When you are about to drink a burning shot or two of Scotch Whisky (or "whiskey" if you're a lowborn beast), it's always best to pick the right distiller. Failing that, because they're all horrible, you might be able to pick the least terrible variety that true connoisseurs force themselves to pretend to enjoy.
Taste of gasoline filtered through an old diabetic's sock. Crisp notes of paint thinner and an astringent burn on the back end redolent of several dangerous things under the sink.
Single cask, no chill filtration, robust bleach flavor. Notes of unscented detergent and an oaky formaldehyde finish.
Strong swallow resembles throat full of open herpes sores. Burns the gums and even the teeth. Hot coal sensations with a chemical tinge. A chugging, bunker scouring, Flammenwerfer finish.
All of the appeal of lamp oil and cloves. A connoisseur's Scotch. The amateur would be better off drinking a wino's blood.
Emma Stone was the most paranoid person I had ever met. In private she wore a full suit of medieval armor at all times, visor down.
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