Well, let me tell you about the scientific endeavor I recently undertook, though I reckon calling it “science” might be an insult to proper scientists everywhere. You see, a man afflicted with the devil’s own arthritis, what the fancy doctors call “gout,” finds himself in a perpetual state of confusion about which pleasures of this mortal coil are responsible for his particular brand of torment.

Being a man of questionable judgment but boundless curiosity, I decided to conduct what might charitably be called an experiment, though “fool’s errand” might be more accurate. On a Thursday, I consumed what could only be described as a heroic quantity of beef, a pot roast so tender and flavorful that it might make a lesser man weep with joy.

I ate enough to satisfy a team of lumberjacks, expecting to wake up the next morning with my foot howling in protest. But lo and behold, nothing happened beyond the usual vapors that emanate from a man who has properly fed himself.

My joints remained as peaceful as a sleeping baby, and I began to suspect that all those medical folks had been wrong about red meat all along. I was practically ready to declare myself cured, a medical marvel who had discovered the secret to consuming beef without consequence.

Then came Friday evening, when I decided to test the other theory with three glasses of liquid courage that would make an Irishman proud. The whiskey went down smooth as silk, and I retired to my bed with nary a care in the world.

But Saturday morning brought a revelation of the most painful sort, as my right foot had swelled to the size of a prize-winning pumpkin, with my toe protesting so vigorously that it might as well have been sending up smoke signals. And there I sat, a man of many years and questionable wisdom, having proven beyond all reasonable doubt that whiskey, not beef, was my particular poison.

Now I find myself in a state of moral and culinary confusion, uncertain which development brings me greater sorrow. On one hand, I can eat all the red meat my heart desires without fear of reprisal from my vengeful joints. On the other hand, I must bid farewell to my evening companion, Mr. Whiskey, who has seen me through more troubles than I care to count.

A man might think he’d be celebrating his newfound freedom to feast on beef without consequence. But I find myself mourning the loss of my liquid solace more than I’m rejoicing in my carnivorous liberation.

It’s a peculiar state of affairs when a man discovers he can keep his steak but must sacrifice his spirits, a trade that leaves me wondering if I’ve gained anything at all in this grand experiment of mine.