The Stirrer DARK MATTER ABYSSAL

Your beautifully chilled mixing glass, filled with diamond-shaped-crystal-clear ice, stands in front of you. A strategically directed beam of light marks it as the center of attention in the low dimmed bar. Eyes turn. You add two parts of that precious-single-barrel-aged-for-twenty-something -years-liquid-gold spirit, one part of that guaranteed-to-change-your-perception- of-the-universe-and-lead-you-to-enlightenment fortified wine, two dashes of the impossible-to-find-mind-blowing-key-to-your-inner-hidden-self-elixir-of-eternal-lust bitters. You are about to curve time and space and surf the waves of creation with this beauty. You reach out for your barspoon.

Wow. Stop. Barspoon? Really? A spoon?
Oh, come on. You can do better than that. Baby.

What you should be reaching out for, in our small twisted universe that most people call brain should be something equal in craftsmanship, beauty, grace, fame, prestige and level of awesomeness
to the Excalibur of King Arthur,
the sickle of Merlin
(well, if it wasn’t invisible),
the rod of Moses,
the Zulu Knobkierie and the Maasai Rungu illegitimate child,
the thunderbolt of Zeus, the katana of a samurai,
a Stradivarius,
Jimmy’s Stratocaster,
the baton of a true maestro conductor, an instrument designed for and destined to spend the night whispering Love Me Tender to the laws of physics, an oasis of harmony for the eyes and the hands.

The hands.
Your hands.
Your hands deserve this kind of magic. Baby.