The Monday Swing is nothing more than chemicals, escaping vapors of the neurotransmitters burned up in the climax of the weekend, smokey trails left over from a weekly budget-crushing firework display meant to rattle the teeth in the gaping maws mouthing the ooohs and aaahs.  I know this.  I expect this now, a condition of my condition, like a side effect crammed into the fine print of some new asthma medication.  

But It was a bit more vicious this time around, with only pointy teeth and bony elbows offered as a greeting.  Like your favorite pet chimpanzee reminding you what's what.  And that maybe you should clean its cage a little more often.  And that HOLY SHIT HE JUST TORE MY FACE OFF LIKE AN ILL-FITTING HALLOWEEN COSTUME.

I should have know better than to turn my back on this Monday.  I should have remembered my own Cautionary Tales of Monday.  I am the Trip Fisk of Mondays.  Mondays are not for decoration.  Mondays will cut your fucking hands off.  Mondays... Mondays will fucking cut you wide open.  This is why I tell my stories...

Especially after WhiskeyFest Weekend.  Especially.  WhiskeyFest is one of the events...one of the few that are an annual spectacle, a Midwestern Mecca of Mash and Grain.  This was my 750ml year in Attendance.  What was new/different about this time back through The Breach?  One- Rye is fucking back, baby.  Tons of Rye whiskey at the Fest.  And actually, my favorite of the night was Redemption Rye, out of Bourbon-Land.  Dos- GroupMe was an invaluable resource for the evening.  Like a gangbang for your text messages, it lets whatever group you set up all stay on the same page. And relay amazing Whiskey finds. And make sure everybody knows who pissed themselves throughout the night.

Which thankfully, was nobody that night. We made it through the evening without a casualty. Which is a rarity, between the Dudes and the glassware.  Somebody...somebody or thing always is...unlucky. Or pulls the Short Straw. Or takes one for The Team.  Whatever.  They end up broken or hurt or doused in...beverage. This year we all made it through WhiskeyFest...only to break ourselves later that night.  Broken chairs, spilled water, and tainted pants.  Which ended up being a theme for the weekend, until I got on the train, The Whiskey Shore Limited Express, headed to The Cleve.

And now I'm here, fighting a lack of chemicals with an excess of chemicals, using a bottle of Redemption Rye, a rye IPA, and a bag of Jalapeno-Jack SunChips as cannon fodder against my face hole.  No raising of the victory flag tonight...but by the weekend there should be Celebratory Fireworks lighting up the sky...

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