Father Knows Breast: Mother's Milk Cocktails For Stay-At-Home Dads

Big eye roll.

I can see the scene now.

High noon. The sun is effectively baking the earth's surface. Tumble weeds roll lazily across the dusty street between clap board building under the shade of post and beam over hangs...circa mid 1800's ...a lone old timer dozes while leaning back against a building on but two legs of a kitchen chair in the shade while a mangy homeless dog wanders the ally sniffing around for it's daily bread.

[Cut to interior of a saloon:]

The swinging doors fling open. In the void that takes thier place stands a tall, mysterious stranger who appears to have been rode hard and put up wet for three days.

He saunters to the bar. emanating mystery, danger and a n'er do well demeanor like another man might wear cologne. There's a small scar on his cheek and a predators look in his eye.

The Barkeep swallows hard spits in a glass and begins wiping it clean to keep his hands from shaking.

"What will you have stranger?" he asks the parched, sun burned gunslinger with skin like hard tack.

The stranger raises the brim of his hat using just his trigger finger with an air of impatience and with a look as hard and bitter as Cain himself answers, "Give me one of those Mother's milk cocktails. And just keep em' comin'!" He slaps down a confederate gold piece on the bar never taking is eyes off of the inn keeper.

The piano man diverts his gaze from the exchange He knows the slinger is aware he's been staring and the last thing the Gurdyman doesn't want is for the stranger to turn and take notice of him. He focuses on the 88s and begins a soft but lively lullaby on his piano.

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