Canadian whisky enthusiast world tour
Being the soul employee at Canadian whisky enthusiast is taxing to say the least. President, janitor, photographer, human resources, head chef, head editor, you name it. It is tough, so I decided I had to break out of this four level office complex before I was found picking off civilians with a .50 cal rifle. World tour! I had to give something back to my fans, I would surely meet and converse with the throngs. Worldwide.
The first leg of the tour: chippawa.
I headed into a local pub, pen in hand to sign autographs and use it as a weapon to defend myself from the hordes. I was met with hugs and handshakes. Certainly the handshakes and hugs were from the local fans I had accrued from my 6 months of cult status. Behold, they were not fans, but my closest friends meeting me for beers after work.
I had sipped a couple woodford reserves and chugged some innis and gunn ales, when my chef-friend had pointed out a fan.
‘it is i! the Canadian whisky enthusiast!’ I bellowed to the looming fan.
‘huh?’ he looked puzzled. Had he been startstruck? the bewildered fan seemed not to recognize his hero, even though I was draped in my ubiquitous gg allin t-shirt and dirty khakis.
‘I am the Canadian whisky enthusiast! I am the one you seek.’
‘I work for constellation brands. He replied, flaccidly. ‘do you have a card or something?’
‘a card?! my reputation abounds!’
‘so you like whisky or something? I represent-‘
‘black velvet, schenley and danfields. You don’t need to tell me.’ I cut him off with my superior knowledge.
‘actually, I represent the wine sector.’ He informed me so sheepishly.
‘aaah.’ I replied. ‘im on a world tour to inform the world of the miracle of Canadian whisky and be vaulted and celebrated by my fans! Ive emailed your company for product information and they haven’t responded.
‘yeah, you know, im in the wine sector….’
Hands on hips I glared down my opponent. ‘that shoddy attitude is what had danfields removed from the coveted lcbo. You sir, I decree too ignorant to pour piss from a boot!’ I thwarted.
He turned and sauntered away, head down. Broken. Humiliated.
The next day of the tour had landed me on the shores of chippawa again. I had been advised to stay clear of the cannibals and savages by the clan name “sloan”. They were to have a ceremony on the queens street that night. Acts of sacrifice, no doubt. My wife accompanied me to a small bon fire in a shipmates homestead. Over one and a half score, his parents had accommodated him, far longer than the average sailor in these waters.
A flask of Alberta premium dark horse was sipped that night whilst I pondered thoughts of my next leg of the world tour. Where should I sail to? I was perched with a cigarette of the finest nebula, a distant strain of fine cannabis. We discussed vodka crafting.
The following morning I had fully recovered from the first night of my tour. Fog cleared from my mind. I had met the demands of the local criteria and pulled anchor. I would set sail for Pennsylvania. We had a crew of four good men and a fleet of two fast galleon.
After running shore, we made camp and made pilgrimage to meet the locals to exchange gifts. The gifts were not of sugar, tobacco or spices, but of forty creek cream and barrel select. We traded for mastersons straight wheat, barley and rye.
The natives were kind. We discussed fishing plots, creameries and where to source the lands finest pizza. They showed our squaw boy the livestock they were farming. Fine entertainment for the infant. Later that night, we dined on thin crust pizza and large portions of blackberry ice cream, all made by a buck tooth woman donning a 4-H t-shirt.
After dinner the natives approached our camp in their wagons and coaches, using the vehicles that they had traded other merchants using their local currency: dollars.
Did the natives wish to discuss my world tour? No. they asked to guide us to some popular fishing holes. We were warned of ‘sausage fests’ or simply ‘too many dicks on the dance floor’, meaning, watch out for lots of other fishermen. We had to stay in close quarters to our escorts.
I declared the natives friendly and I broke a bottle on the pilots ford F-150, to mark its maiden voyage. Labatts blue crashed in waves and christened the ship I now named ‘poseidon’.
‘who the hell scratched my ship?!’ the pilot screamed. He was furious. The pilot, you see, was an ornary old man who had seen many winters. He smoked from his black acrylic e-cigarette.
‘branches, I guess.’ I had replied to the pilot. Surely I would guide Poseidon to tour greatness.
When the natives escorted us to the local hole, we set anchor and hauled out our waiters and spearing gear. Harpoons, fishing rods and tackle.
Upon my first cast I had taken a titanic blow to my line. I fought the beast with all my might. Was this the leviathan I had to slay to achieve greatness on my tour?
After but a few tough seconds I landed the sea beast. It had the length of over 7 inches and scaled in at several ounces of weight. I grasped its belly and stared into the eyes of the deadly brook trout.
‘tell the others. Canadian whisky enthusiast. World tour. Even underwater!’ I blurted, my strength drained from fighting the monstrosity.
‘whisky is our pissssssss.’ The trout spat back.
I stared almost through to the very soul of the fish whilst it gasped for air. ‘tell the others’.
Surely it knew I was not interested in any tomfoolery and I would not be intimidated. The fish nodded. I placed him back into the water and watched him swim to the school of other underwater creatures. Certainly, he did warn the others, because no other fish were caught on my line that day.
Late into the evening I sipped a small glass of Virginia gentleman bourbon. I writhed in agony after tasting the vile poison.
‘ugh! Its fucking hot!’ I shouted.
‘gary!’ my wife had sat up, brow furled. ‘do not curse in front of the boy. Hes only 18 months old.’
‘no!’ I boomed. ‘he will watch! And learn to curse poorly crafted whisky as I did from my pappy, and he did from his pappy.’ The tour would continue with only fantastic whisky in the future.
The world tour was bound for glory.
We woke the next day after the bourbon debacle. We were heading back home to the muddy shores of chippawa. The tour was cut short? Of course not. We had achieved greatness in but only a few bounds.
Being the CFO of Canadian whisky enthusiast I realized I started with zero funds and was clearly ending up near utter bankruptcy. As well, the Canadian whisky enthusiast PR person, myself, never quite met with the marketing specialist to let others know that I was in deed, on tour.