February 5, 2004

-The following is an excerpt from the February, 2004 edition of Hammered:  The Magazine for Drinkers.

Four Deadly Drinks

    We here at Hammered take our drinking seriously, and we've had some seriously great cocktails, but over the last year we have also come across some seriously bad drinks.  Bottles that send a  shiver down your spine.  Bottles that literally leave you smashed.  Bottles that in a dark or weak moment may leave you pondering your own mortality and not just in a theoretical fashion.  Here then is our annual list of Four Deadly Drinks.

Hepatoma:  Believe it or not, the Eastern European liqueur Hepatoma has been produced by the Brothers of the Monastery of St. Ulrich of Hepatoma for over two hundred years.  The monastery was founded in 1802 as a quarantine for Brothers of the Order of St. Ulrich from all over Eastern Europe who had been stricken with hepatitis.  As well as dedicating their daily lives to prayer and lavishly illuminating religious texts, the Brothers began to produce a distinctive and powerful liqueur they named Hepatoma.  With its strikingly thick, opaque greenish color and syrupy texture, Hepatoma remains unchanged since the first bottles were produced using a primitive scrub pine barrel fermentation technique.  Made from pressed pine bark and distilled essence of calves liver, the attention to detail and craftsmanship have been maintained through two world wars, seven plagues, and the advent of pasteurization.  It is a testament to the old world dedication of the Brothers of St. Ulrich that the quality of Hepatoma has remained virtually unchanged for over tow centuries:  it is still unspeakably bad.  Tasting of grass and rancid fat, the liqueur goes down smoothly but quickly makes its presence felt.  One glass will result in nausea and dizziness.  Two glasses will produce severe abdominal cramping and a distinctive sickly, yellowish tint to the drinker's complexion that will last up to three weeks.  Hepatoma should only be imbibed under the close supervision of a physician, preferably a sober physician.

Potcheen Bumratty:  This powerful Irish libation has a colorful history.  Formerly Potcheen could not be made or sold legally in Ireland, and this potent, fiery spirit made from fermented rotten potatoes has been banned throughout the United Kingdom for over one hundred years.  The closest comparable liquor is old-fashioned American moonshine brewed by feral, inbred hillbillies.  However, due to a loophole in existing tariff and toxic substance laws, Potcheen can now be legally manufactured in Ireland but can only be made for export.  Though Irish drinkers remain humanely shielded from this beverage, America now lies exposed to it.  A trip to the town of Bumratty in war torn Northern Ireland confirms that the manufacture of this noxious brew is truly a "cottage industry."  In the dank, filthy basement of a safehouse working only by the light of a single unshaded light bulb, a band of IRA terrorists clad in fatigues and black ski masks huddle for warmth around the copper tubing and open flame as the rotten potatoes are pressed, liquefied, and distilled into the dirty, used bottles that are relabeled with the distinctive deaths head and harp that is the logo for Potcheen Bumratty.  The brewmaster of this cell, known only as McSlim, confirms that the recipe is the same as when his pa first made the Potcheen in this same basement forty years ago during The Troubles.  Interestingly, the recipes and production techniques for both Potcheen and the Molotov Cocktails favored by IRA terrorists are virtually indistinguishable.  As for the flavor, drinkability, and bouquet of Potcheen Bumratty, drinking a glass full of the strong, clear alcohol is like being beaten about the head and neck with a rubber truncheon.  Some say, Give Ireland back to the Irish.  I say, Give Potcheen back to the Irish and make them drink it!

Britney's Bounce:  The bottle looks appealing enough.  It is a red decanter shaped like a voluptuous woman's torso complete with erect nipples.  The label in matching shiny red foil features the name, Britney's Bounce, over a cartoonish depiction of the busty, blonde no-talent singer Britney Spears.  However, it is the three little words in microscopic print on the very bottom of the label that seal the drinker's grisly fate:  "Hecho En Mexico."  Technically, Britney's Bounce on careful analysis appears to be some kind of hybrid drink made of a mix of cherry schnapps and butterscotch liqueur.  When poured into a glass, tiny, glittery flecks of silver float in the clear, red liqueur.  Perhaps they are bits of fermented silicone in a tribute to the titular Britney.  However, given that this comes from the Brothers Perez distillery in Tijuana, there is a real possibility that these are actual aluminum filings from the huge vats where the stuff is aged for three days.  Britney's Bounce is merely the latest in a long line of "trend" or "gimmick" liqueurs marketed to teen drinkers looking for something sweet to chug behind the high school gym when they are skipping out on math class.  A seasoned follower of the novelty drinks business can point out that the exact same liqueur was marketed twenty years ago as "Michael Jackson's Thriller Shotz," ten years ago as "Nirvana Super Grunge Juice," and just last year as "Kid Rocks Off!"  The bottle may change, but the sickening kiddie booze inside stays the same.  The first wave of flavor is a sickeningly sweet blast of cherry peppermint followed by a disgusting slimy rancid butterscotch candy taste leavened with what must be Mexican rubbing alcohol.  The combined effect is shocking and emetic.  The belly pain and cramping that follows - to its credit - does mimic the feeling one might get at a real Britney Spears concert.  Nonetheless, clearly it is time that responsible drinkers demand that U.S. and Mexican authorities band together and finally shut down the Brothers Perez Distillery before any more damage can be done to the youth of America. If no accord can be reached, I for one would heartily endorse the President sending waves of cruise missiles in to neutralize this boozy menace to our teens.

Suckweeny Scotch:  Among connoisseurs of potent potables, aged single malt scotch whiskies from the Northern Islands of Scotland have earned a deserved place in the pantheon of the world's finest distilled beverages.  Sadly, Suckweeny, a hand-crafted single malt scotch from the Island of Suckweeny located just north of Scotland's famous Throggmorton Peninsula has no place in this pantheon.  When held in a glass by firelight, Suckweeny has the golden, reflective color and rich aromatic qualities of a fine single malt, but with the first taste all similarities to a quality scotch end.  The taste is far beyond the smoky, peaty flavors of single malts.  In fact, the acrid taste is reminiscent of filthy old socks soaked in vinegar.  The mystery of why Suckweeny is so awful has puzzled alcohologists for decades.  A tour of the windswept, picturesque Isle of Suckweeny reveals a land with rich soil and bountiful harvests.  Perhaps the problem lies with the chronic incompetence and lassitude of its makers, Clan McCarney.  The founder of the Suckweeny Brewery, Liam McCarney, was a lay about, a failed womanizer, and best known for the scandal that ensued when he was expelled from the Royal College of Podiatry in 1932 for lewd and salacious conduct with a patient's feet.  Returning to his ancestral home in disgrace, Liam McCarney decided to take advantage of the opportunities which had arisen from the advent of Prohibition in the United States.  Rarely has boundless ambition been so closely matched with egregious incompetence and rank profiteering.  Legend has it that when the first barrels of Suckweeny Scotch were smuggled across Lake Michigan for a party hosted by Chicago's gangland elite Al Capone himself had a tumbler of Suckweeny, promptly threw up, and swore that the makers of the horrid drink would die by his own hands.  Sadly, shortly after booking a berth on the Queen Elizabeth to Scotland, Capone was arrested for tax fraud before he could take his vengeance on Clan McCarney.  Since then generation after generation of American single malt scotch aficionados have come across dusty, old bottles of the obscure drink, bought it out of curiosity, and then paid the price for their ignorance.  The handsome label bears the Clan McCarney crest of a double herald featuring a rutting ram triumphant with the family coat of arms and the motto "Ahh, Suckweeny!"  In fact, the family motto in truth should be, "There goes forty bucks down the drain" or "Suckweeny, it really does!"