Wednesday in the late morning someone left a bottle of Monkey Shoulder on my front porch. One third full. No note. No explanation. As of yet I have no fucking clue who it was.
I posted a panicked burst of paranoid insanity on the Whiskey Tribe Facebook group and promptly got about a hundred mocking (but also strangely supportive) replies.
I decided this was none other than a message directly from God, the Universe, or the Whiskey Tribe. Maybe all three. I think I sinned against some ancient monkey god and spoke words of perverted monkey blasphemy. Seems reasonable. I got no problem with it. I totally deserve this retribution shit. I brought it on myself.
Either that or Daniel Whittington somehow got my address and has honed his trolling and fucking with skills to heights as yet unattained by mere mortals.
Whatever. It’s all the same to me.
I’m drinking the fucker. All of it. Killing the bottle before my correspondence piece is due Friday morning.
The question from god/universe/tribe is simple. Can a man learn to appreciate a whiskey he despises by forcing himself to drink the living shit out of it over a short period of time?
Let’s do this thing.
The smell! How is this even scotch? Sour fruit. That’s all there is. Nothing else. Don’t tell me you pick up notes of anything else cause it ain’t fuckin’ there. Nothing but notes of nasty fruit kicked to the curb in a bad neighborhood.
The taste? Horrible. Medicinal. Bad. Don’t like it. Fuck the monkey god!
Thursday morning (Yes morning, I got a lot of whiskey to drink)
On the nose as the fancy asshats say, I still get fruit. Sour. Got a nasty wang to it. I don’t know. Maybe a little hint of candy? Shitty candy?
The taste? I don’t hate it as much as yesterday but it is morning and I’m barely awake. So I hate it but not with the passion of a thousand white-hot suns like yesterday.
Thursday after lunch
What the fuck? Out of nowhere I’m smelling spices. Nutmeg. Sweet and spicy. I’m freaking the fuck out here. How does that even happen? Hang on… I smell wet dog. That’s okay. I get that sometimes with whiskey. I think it’s a glitch in my brain. Ignore that. Forget I said anything.
I still don’t like the taste but somehow it’s not that bad I guess. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
Uh, I’m not sure how to say this. But I put my nose in the glass and marmalade on toast popped into my brain. And more really interesting spicy smells. LITERALLY WHAT THE FUCK?
Still don’t like the taste but damn. I’m tasting some spice. I don’t LIKE it but I don’t mind it or anything. It’s fine. Sort of fine.
Thursday late afternoon
Aaaaaaand there’s the butterscotch. Oh my god. Sweet holy Jebus monkeys there is butterscotch there. I had to work my way through funk, fruit, spice, and a few layers of my own stubborn pride but it is there. I’m nothing if not honest and when I’m wrong I’m wrong. I smell good shit in this whiskey. Also a little wet wood.
You know, I could drink this with my buddy Reggie. I haven’t told you about him. But if we were watching the Patriots get their asses beat and he kept pouring Monkey Shoulder, I’d keep drinking it. I ain’t proud.
Well goddamit. Who’d have thunk it. I actually like Monkey Shoulder. I’m a convert. I’m a humbled douchebag. God or the monkey prince or the universe or the tribe has broken me. Broke my ass and converted me to motherfucking Monkey Shoulder.
Look, here’s the deal: I’m done with Monkey Shoulder. I don’t care anymore. It’s fine. I’m not going to buy any because of my pride. But if you serve it to me I’ll raise a glass to you and drink it happily. But I’m not talking about it anymore.
I will say this. Whiskey is a complicated thing. And what you like or hate today may not hit you the same way tomorrow. Stay open minded. And remember the first law. Good whiskey is whiskey you like. There are some of us who like Monkey Shoulder. So it’s good whiskey in my book. Done.
Last thing I did before I went to bed was leave the bottle on the porch for whatever celestial being, expert level troll, or drunken fool left this for me. Come get it, universe. It’s all yours.