100 proof bonded
There was me, that is Aaron, and my two droogs, that is Batch and Wallace, and we sat in the suburban Philadelphia dive bar trying to make up our rassodocks what to do with the evening. The suburban dive bar sold OGD which is Old Grand-Dad 100-proof “bonded” bourbon whiskey, which is what we were drinking, full pint glass “triples” for only $4.50. This would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of the old ultra-violence. Or just get you drunk and belligerent and hitting on women.
My droog Derek had introduced me to the elixir back a couple of years ago. A bourbon connoisseur as much as a beer one, I’d never once considered plucking the gaudy orange bottle with a plastic cap (retail: $19.99 per fifth) off the shelves for a little sippy sip. But he insisted in a blind taste test I would find it as good as stuff that cost twice if not thrice as much.
I tried some neat and I had to agree it was viddy good, my brother, viddy good. An Ode to Joy! Some solid ass-kicking bourbon. Not overly complex, but flawlessly made. Potent rye with a nice little vanilla and caramel sweetness. Not for the faint of heart, but eminently drinkable for a man like me. OGD is so good it will never give you whiskey disk and its low hangover effects mean you’ll never awake the next day with a pain in the gulliver.
OGD instantly became Derek and my little secret. We’d patronize bars that stocked it, trumpeting their greatness to the Gods, while lambasting watering holes without the courage to shelve it. At the suburban dive bar, I spied a glowing construction cone-orange bottle on the bottom shelf. No, not the bottom shelf even, but rather the annex shelves all the way at floor level. What the bar considers the absolute dregs of the spirit world. I asked the barkeep for some and he reached for it, but it had been used so rarely, had not been poured from in who knows how many years, that some spillages had adhered it to the wood. Having to use his leg to brace himself, he grasped the neck of the bottle like it was the Sword in the fuckin’ Stone and pulled. After a few heaves he got the bottle up, it still connected to a slab of wood underneath.
After pouring our triples the bartender didn’t know what to charge us. No one had ever ordered one before and it wasn’t even on the computerized register. He had to go to the backroom and locate some dusty old book that had the bar’s drink prices handwritten up in it. I did a spit take when he told us $4.50, cheaper than even a bottle of the abhorrent Landshark Lager.
It was great as per usual and we killed the entire bottle, which gave us the gusto and gumption to push through the white trash Yuengling imbibers to go hit on the rare hot chicks at the Bose digital juke box:
“What you got back home, little sister, to play your fuzzy warbles on? I bet you got little save pitiful, portable picnic players. Come with uncle Vice Blogger and hear all proper! Hear angel trumpets and devil trombones. You. Are. Invited.”
*WILLIAM TELL OVERTURE*