Living as I do in an already overconsumptive society, what does a person like me really need for the holidays? More couches? A bigger TV? A giant tin of sardines? Truth serum? In actuality, it’s probably a moot point—I’ve been a bad boy this year; I’m not getting squat.
Still, let’s just say a miracle occurred, the Y2K clock reversed my dastardly deeds, and Saint Nick had a change of heart. If I was to get something, anything, in my holiday satchel (aside from world peace, an hour with Pamela Anderson, or a quaff from the fountain of youth), it’d have to be a big-ass case of the best spirits our planet has to offer. And no, I don’t mean that in a holistic, PC, spiritual kinda way. I’m talkin’ moonshine, whiskey, that good ol’ mountain dew.
Of course, acquiring bottles of extraordinary hooch can be as problematic as having Captain Hazelwood at the helm: A) You’ll suck it down with wild abandon and cry over the empties; B) You can’t go back to drinking that swill you previously called your friend; C) You will undoubtedly go broke attempting to continue your high-priced bingeing.
Yes, I’m well aware that, once I’m smitten, the Cuervo, Smirnoff, and Sutter Home will have to hit the recycling bin to make room for the righteous stuff: Anejo tequilas, Stolichnaya Gold, Italian Barbaresco, Black Sambuca, and single-malt gems from as many countries and barrels as put the stuff out—Kentucky, Cork, I don’t give a shit, just ship it to me FedEx and let me warm up in my jammies, fireside, until it’s all gone and the Honey Court restaurant will no longer deliver due to my bad credit.
Side note to Santa (or in my case, the Hanukkah Bush): In the event you really are makin’ the trip to my pad—make sure half the case is Veuve Cliquot, so I can indulge in a little Millennium Madness. Bring on Y2K, baby! I’ll be loaded and ready.