Well, howdy! By Jove! Here is a story about an old relative of mine. Used to hunt the Big Shaggys in the big open spaces in the middle of the country a century and half a go. A few other colorful habits. But you see where I got the name. And the love of alcoholic beverages. Benjamin C. Black. AKA 'Thunderbolt.'
I have the bottle he used to store his Bay Rum aftershave.
Who am I kidding. It was Rye whiskey, stored in that crystal stoppered bottle. Thunderbolt never used aftershave, and rarely cut back the whiskers. ANY bottle, it was rumored, in GrGrGrGrandads presence, didn't contain what it was intended or what was written on the label, but had some rot gut beverage or whatnot, therein instead.
I like Bay Rum, myself, but never use the aftershave, anyway. I don't take much to Rye, and prefer Bourbon, personally. So we're not completely alike. But, I've been known, my ownself, to make and sell alcoholic beverages in order to pay my mortgage and whatnot. It was just a little 600 gallon unit. Hardly anything. Fambly tradition. I'm not nearly the dead-eye shot, but this might explain my naturally preferring a revolver to a semi-auto.
I can also put to rest that horrible slanderous lie about "Thunderbolt's Bloomer-Busting Lager". It was most definitely NOT made from my great great great grand-daddy's urine. ('do I have to drink my own urine? No, but it's sterile, and I like the taste.') It was made from another part of him. Now let's never speak on this subject ever again.
Here is a contemporary rendering of GrGrGrGrandpa Ben:
The Missus has a pretty nasty stomache bug - And by "pretty nasty" I'll just elide the details, if you don't mind. But she's up to the toast and seltzer stage, so *Excelsior!*
4 hours ago