The Complete Lunatic's Guide to the 5 Best Sipping Whiskeys

American Standard Angry Drunk

Everybody knows Johnnie Walker Black: The much cooler cousin of Johnnie Walker Red, who only comes to town two or three times a year to make JW Red look bad in front of all his friends. But he usually buys Red some weed before he leaves, so it's all good.


Sweetness, followed by spice.


A bit of sourness at first, but you adjust to it quickly. It gets easier to drink by the sip. Easier and easier and easier.

The Argument You're Going To Get In

You didn't even want to go out tonight, but hell - this is great! Just you and the boys at that little place around the corner, there's a decent bar band playing (but not so good that you feel bad talking over them,) it's just like the ol' college days. You're really getting into the swing of things. You're swinging the hell out of things!

Who You'll End Up Fighting

Okay, now you're just taking swings at people: You try to backhand Steven, your next door neighbor who blasts fucking Snow Patrol every night - you get it, he misses his ex-girlfriend, but some of us are trying to watch re-runs of Cold Case, Steve. You try to uppercut that guy in the Red Sox hat - because really, fuck that guy. You know he only bought it after they won the Series. He wasn't a true fan, down in the god damn trenches with you back before it was all golden shits and diamond giggles. Then you try to jumpkick the barmaid, because she was standing by the guy in the Red Sox hat and you got confused. You're basically taking on the whole god damn bar, and as soon as you manage to actually land a punch, they'll know it.

But that's okay: The whiskey says you can take 'em all, no problem.

Who You're Going Home With

Surprisingly, a cute little redhead. But that's only because she couldn't correctly decipher the drunken spinning of your fists, and admired the spontaneity and balls it took for you to try to start a solo mosh-pit for a Creedence song. She's just a little too eager to suck a dick, but hey -- that's a problem for Tomorrow You to worry about. That guy sucks anyway, and besides, there's like eighteen hours before you even have to think about grabbing a cab to the clinic for an STD panel.


Chlamydia. Now, a lot of people are going to swear Chlamydia doesn't have a taste, but you know better. It's like cigarette ash and those Fun Dip candies, you know with the powder? And something else, like moldy br - you just, you know better, okay? Let's leave it at that.

Period Piece Villain

A unique and distinguished drink, Redbreast is a 12 year old pure potstill Irish Whiskey distilled in County Cork, Ireland. It is one of only two pure potstill Irish Whiskeys still in production today.


Orange and vanilla, with hints of tea. Both dignified and robust.


Slick and oily, with cream, cinnamon, and exotic spices. Redbreast practically screams prestige and subtlety. Screams it right in your god damn face until you start crying.

The Argument You're Going To Get In

It will be a scholarly argument, but one made no less passionate by virtue of its civility. Mr. Preston Humboldt, being his usual, stodgy self, will argue that the only way to effectively shatter the hold of that military Junta in the colonies is through trade embargoes and sanctions. He doesn't understand, of course, that these savages are only temporarily installed leaders, and that they rarely maintain power long enough for the consequences of diplomacy to take hold. Any fool can see that, Preston.

Who You'll End Up Fighting

A man in a top hat and little else, having been possessed of the strange urge to strip himself of his clothing in direct proportion to his rage.

Like this, but with all the dignity replaced by dongs.

When you insisted that his trade embargoes where the political equivalent of cowering behind his mother's skirts, he stripped off his waistcoat and flung it to the ground. When you implied that his reluctance to approve a campaign of precise sorties on key supply routes was due to an unseemly concern for his own public face, off came the shirt. When you called him the black sludge that leaked out of his father's anus after a night of coital role-reversal, the congealed puddle miraculously given life solely to teach his parents the consequences of perverting God's sexual will, he threw his underwear into the fire and came after you with a cast iron hat rack and a fury-erection.

Who You're Going Home With

Preston's mother. She is of an unseemly age, to be sure, and was likely no prize even in her salad days, but you have a point to prove to dear Preston, and a point to bury in his haggard matron.


Surprisingly mellow.

...Until you cross it.

You can buy Robert's book, Everything is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead, or follow him on Twitter and Facebook or you can just drink until you're likable. Hey, it's bound to happen one of these days.

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Robert Brockway

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