The zymurgist is so over finding it cool being the last scientist in the dictionary he’s even over being irritated at others finding it cool. Getting into the shower in the morning, he tries to take an objective view of his physique, and then abandons that pursuit as too painful. Putting on his underwear, the elastic twangs like… he spends the rest of the day searching for the perfect simile. Like a piano wire across a stool pigeon’s larynx. Like a guy-wire on a radio tower in a windstorm. He should do something about it. One of these days. Very soon.