19 November 2011
Arran Hits the Mark Yet Again
Unless I have gone into the liquor store to purchase something in particular I like to look around the store the way I used to look around toy stores when I was a kid in the months before Christmas.
I want every bottle in the store, motherfuckers.
I was looking through the whiskies yesterday. Could not make up my mind. Luckily for me there was someone there to help me make up my mind, as there always is when I am taking my time choosing what it is I would like to get me shitfaced. The Hindoo. Motherfucker shadows me every time I am in the store. Does not really matter if I am doing a quick in/out or I am reading the fine print on the back of every bottle in the store. Guess I do not look like I can afford to get bombed without loading up my coat with free liquor.
"This shit any good?" I asked him, holding up a bottle of Arran's.
"It must be. Look at the price," he instructed me.
Fucking asshole, I thought. Then I thought some more and decided I was the fucking asshole. Who the fuck asks the security dick what scotch to buy? Especially since I had just seen him help a pair of his friends from the Fatherland they had all escaped from pick out a bottle of Catto's.
That is heaving scotch.
I gripped the bottle of Arran's, Amarone Cask Finish, and walked over to where I grabbed a box of cider in my free hand. If I had slipped and that bottle of scotch had left my hand as I fell the Hindoo would have caught it before it hit the floor. That is how close I get watched in the liquor store even though I have never, in more than three decades as a loyal customer, ripped off a fucking government liquor store for so much as one of those little airline bottles. I do not even drink the free shit the pretty girls push on me every time I walk in.
Brilliant whisky. Unlike any other. Tasting notes on the box the bottle came in say chocolate, cherry and Turkish delight. Whatever. Odd colour, similar to that of raspberry cider when poured over ice, as I prefer my whisky. It is the American in me.
What does not kill us, gets us wasted.
Which is why I prefer overproof scotch to overproof speedballs.