For years, I've shamefully, pathetically eschewed scotch on account of it offending my vewwy vewwy delicate taste buds.
"I don't like it," I would complain, dicklessly. "It's not vewwy yummy," I would continue, femininely.
Those days are over, my friends.
For I have discovered a scotch that does not make me get my period, does not give me hot flashes of matronly heat. It comforts my fragile palate with whispers and rumors of smoky intentions rather than assault my girlish figure with an overwhelming sensation of drinking a swamp.
My whisk(e)y contemporaries on other, lesser boards urged me to try such peaty scotches as Lauiouaphruoeuaggue, Glennfiddisticifigical and Arbagogaurgaba5abunga, but they found no favor in my hot wet mouth. These were foolish recommendations, akin to asking a young man to learn baseball by joining the Baltimore Orioles.
What's needed is a gateway, an entry, a path, that escorts the drinker to pleasure rather than immediately shave his back and climb inside.
Today, I know that whisk(e)y is Bowmore 12 Year.
It has all the dark, smoky resonance of a Native American hipster, providing that wonderfully soulful ache of scotch without the bombardment of sour stupid moss. It has overtones of leather, wood and oil, but not in a sexual way as most would assume. I still prefer the sweetness of Irish with a blurp of syrup, but this provides a dramatic and appealing counterpoint.
"Now THIS is what I like," I exclaimed while sitting down to pee.
Thus far, it can't stand alone as my exclusive nightly tipple, but it has served excellently as my final 'goodnight' before heading to bed in my nightgown.
If you've wanted to try a scotch but were intimidated by it, as I am about everything, then you might give Bowmore 12 a chance. For my own personal best results, I enjoy it with one ice cube in a Glencairn glass, which I lift to my mouth with pinkie raised.
