It’s only 15 degrees Fahrenheit outside.

While I don’t have to worry about stray probe droids or wampa attacks, I can’t help but feel like I’m trapped on Hoth. I keep starting my car, just to make sure that its hyperdrive hasn’t been deactivated. After all, I’m going to have to get the fuck out of the driveway once Vader and his crew roll up.

They don’t mess around.

Okay, so I don’t have to worry about the Dark Lord of the Sith tossing my dessicated corpse into a snowbank. But I also don’t have the benefit of taking a dip in a bacta tank. So how am I, a regular fanboy without any mastery of the Force, supposed to survive the frozen hell that is the Bostonian January?

Why, with the sweet warmth of alcohol! On this early Sunday afternoon, I’m tossing back a bottle of the oak-aged elixir that is Innis & Gunn Original.

C’mon Chewie, punch it!

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Ahoy!`Tis Saturday nite and as such the drinks are freely flowin’ at the Mos Eisley Cantina. Figrin D’an is tearing shit up with his Modal Nodes, inspiring muthafuckahs to hit the dance floor and gyrate their gential-areas together. Backdoor deals are being made so that terrorist-farmhands can blow up expensive government buildings.   And droids still aren’t being served.

If Omega-Level were a patron of the Mos Eisley Cantina, it’d be a smooth-talkin’ Corellian whose language of choice is credits.

But since we have the benefit of residing on the lovely blue planet known as Earth, there’s no chance of snagging space-brews from Wuher. Instead, I must head to the liquor-merchant and choose a potable on my own. Without an interstellar racist to guide me, I’m liable to choose all sorts of kooky concoctions.

As such, tonight I’m drinking Innis & Gunn Rum Cask.

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