The Chieftain’s Glentauchers 20 Year 1992 (30 ml Mayan Apocalypse rememberance mini)

Tasting notes:
      WTF! I mean, “What the heck?” Why did it take them a *year* to get us a sample? What are we, chopped haggis? [Stephen: Bill! It was bottled in 2012, the year of the Mayan Apocalypse, but only recently released. Besides this is from the first run after Glentauchers was de-mothballed.] Geez, Stephen, I don’t think “de-mothballed” is a word. Anyhoo, I don’t understand your point. It doesn’t smell anything like mothballs, nor does it taste like them. The nose is smokey and subtly sweet, like Memphis BBQ sauce pointedly lavished on burnt ends, not mothballs. There’s also the distinctive aroma of mint chewing gum wafting out of your soon-to-be-ex-Craigslist-sweetheart’s mouth after being chomped away at for about twenty minutes during American Graffitti. A tinge of cedar, maybe, but none of moths, and expressly no hints of mothballs. Reminiscent of the illicit fun following the movie—and the statute of limitations has thankfully expired, not imperiling the chance of being nominated to the federal bench: Bongwater poured through a dik-dik horn. [John: Bill! Dik-dik’s don’t have horns!] Maybe it was an impala? Anyways, the mouth on the Craigslist-ex is a fire-proofed damascus steel bowl containing a pickled artichoke heart salad (aged Modena balsamic vinegar) with kippered herring flakes that were aged in a retsina barrel. Before you guys interrupt me again, I know that I’ve never had kippered herrings; this is what I imagine they must taste like. Prosciutto-wrapped smoked abalones served in pine-resin tarred conch shells with long, thin oyster forks. Yum! Ellipsoids of brie wrapped in grape leaves and sage, sprinkled with sea salt. What kind of impooloo hoorn did yoo soy this wuz? On the finish, trout grilled over pine cones at a jamboree in the Great Smokey Mountains. The finish is gone quickly, like the doppler-effected whistle of a freight train scooting across the prairie, like it has better things to do than hang around with me and my soon-to-be-ex-Craigslist-sweetheart’s chooing gum.