And yet here I am, banging on a keyboard like a monkey trying to conjure Shakespeare, and writing on a topic no sane writer would want to take on. Of course, this all operates under the supposition that I am somehow sane... Yes, what the hell am I thinking indeed. I need a drink. Perhaps a nice bourbon... Pours self a reasonably unhealthy amount into a tumbler, because writers get to drink on the job. Damn! That is tasty liquid! Big. Bold. Barrelled and beautiful. A true American original. Bourbon is one of whisky's great sledgehammers. It is completely unapologetic in the primality of its approach. Subtlety and nuance are there, but they are often blanketed by initial impressions of corn, sweetness, vanilla, and oak all cranked to a Spinal Tap: "These go to eleven."
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