The reek and acrid bite of an outhouse behind a cathouse down by the docks where sailors are on shoreleave, where they’ve been served wood alcohol, oysters out of season, and salmon of dubious antecedents and substandard refrigeration; all washed out by a combination of acid rain and red tide algae, suffused with sulphuric overtones of Pittsburgh steel mills and Pacific Northwest pulpy paper mills. Undertones of gasoline, dog vomit, and burning tires from a non-fatal, but nonetheless kinetically exciting, crash at the Indianapolis 500.
–On the scale of old TV sitcoms–
The Bowmore 15 (Mariner) is Three’s Company–‘cuz you’ll want to share it platonically with two fine honeys. Or homies. Whatever.