This past weekend on what can readily be described as a dare, I inbibed a good deal of Wild Turkey in shot form. While I was crying and rolling around on the floor of the bar, wondering if the wounds in my throat would heal, I happened across an unintended side effect. I'm not talking about the soot and dried bird shit aftertaste, I stumbled across a deeper understanding, of the south. It drifted into me slowly at first, like careful fingers easing their way around a nipple, in the same way I was gently brushed with some worldviews and perspectives I had never comprehended before. Sport Bass fishing began to make sense, and I had an urge to pretend Kenny Chesney wasn't gay.

It was frightening and provocative, a cultural high of a different sort, breezing through the bayous and apricot groves. I needed more, this foreign body of knowledge readily available from the business end of a shot glass was too interesting to pass up. I took another, and after several bouts of shitting blood I forged deeper into this immersion of discovery.

A priceless treasure, too precious to be utilized as actual plateware. Makes a fine investment towards your childrens future, and a lovely decoration.

I began to have this strange urge to pretend to enjoy Nascar and call it a sport, also to relentlessly beat my wife until I got a chance to make an impromptu appearance on cops. This was especially strange because I believe Nascar is retarded, and I'm not married. Or ... at least I used to think it was retarded. An hour later I started to feel sympathy for all the poor souls lost in boating accidents instead of the flat ridicule I so commonly profess. Then just before last call, it hit me like a bout of recreational incest. There I was crying at the beauty of my new comprehension (and the fact the bartender hit me with a bat because I vomited on the pool table), like a jewel I understood the mullet. The last thing I remember was trying to tear my hair out to fashion myself a mullet. But I'm telling you it was all there, defending the confederate flag in conversations, being deathly frightened of gay people, being too drunk to fish. That night I slept enraptured in dreams of owning a set of my very of Dale Earnhart commemorative plates, and pretending it was ok to live in tornado alley and complain about tornados attacking my double wide.

When I awoke the doctor told me they pumped out enough alcohol out of my stomach to kill three Irishmen. They might call it alcohol poisoning, but I know what it really was: Cultural Tolerance.

Rating: 5/7 Hills

I give Wild Turkey a lofty score for helping make us culturally aware, despite its violent and unapologetic flavor which I would most liken to the taste of nair and regret and being shot with a an airsoft in the wind pipe. Needless to say I didn't agree with Wild Turkey's official website that their burboun's predominant flavors are carmel and vanilla.