She was a dirty old woman

She disregarded my attempts to discuss the plummeting economy. Instead she kept sticking her fingers into a jar of slime, snorting whenever the green sludge emitted a wet fart. I stood in front of her, amazed that those two sausages could both fit into such a small plastic container. I soon became tired of the plastic queefing so I left her struggling with it all, looking like a well-dressed ape on the verge of throwing feces at unsuspecting bipeds.

In my best Henry Higgins saunter I crossed behind her, to the silver shrine she had set up to create a sort of halo around her whenever she sat at that exact spot. Millions of glass bottles reflected my face. A fat bottle of Tequila shaped like a Mexican sombrero caught my eye. It was mostly empty, but I noticed that the worm resting in the dregs seemed to be missing half of its body. Alcohol-soaked dentures had chomped away its boozy dignity.

The bottles seemed to reach back for rows and rows, like Bacchanalian orange groves. I was certain that if I was desperate enough, if in a drunken stupor I placed my sweaty cheek on one of the shelves and hoarsely whispered for some liquid to quench the thirst that none of the now empty bottles could fulfill, the hand of Dionysus himself would appear and tip bourbon of the Gods onto my lips...sweeter than orange juice, deadlier than a switchblade. 

She must have experienced that countless times. The Lord of Moonshine had visited her with a hand-wrapped bottle every year of her life. If I reached back far enough I could find the rubber nipple-tipped bottle of port that still bears the marks of her teething.

I felt a sudden wetness spread over the back of my head. The Grand Ape had thrown the slime at me. Apparently opposable thumbs are no use when it comes to solving the immense puzzle of closing a jar of guar gum. 

But that's the consideration you get when you give your grandmother her Christmas present early.