The Ifth of Oofth

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Farnsworth had invented a new drink that night. He called it a mulled sloe gin toddy. Exactly as fantastic as it sounds—ramming a redhot poker into a mugful of warm red gin, cinnamon, cloves and sugar, and then drinking the fool thing—but like many of Farnsworth’s ideas, it managed somehow to work out. In fact, its flavor had become completely acceptable to me after the third one.　

When he finally set the end of his steaming poker back on the coals for rest and regeneration, I leaned back warmly in my big leather chair—the one he had rigged up so that it would gently rock you to sleep if you pressed the right button—and said, “Oliver, your ingenuity is matched only by your hospitality.”　

Farnsworth blushed and smiled.　

He is a small, chubby man and blushes easily. “Thank you,” he said. “I have another new one. I call it a jelled vodka fizz —you eat it with a spoon. You may want to try it later. It’s — well — exceptional.”　

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