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Friday, March 18, 2005

No mommy's kisses, and no daddy's smile...

Hi. My name is Bearded. I'm a...
Bourbon
Congratulations! You're 127 proof, with specific scores in beer (40) , wine (50), and liquor (139).

Screw all that namby-pamby chick stuff, you're going straight for the
bottle and a shot glass! It'll take more than a few shots of Wild
Turkey or 99 Bananas before you start seeing pink elephants. You know
how to handle your alcohol, and yourself at parties.



My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
You scored higher than 53% on proof
You scored higher than 85% on beer index
You scored higher than 85% on wine index
You scored higher than 99% on liquor index
Link: The Alcohol Knowledge Test written by hoppersplit on Ok Cupid


[Provenanters: via Snark Attack via Unfogged]
Ach - Bourbon's okay, I suppose, but it has such a flowery aftertaste, you know? Not like whisky. Straight up, nae water, and nae bloody ice.

Haven't drank in years. Which is to say: haven't been drunk in years. Have the odd margarita or glass of red now and then - maybe an appletini if I'm out - but very rarely? After whisky, nothing else seems up to much? Stop drinking that and pretty soon your enthusiasm wanes for anything less.

Whether you acknowledge it or not, there is a window in your life for whisky: youngsters can't drink it because it tastes so bad when you're a kid? Smells so bad too, you'd puke before the glass got near your lips. Oldsters - well, for oldsters whisky makes them old and weepy, makes them cry for days on long-forgotten songs. My window opened in my later twenties, and clapped-to ten years later. It began, forgive my Conneritic tone, with Maltsh - Shingle-maltsh. Sublime and smooth, the single-malt scotch whisky is without doubt the single finest spirit on the planet. There's a bar in my home town - The Old Inn - with a gantry that had fifty different malts if it had one; every last distinct, unique. I favored the Speysides: The Macallan, The Glenlivet, Glenfarclas. Had a pal from Dufftown, his dad was manager at Glenfiddich, used to tell us "Rome was built on seven hills; Dufftown's built on seven stills." Not so keen on the dry, peaty Islay malts (Islay as in Isla Vista, sunshine) - Laphroaig or Lagavulin - except for the gentler brands like Bunnahabhain or Tallisker? The ones that didnae taste like the dry-cleaners? Others swear by them: won't drink anything but? They love they way that peaty malts sook the moisture out their gums.

But malts were too expensive - like forty quid a bottle! You'd maybe get a bottle for christmas, but you'd have to make that last a year? For everyday fare, then, one had to hold one's nose and acquire a taste for a bit o' the rough: for the blends. I never had any trouble acclimatizing to the blends. Cheap and cheerful and fine enough for the likes of me. Was a time I would happily down a half-bottle of Grouse while ironing the kids' clothes at night. Never any worse for wear. Any more than that, though, I'd soon start to feel it: like an exponential whoosh! A bottle was my limit - after that, deed.

Came out here, of course, and met my wife. After years of drinking alone, we all of us partied like it made us go blind. A loud and obnoxious drunk, perhaps, but a happy one. But after a while when I began to change; turned from happy drunk to nasty drunk, and that was time for me to settle down. No more Satan's Semen for me. The window had closed.

I don't miss it. Not really.

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