The results are in and there is indeed a substantial difference between
Ripple and merlot.  However, we found that if you mixed the merlot with
7-Up, it was nearly as good as the Ripple.  We do recommend that you open
the bottle of merlot first.  Without a corkscrew it can be very challenging
if one has consumed an entire bottle of Ripple by oneself.  Tips for the
shrewd shopper: if you are looking for merlot in Hannibal, phone the gas
station first to make certain they have it in stock. We also learned to
pronounce the "t" and not ask for "merloh."
    What would Sam himself have made of this?  Hard to say, really -- of
course that isn't going to stop me from guessing. Alcohol was a tremendous
part of his upbringing. Florida, Missouri (note that I am spelling the name
in its entirety -- I'll be d****d if I'm going to run afoul of the forum
puritans again!) in 1837 -- when our boy was just a sprite -- was producing
about 10,000 gallons of whiskey and 3000 gallons of brandy and gin a year
according to my predecessor Minnie Mae Brashear in her wonderful Mark Twain,
Son of Missouri. She wrote that Sam said, "I believed that I remember
helping my grandfather drink his whiskey toddy when I was six weeks old."
(I will proudly point out that neither of my grandfathers ever needed the
slightest bit of help with their whiskey, particularly from a six-week-old,
but then I come from stronger stock.)
    Now bear in mind that I am merely a simple backwoods country lawyer with
just a little knowledge of Sam and his world until he was 26.  Until that
age, I think he would have liked the Ripple. While I am making
unsubstantiated and absurd claims as to the tastes of a fellow born 167
years ago -- something which I attack others for doing on a regular basis --
I might as well add that I think young Sam would have adored The Simpsons, A
Prairie Home Companion, What Do You Know, the former comic strip Bloom
County, and my dog Tuxedo who on a regular basis desecrates the shrines
erected to "Mark Twain" about Hannibal with nonchalant impiety that the rest
of us can only dream.
    I base this latter observation on the actual conduct of my maternal
grandfather who was one of the jolliest men I ever met. He was a pharmacist
who owned a little drugstore in a town of 500 people in southern Indiana. He
loved visiting cemeteries.  He actually purchased his own tombstone and had
it set up years before he and Grandma died.  When we would visit Grandpa, he
would take my brother and me and his little Pomeranian dog to the cemetery.
We would go look at the marker. Sure enough, that little dog would hike his
leg on that stone and my grandfather would just roar with laughter.  It
sounds strange, but we always had a great time. There is nothing like being
with someone who is mocking death or any of the other foolishness associated
with this existence.
    So there you go. I'm with the young-Sam-is-okay-with-the-awards-show
crowd.
    I think.
    Anybody want to compare Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill and Dom Perrigon?
    Terrell