Buckle on your party pants men–and I do mean MEN, because boys are not allowed–this train is leaving the station at a speed most human minds cannot even begin to comprehend. White Dog #1 in not your standard whiskey. It is not even your standard booze. It is an apotheosis of moonshine, a fusion of corn and alcohol suitable only for the most enlightened degenerates. So let me give you the quick and dirty explanation, because that’s how drinking this will leave you feeling. That and good.
White whiskey is what you get after the distillation process but before the aging process. That means it’s had no time to do things like settle, mellow out, develop complex flavors, colors and aromas or generally turn into a beverage suitable for normal human consumption. It’s pretty much proto-whiskey. It is to whiskey what crude is to gasoline. And if you’re averse to strong drink, are the sensitive sort, or are even just an average person (which—let’s face it—really amounts to nothing more than a sweet tea swilling, limp-wristed, yellow-bellied bootlick in this context) it is not for you. In fact, if any of the things in the previous sentence can be used by anyone to describe anything about you in any way, you should probably stop reading this article right now and just go home, sit in the corner and weep while bemoaning the undeniable curse of spinelessness that is part of your genetic lineage, you sniveling invertebrate.
If, on the other hand, you are the sort who administers tongue lashings to others by the simple virtue of opening your mouth, can grate cheese not only with your abs but your beard as well, and would let another man kick you in the groin just so you could laugh at his sissy wailing after he breaks his ankle on your cast-iron testicles, then please, I invite you to read further.
So. What is White Dog #1 like? According to this wanker I had to listen to at the liquor store, it’s a fine indicator of Buffalo Trace’s quality as a distillery since even before the aging process begins, the product already sports a distinctive fla—. No, you flouncing pussywillow. It is not like that at all. It is like corn and fire. No, not roasted corn, you slack-jawed, mouth-breathing toolbag! Why are you still here if you didn’t get it the first time around? Now quit trying to second-guess me and listen: it’s like CORN AND FIRE. As in you drink it and first it tastes like corn and then it feels like your throat is on fire. I’ll take a break here so that anyone still reading who has never—whether by accident or design—actually set their esophagus ablaze can either A) run home crying to their momma like the ball-less whinebaby they are, or B) ingest large quantities of acetone while smoking so they can condition their mouths for the upcoming White Dog experience.
So, I hear a lot of you asking how you check to make sure that your Weicheier have become cojones cojonudos and you’re ready for the next phase? Silly foolsluts—you don’t! If you’ve got the bronze orbs required for this beverage, you’re already well aware of it. So either pour yourself a glass or piss off!
You. Tonight.
My chest hair has grown at least a centimeter simply by reading this.
Where does one find this corn and fire? Direct from the distillery? I’ve yet to find it in my local haberdashery.
It goes well for breakfast, too.