I named my hoo ha Judith, just like Judith told me to.
She has curly hair, a little home, and an attitude, that tastes like whiskey.
And if you’re nice, Judith may give you a whiskey kiss.
Whiskey kisses don’t come easy. So you have to be careful.
Sometimes they’re sour but most other times, they burn bookish the way sinfulness should.
A whiskey kiss is not a wine kiss or a vodka kiss and for heavens! Nothing like a beer kiss!
(beer kisses are unacceptable. too much stout.)
Judith with fame has made many a good man and woman, cry in her search for happiness.
Enough about that. Let’s talk about me.
I first met Judith as an 11-year-old woman. We did not get along.
She made me toss and turn in bed, like a pig being prepared for slaughter.
And when she murdered, I felt a putative warmth oozing out my lungs.
A cancerous warmth, the way snuff snuggles into a snuffbox made of white dove.
Judith and I, we love each other now. Except when it snows.
Our whiskyness stood upright always, in case of a parlor visit.
But old girls we are. No more ashamed of being ashamed.
And old girls we will remain, passing down our alcoholism to our daughters.
Because I have no need for whiskey at 82.