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An Open Letter To The Makers Of Johnnie Walker Black


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Dear John Walker and Sons,

Returning from a trip to Cyprus, I recently took the opportunity to purchase your product from the airport's convenient duty free shop. I have long admired the singular mix of high quality malt whiskies which compose your admirably-balanced Johnnie Walker Black blend. This evening, after an eventful day and a satisfying meal, I returned to my flat, put my feet up, and attempted to pour myself a small measure of your fine product.

Removing the handsome bottle from its box, I unscrewed the cap, selected a clean glass, and poured.

I was dismayed at the lack of result.

It seems that your company has seen fit to install a plastic contraption along the mouth of the bottle which, upon further investigation, has proven to be a fiendishly effective barrier which separates me from my hard-earned whisky. Try as I might (and, believe me, I did try), I have been unable to pierce this contraption. I tried slicing the metal membrane which surrounds the bottom of the cap. I attempted to pierce the plastic using the point of a steak knife, the butt end of a teaspoon and a corkscrew. To no avail.

As is related in a recent news article, so-called "package rage" is becoming more and more prevalent. Before succumbing to such rage and tossing your precious whisky off my balcony, I merely poured myself a thimbleful of the Laphroaig 10 year Single Islay Malt which sits on my bar shelf. The good folks at Laphroaig have sealed their fine spirit with a contraption known colloquially as a "cork". Your research department may want to investigate this technology.

Yours Very Truly,

"Sunset" Shazz


The balcony from which I might have thrown my whisky


1 Responses to “An Open Letter To The Makers Of Johnnie Walker Black”

  1. Anonymous toothless jake 

    a reel man wood have broke the top off, eaten the glass, and cut them smackers on the ol spout.

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About me

  • I'm Sunset Shazz
  • Living the dream in Istanbul, Turkey
  • I grew up in the hardscrabble streets of suburban Ottawa, Ontario, committing petty crime, insulting the elderly - basically the classic misspent youth. When I was 19, I moved to West Philly, where I put myself through the Wharton School by dealing crack and hustling. After stints in Paris and London, I eventually graduated and moved to San Francisco, where I put in eight years hard labor working for The Man. But now I pop bottles with models, deciding cracked crab or lobster - who says mobsters don't prosper?
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