Sunday, November 16, 2008

Old Grandad 100 Proof

Back in my high school days, I went through a particularly embarassing period where I fancied myself “straight-edge.” However, as with all straight edge kids, If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought I was just your garden variety sanctimonious prick. This assumption was incorrect, of course, because in addition to my holier-than-thou zealotry, I willingly chose not to drink or use drugs—I didn’t have sex either, but I wouldn’t exactly call that a choice.

I say all of this because out of all the lameness and self-righteousness of those days came a solitary silver lining: the legendary D.C. punk band Minor Threat, who despite ostensibly hating most of my (current) favorite hobbies, knew how to rock the fuck out. Now, it may seem odd to spend so many words discussing a straight edge punk band on a whiskey blogb, but one of Minor Threats more rockin’ songs deals very closely with the whiskey i’m about to introduce you to. The song is “Bottled Violence” and so is Old Grandad 100 Proof.

When you make the decision to purchase Old Grandad 100 Proof Bourbon whiskey, whether you know it or not, you are making the decision to punch somebody in the face. Probably a bunch of times. And you’re probably going to take some hits yourself.

Whiskey has always had a violent reputation, harkening back to cowboys throwing down in an old west saloon, or red-headed Irish stereotypes duking it out in a potato field or the back of a Lucky Charms box. But it never made me violent. Not Jack, not Jim, not Wild Turkey 101. From aged Scotch to the cheapest plastic jug rotgut, all whiskey has ever done for me is put a smile on my face.

Grandad is a whole different story. Taste-wise, it’s pretty solid. It’s got that high-acohol bite you’d expect from a 100 proof liquor, but maintains the right levels of sweetness and smoothness that make it a perfectly acceptable choice to drink straight up—preferably out of a flask. On the rocks or mixed with cola (I’m partial to Diet Coke—laugh it up, asshole), it’s really quite pleasant to drink. The “pleasant” part ends there, though. Once you’ve had a couple, get ready to rumble.

It doesn’t matter how good of friends you are, what the topic of conversation is or who else is around. You think Spiderman could beat Superman in a fight? Put ‘em up—let’s do this. I don’t care if Grandma’s standing right there. You’re going down, motherfucker.


Tasty Bottled Violence


- Scott

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