“Write drunk, edit sober.” –Ernest Hemingway
As a licensed, board-certified hillbilly, it should come as no surprise that I have more than a passing familiarity with that quintessential mountain creation, moonshine. I cannot be cremated when I pass away for the fact that my liver will burn for decades like an underground coal fire. There is, even as I write this, a jar of untaxed whiskey in my refrigerator. There is also a jug of raw milk, which is a topic unto itself. I find it interesting, though, that I had an easier time procuring a jar of almost pure alcohol than I did a gallon of real milk. That has to say something about the age we live in, but I’m not quite sure what.
Moonshine has been lubricating the Appalachian Mountains since the first Scots-Irish settlers brought their distilling prowess from whichever country they were thrown…
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