caldera champlain blend

Caldera champlain blend

 

Challenge #4b – I became a troll – execution

 

Editors note:

In a series of personal challenges set by myself, and peers in the office, our team is going to challenge the norm and put ourselves in unnerving predicaments. Here are my observations of when I became a troll on the internet, then, in real life. Enjoy.

 

You are not our friend. You are constantly being judged and evaluated moment by moment and our opinions swing wildly. To become an employee here, you need something quite special: charisma, personality, wit, multiple personality disorder, brains, brawn, and an unwavering ability to be completely ignorant and negligent of other peoples wants, needs, morals and feelings.

We here at the office of cwe will trample you under foot. If you want to work here you will bend over bleeding and grin through broken teeth. Our first impression of you is fodder, feed, target.

We have undergone a rigorous interview process and added yet another employee to our ranks. Psycho billy would hurl hand crafted spears at his mortal enemy; the sun. Our big, big friend murders with his fists. Chef paul can breathe underwater. Now, we have gained another contributor, a man named rusty; a phoenix who has risen from the ashes of the welland garbage dump arson.

We will physically troll the troll who runs a chippawa restaurant. The owner who phones the police on other establishments and disrupts their business. He phones and harasses customers who do not return, or aggressively confronts them in other bars, as I have bared witness. Because his business is a failure, he proclaims ‘fuck chippawa!’ and the beautiful, significant beings that live here. This man will be trolled.

Challenge #4 – I got kicked out of a bar for playing Kenny loggins’ highway to the danger zone repeatedly

We arrived dressed in our Saturday best, myself in a vibrant Hawaiian shirt with an anal cunt shirt underneath yet another anal cunt shirt. I wore shorts, knee high socks and a sunhat in the restaurant. Rusty in blueblocker shades, a trucker cap and welland attire, looking like a psychedelic welland carnie. The eyes of other customers locked onto the travelling freakshow that walked in like they own the joint.

Our young, tall blonde server looked stunning as she arrived with menus and took our drink order, for whatever reason we both spoke as if we just underwent tracheotomies. Rusty was denied his rusty nail and was forced to drink Harvey wallbangers without Galliano, rendering the drink a screwdriver. I placed my drink order, sounding as if I had a frog in my throat. ‘I’ll have a blue Curacao.’

‘suuure,’ she said, not believing herself. ‘and for your food order?’

‘uhh, yes,’ I started while folding the menu and handing it back. ‘for my appetizer, I’ll take a side of bacon,’ the waitress caught herself mid-laugh. ‘and for my entrée, I’ll take another side of bacon.’ I stared in her eyes without smiling nor frowning. We were stone cold. Rusty ordered a veggie burger with added bacon. No tomato because fruit doesn’t belong with veggie.

on top of our pre-game shots and drinking from rustie’s crotch warmed flask of woodford we were well through demolishing their blue curacao and vodka stocks, we strayed too close to getting too drunk. Our first salvo of troll was immediate based on our appearance, our orders and me eating the entire lemon slice rind and all, when rusty played highway to the danger zone, not one, not twice, nay, thrice, in succession. We sat and made a stink about the god given American yacht rock treasure, Kenny loggins obnoxiously, as the two owners, blonde server and couple patrons stared at us.

The meals came and I tore through my second plate of bacon. I looked at rusty, ‘man, I think we need to step this shit up.’ we played highway several more times, punctuated by the raunchiest, most offensive, misogynist lyrics by 2 live crew and dr. dre. More curacao, more screwdrivers, more loggins. I asked the server to recite the entire beer list, and then requested more curacao ignoring her recital entirely. I stripped off my orange and yellow Hawaiian shirt to reveal my anal cunt shirt, which was simply a picture of an asshole and a dripping vulva, on a t shirt.

Nothing for a reaction.

So, more loggins, more slamming curacao in one shot, more illegal booze in a flask, offensive jesus jokes, a cowbell to play along with highway, I ate an entire lemon, there was a fucking airhorn which I would blast constantly, rusty went ad-lib doing somersaults in the dining room and leaping in the air, kicking and screaming.

Nothing.

In the end, everybody actually liked us; we were the best entertainment they had in months. We played highway to the danger zone at least 12 times. We drank ourselves sick and I blew a hole in my eardrum. We headed home with a loss on our record. We failed the challenge. Rusty crashed on his couch, while I stayed up and drank another Sapporo, scheming, plotting. How could I possibly win this challenge over and write a great article? It’s like caldera champlain blend; better than the last offering, but it’s not really completing much.

Restless, I threw on my cap and black hoodie and walked back down to the restaurant. It was 1 am when I pushed open the door. The blonde waitress greeted me with a smiling laugh when I walked in and poured a blue curacao on the rocks. I was the only other person there. She offered to turn the jukebox back on, just in case I wanted to play highway to the danger zone a few more times. I laughed and joked that it was a good idea. When she turned and walked to the jukebox to turn it on, I followed cracking playful, flirtatious jokes that made her chuckle when I yanked out the string that cinches the hood on my sweater and wrapped it tightly around her throat and pulled with both my hands, bound with string. Her blonde hair fluttered wildly in my face, while her head shook in confused refute. I pulled harder on the string, tearing at her tender pale skin while her feet were trying to kick up in my crotch. I turned my hip into her spine and bent at my waist, which lifted her off her feet. She gurgled and spit as I could witness her face twisting into a red nightmare. After a moment her flailing stopped. I let go of the string and she collapsed on her chest. She propped herself up on her hands, coughing and pleading for mercy, her voice strained and hoarse. I flipped her on to her back and straddled her chest, while I wrapped my hands around her throat, and pressed my thumbs into the sides of her neck as my hands closed harder on her esophagus. My teeth grit as her face turned a dark shade of blue and her eyes bulged from her sockets. With a feeble attempt, she brought one hand up and forced a thumb into my eye socket, but I simply swept her hand away and squeezed until I felt her cartilage collapse under the pressure of my hand and liquid filled her mouth. Her body twitches as she chokes, strangulation cause of death just like all the others. I could no longer feel her heart beat between my thighs. Her hair, once perfect and straight is now knotted and frayed, some crosses her face and drapes her open eyes, and some is caught in her gaping mouth. I unfold my pocket knife and carve out her tongue: later that night I will poach the tongue in milk so I can freely pick off the undesirable membrane, before slicing her tongue thinly and brine it in a sweet and sour pickling solution. Her pickled tongue will be eaten with whole grain mustard, leafy greens and crusty bread. I dislocate her hands at the wrist so they can be carved off and stuffed into her mouth, palms and fingers out, as to represent her soul trying to escape her festering cadaver from her horrifying terror. Soon, somebody will receive a phone call saying their little girl was found dead, humiliated and unceremoniously unburied in the dead leaves and cigarette butts behind the dumpster, her only companions a few insects that will digest her flesh and further disfigure her over the time she was missing.

Perhaps your challenge is to stop me before it happens again.

Alc. 48.5%

Nose:

Fruity nose, albeit chalky, grainy and toffee. Oldschool Canadian nose. Fruity grape juice sits in back. Pastel candies.

Palate:

Underipe fruits with a spicy kick, laced with black pepper. Toffee and some black currants. Dry oak. A bit more flavourfull and rich than the hurricane 5. Simple.

Overall: 83

Better…

Please note:

This is another fresh offering from caldera. Again, it comes from sourced whisky, blended at the distillery in nova scotia. This time, they blend in a helping of vs grade cognac, which is completely legal, due to the allowance of 9.09% additives to Canadian whisky, which when done right can improve a simple spirits flavor.