The Bowmore 12 Year 2001 from The Exclusive Malts

Tasting notes:
The nose is, in a word, jolting.  Pulling Lambic beer through filthy lines in a New Mexico bar on Bastille Day, after the beer traveled in open containers on the backs of camels.  My stomach roils.  Boiled mussels eaten grimly on day 13 of a windless cruise; we were handed crab mallets and lobster claw crackers because none of the shiny black shells opened up.  I feel like a Parisian about to be beheaded, culottes soiled, as the onlookers scream in mockery, “sacre pew!”  A Parliament-Funkadelic tribute band comprised of various members of Mustelidae family, mainly ferrets, martens, and a lone stoat holding down the beat on five-string bass guitar.  We need the funk / Gotta have that funk.
     And yet when I taste it, it tastes like a Bowmore consecrated into something truly transcendent.  First the appearance of peat.  Sure, it’s a peat gone mad, perhaps after a meal of flank steak redolent with bovine spongiform encephalitis-causing prions.  Or peat packed into dried bamboo brought from Chinese monks in an umiak.  Still-warm apple blondies made with kelp and nori and left to cool in a hamster cage.  Utterly unique.  It’s so far out on the coordinate plane, they ran out of numbers and just used random symbols from the wingdings font.  That’s how far out it is. 
     The finish is a manky melon, filled with machine oil and thrown into a composting toilet for “safe keeping.”  Rotting 2x4s used to pry open a columbarium.  Toe jam from a golem, harvested by undead minions working for evil wizards who compete against one another in a game they call “subjugating teh sprites and faeries.”

Rating: