Outside of the bunk you’ll hear Americans spout about how bourbon is the ultimate refinement of Scottish whisky, you will hear no such jingoistic flag-waving rhetoric here, because perfection can’t be improved upon!
I drink and greatly enjoy both bourbon and whisky, and it is not until I encounter a gushing bourbon (the sort of c*nt that usually mixes firewater with sugar water—Coke a Cola!) that I raise my 6’2 frame off the chair, set the misguided fool down on a barstool next to me, and signal the barman to bring forth form me two sufficient samples of both substances (No! Not on the rocks!) in the hope that the searing burn that is soon to grace the sinful throat of the offender rapidly imparts on them some of the wisdom I had to hew from many years of drinking.
Once the untainted liquid is presented before the uninitiated, an uncomfortable squirming in the seat is a clear sign that while they may swear heart and mouth that they love bourbon and have enjoyed it for many years, they have never gone bareback with it.
With the soft saddle of some offending sugar-laden dilutant placed thoroughly out of reach, a tilted tumbler shoved towards the fool’s mouth is how I get them to open their blasphemous orifice to receive, first the punishment, then (one hopes) the blessing from the holy spirit (48.5% alcohol by volume).
As they take in the amber liquid, they start to realize the depths of their depravation. “SWALLOW!” I growl insistently as moisture accumulates in their eyes and a red glow flushes over their face.
Breath violently escapes their lungs followed by an intense cough that drowns out their attempt at verbal protest.
After several minutes and a pint of water, the fool recovers. Excuses fly forth from their mouth about having to return home or having left a pot on the stove, but I know that they are merely resisting the work of the lord as the wayward always do, initially.
Now . . . that was the bourbon—mere Oros compared to what lies in the other tumbler stretching its aromatic and flavor limbs for another divine conversion.
After reassuring them that the demon of ignorance is almost exorcised from their body, I pick up the tumbler holding the golden liquid and present it to them. “Take your time,” I say to allay their final fears. “What comes after this, neither of us has control over, and is not for any man to decide,” I caution them.
And as they take a swig and this is where one has to let the lord decide if the lost soul I have presented to him is fit for his coveted flock, because whisky either chooses your or doesn’t. It is that simple.
There is no point trying to save those born destined for damnation. They hiss like vipers as the holy spirit makes its way to the core of their being. They will leap up from where they are seated and run as if on fire. They are not our brothers, and we best accept that and move on to find our other wayward kin, should the lord rebuke them at our presentation.
But for those who do get chosen, whatever happy memories of their life is lost to them forever, because the happiness they experience from tasting one dram of unadulterated Scotch—provided they are of the chosen meant for paradise in the peated foothills of Scotland—renders them numb to any other earthly experience. They are no longer upright beasts chasing the simple pleasures of thrift and pillage, for they have graced refinement, perfection, and godliness and, henceforth, seek only those qualities.
The lord sayeth, “[If need be] Leave your treasure and your family, take up your cross and follow me!” And, yes, I’ve seen men abandon all in their pursuit of whisky, but of this matter I will speak no more. Each man deals with the calling in a different way.
Some call me a spirited man, a savior of lost souls, the bringer of enlightenment, but I have no wish to don such aggrandized appraisals. I am merely happy to be the old man standing at the crossroad, ready to point out to the odd passerby the way towards eternal bliss.
No doubt—and as many can see—drinking whisky is something akin to religion. That being the case, let me bid you a fitting farewell: May the bottle be with you always!