Sunday, August 29, 2010

Alcoholic Crap: Old Crow

There are many things in this mean old world of ours that I don't understand.  I don't understand why people want vampires that send them FTD bouquets.  I don't understand why people like music without melodies.  I don't understand Mandarin Chinese.  I could fill a book with all the things I don't understand.  And I think I'd have to dedicate a chapter of that book to the subject of alcohol snobs and their expensive follies.

Those of us who drink professionally understand that the goal of the entire imbibication process is inebriation, not another extraneous culinary experience.   Anything that gets in the way of that inebriation is the enemy, and there are several things that can get in the way.  Sugary, fruity, girly drinks, for example.  You can't drink very much of that stuff without losing your ethnic cuisine in the nearest alley, and puking is enough to dampen any sensible person's fun.  Some people never learn that lesson.  Those people are called “sorority sisters”. Another thing that can get in the way of inebriation is the prohibitive cost of certain labels of hooch.  There's a reason that they call them “labels”.  It's because that's what you're paying for.  It's a name and a color scheme.  Don't believe the hype. 

My drink of choice is bourbon.  When it comes to how various bourbons taste, there are those who will go on about hints of this and echoes of that.  Those people are deluded and silly.  Or rather, their words contain hints of nonsense and echoes of yuppie effluvia.

To the untrained tongue, bourbon tastes a lot like ass, and that's ok.  The taste is irrelevant.  We aren't here to tickle our tongues until they coo.  We're here to obliterate our consciousness in the most efficient manner possible.  Priorities, people.  Priorities.  Despite its basic taste, there are some labels of bourbon that go for staggering sums of scratch.  You'd have to be drunk to spend that kind of money on a caustic ghost of urine yet to come.  And if you were already drunk, why bother?  That's why, when I wish to board the swaying train to Lush Town, I often get on at the Old Crow station.

Like a lot of cheap whiskey, Old Crow was once held in loftier esteem.  It's been around for a couple of centuries and was the favorite drink of Ulysses S. Grant, one of history's more productive drunks.  Hunter Thompson and Mark Twain were fans.  The Reverend Horton Heat and Tom Waits have sung its praises.  And then there's me.  At my local liquor store, I can score a half gallon of the stuff for $13.99, which is half the price of Jack Daniels and considerably less than Jim Beam (another personal favorite, which is made by the same folks who grace us with the Crow).  Despite the low price, I can assure everyone that it gets you exactly as drunk as those other brands and inflicts no more pain.

Old Crow doesn't stand alone, or even at the bottom, of cheap whiskeys.  It merely stands in the glass on my desk, which is why I decided to write about it.  Drink cheap, people, and put the money you save toward that new liver you'll probably need in a few years.  Cheers.

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