Cinnamon Brown

So not right.

SO not right.

So NOT right.

But probably my own fault.

A couple of days ago we were all treated to very loud noise in our home. As a parent I was sure that one of my kids had just taken that glass light bulb covering thing off of one of their ceiling fans and thrown it violently onto the ground in delight, along with the very expensive compact fluorescent light bulb.

I marched into the hallway, determined to exact explanations and retributions and instead saw a puddle of brown liquid seeping out of the hallway closet. A bottle of my brown ale had exploded. Kids were off the hook but I had cleaning duty.

Laughing it off, I convinced myself it was an anomaly; put a beer in the fridge (all right, fine, I called my daughter from work and had her do it) and opened it when I got home from work the next day.

And it was a gusher.

I opened a second one. Same thing. I put several more in the refrigerator and opened them after a days worth of chilling.

Gush.

Gush.

Spew.

Gush.

Pump.

Spew.

Gush.

I opened some warm ones. Geysers. One blew the top ring off the bottle in my hand. I began to think the batch had an issue.

All that work, for naught.

My wife urges me to buy new and expensive equipment.

I have had mine for several years now and it has been stored in less than satisfactory ways over the years.

In my despair over the death of Cinnamon Brown, I visited the Mothership and wrote this.

Sent with Writer.

Sent from my iPad

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