…it would I suppose, be unfait to pass judgement on whiskey and its consumers without hearing a defense of some sort. But what defense can their be? What would the articulate whiskey drinker hoarsely mutter? Something like this perhaps:
“Whiskey is golden. Whisky is the elixir of happiness, the softener of sorrow, the easer of pain; a tonic, a stimulant, the fountainhead of conviviality, and the harbinger of revelry. It tides the sick over crises, fires the wounded with a will to live, transmutes cowardice to bravery. Whisky is sunlight to friendship and moonshine to love, lighting with laughter the seamed face, freeing the tongue tied by fear, evoking the improbable story and hilarious applause….
See the men smilingly grouped about their golden glasses; their expanding spheres of benevolence intersect, comrades for the nonce. After the party, homeward bound, the giggling pedestrian assuredly steps, the rosy motorist laughingly swerves. Stretched in bed, the feet perpetually rise, delightful delusion. Memories of jokes cracked renew laughter, sleepy now and slower.
Nip from plated flask brings courage to maiden speaker, fortifies traveler plodding through snowdrifts. Revenue to benign government, profit to philanthropic manufacturer, living to open-hearted publican. Whisky, golden panacea, bottled wonder-worker.”
(see link at end)…When asked by Party Deputy Ivan Kharkov why he was sending former comrade Leon Trotsky into Siberian exile, Stalin confided that he had irrefutable proof Trotsky was working hand in hand with foreign counter-revolutionaries. When the deputy pressed Stalin to produce some evidence, Stalin fired back, “Trotsky drinks the wrong kind of whiskey!”…
Stalin was referring to former teetotaler Trotsky’s newfound taste for foreign whiskey. (As you will see, Stalin excluded himself from this damning judgment, or perhaps felt there not enough good whiskey in Moscow for the two of them.) Like most working alcoholics, Stalin was a man of many masks. In public life he would always pose with a pipe and claim to drink humble Russian red wine poured from clay jugs, while in private he chained smoked cigarettes and preferred vintage capitalist wines, Napoleonic brandies and single-malt scotches. It was only after he slid into hell in 1953 that the true story surfaced. When apparchiks invaded his dacha outside Moscow, they did not find a few honest earthen jugs, but rather thousands of bottles of foreign hooch, guarded by terrified servants who had strange and savage tales to tell.
Seems their master had the nasty habit of sitting up until the wee hours of morning with only his revolver, stacks of ledgers and a bottle of scotch for company. He took it neat in his old tin Red Army cup and wouldn’t tolerate any temperance talk from the staff. The fiery amber fluid helped him work, he told them, it put things in perspective and made difficult decisions easier to make. It was during these dark and lonely hours that Stalin assembled the liquidation orders that sent millions of Soviets to their graves for reasons only the dictator claimed to understand.
At dawn, obeying standing orders dictated by a sober Stalin, his terrified servants would attempt to coax the sodden tyrant to bed. As often as not he would mercilessly cane them with his walking stick while accusing them of trying to steal his liquor. As any bartender knows, scotch can bring out the best and worse in a man, and one wonders if the purges would have been any less severe if Stalin had switched to a mellower libation. Pink Ladies, say.Read More:http://www.moderndrunkardmagazine.com/features/art_dictators.htm