After fruitlessly scouring my brain for nearly an hour in search of a laughter-making caption for the aforementioned picture, my younger brother bounded in from a neighborhood alehouse with a seven-beer grin on his face and asked, in a heavy-tongued slur, "What ya doing, Core?"
"I'm trying to write a caption for this picture," I said to him, turning my 13-inch MacBook in the direction of his bloodshot eyes.
Without hesitation and in a flawless little-kid-in-rain-boots-straddling-a-sex-doll tone of voice he quipped, "I prefer doggy style, but I'll take what I can get."
"Bryan, you're a genius!" I said, turning toward him to offer up a 'thank you' high five. "You don't realize how long I've bee—what are you eating?"
"Bryan, that's potpourri."
"It's delicious is what it is," he said, extending the bowl in my direction. "Want some?"
"No thanks," I said, smirking. "I just had a bowl a little while ago."
"Good," he said, his mouth full of scented wood shavings. "More for me."