.  If that isn’t classy, I don’t know what is.

I hope they liked it, and I know you will find it to be a refined, adult, terrifying, intimidating, muscle-bound but ABOVE ALL CLASSY addition to your day.

Sip.

And enjoy.

  • http://foodhappens.blogspot.com lo

    Omigosh.
    I couldn’t stop laughing. I laughed so hard the classy just about fell out of my nose.

    Many thanks 🙂
    And cheers!!

  • http://www.eatingindallas.wordpress.com Margie

    I like biceps.

  • http://thespitefulchef.blogspot.com kristie

    But I LOVE funnily-timed swear words. Maybe that’s why my blog only averages, like, 77 views a day over the last year, and at least 200 of those were the school administration reading posts in order to disapprove of me in writing. You’re a genius of writing and cocktail-making, and very pretty to boot. So…I’m going to go chill like a villain now.

  • Marcel

    Don Draper drinking an “old-fashioned” and smoking cigarettes while wearing an impeccably tailored suit with requisite skinny tie. Now THAT’S classy