A mea culpa to White Owl Whiskey in the interests of journalistic integrity

My fellow inebriates,

My parents pointed out that it was unfair of me to describe the taste of White Owl Whisky after it had been soaking into my fur.

My on-again-off-again girlfriend Dolly seconded my parents; she said the odour I was wafting could not in any way have been intended by the makers of White Owl Whisky.

Happier times with Dolly.

Even more chastened than last time, I begged my mother to buy a fresh bottle of White Owl Whisky so we could give it a fair shake. She refused. She said the nasty aroma had stuck with her for hours—and by the way, did I realize I’d taken the finish off the coffee table when I spilled it?

So, MFI, I now rely on you to send in your impressions of White Owl Whisky. If you don’t want to buy a big bottle, maybe you can find a mini-bottle affixed to the neck of a bottle you do decide to purchase. I will wait for you.

What's your poison? Drop me a line.

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