Eighteen inches of snow. That’s three whiskey bottles deep, Eugene. That’s a lot of snow. I mean, it’s not Buffalo, NY level, but it’s something. It’s got the weathermen excited. Maybe we should pay attention. While you’re out clearing the shelves of bread and milk, grab some whiskey.
Snowstorm whiskey is a matter of etiquette. For staying inside by the fire in your book-lined den with your gun magazine and your dog, we strongly suggest you aren’t microdosing anymore and maybe dial back the shrooms a little. You live in a one-bedroom walk-up, and the only thing on fire in your place is your spleen.
Still, you will be stuck inside. I mean, you’re already stuck inside because you work from home and oh god, the loneliness. The cold only serves to overlay a new skin of horror and death. So obviously, the best whiskey is Dancing Goat because you just might meet your maker and that motherfucker is hairy and hooved.
But that’s for inside. That’s for you, sitting in your wingback staring out the window as it fills up from a ground-snow blizzard that’s burying your car under a blanket of powder. This is sipping whiskey, not working whiskey. When the snowplows have gone through and the salt is on the asphalt, then, and only then, should you go outside to dig out your car.
Which means you need a nice flask full of booze. You may be tempted to fill it with the good stuff, but look closely at that line of frosted automobiles lining your side of the street. Look there, between that 2003 Honda Civic and the that Rav4—it’s Steve, your half-asshole neighbor. He’s not a full asshole, he’s just a Packer’s fan and for that you cannot forgive him (nor should you). But Steve is killing it with his tiny trunk shovel and you know if you go out there he’s going to go full Snowblower around your car so you’re gonna have to share your water with him. So look, Steve’s OK but bring out the cheap shit. Bring out the mid-shelf brand name whiskey. Or Peanut Butter Whiskey. Or some white dog.
Unless, and this is a serious use of this conditional word (not a subordinate clause), UNLESS you are a truly good person. A mensch. A samaritan. A bro. Then, fill that flask with the best whiskey you have. Did you score some Pappy? Some Old VanWinkle? Some Kentucky Owl? Do it. Put your best whiskey in that flask and walk right up to Steve and hand it off, grab his shovel, and go to work. Give him a break.
Cause even half-assholes like Steve deserve charity in times like these, when the lakes are spackeling coastal homes like they’re frosting a wedding cake, when power grids are blinking like a DJ’s loop board, when we’re all in it, buried under nature’s hideous disregard. You help out. You join in. You get neighborly and strong and look, this is the time to drop the invisible barriers of class distinction and just shovel the fucking snow. With Steve. And a hip flask of your finest.
