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Throwback Thursday: Canned Whisky? Yeah. This Will Work.

Today we take a look back to one of last year’s favorite columns about what would happen if canned whiskey was legalized in the United States…

For the first time ever, straight whisky is being sold in a can. The Panama-based company Scottish Spirits has released a Scotch whisky (that’s how these GDIs are spelling it) in a 12-oz can containing eight shots. It’s currently only available in the Caribbean and South America. The idea is that outdoor drinkers will feel more comfortable carrying around a can rather than hauling around a bottle.
Instead of getting into how insulting this is to die-hard Scotch whisky connoisseurs, or talking about how tin is going to affect the taste, let’s imagine the absurd amount of raging that would be induced if this beast was unleashed into the fratmosphere. Hypothetically.

Rush party this weekend. Instead of having trashcan punch to go with the pallets of cheap beer, you have a few troughs filled with canned whisky. Everyone is slamming the fuck out of this newfound disaster-waiting-to-happen. People are shotgunning it. Next thing you know, 100-pound freshman sorority girls are lurching around the party like zombies, drooling and sputtering out incoherent sentences like the homeless that wander the streets. JIs are passing out in piles and puking all over each other. The blackout state spreads throughout the party like a wild airborne virus. The dance floor goes from being a showcase of classic frat moves to a dry-sex, humping arena that ignores all beats and melodies. The amount of puke and public urination that would normally be taking place has increased sevenfold. You know the guy that always tries to impress sorostitutes by bonging trashcan punch? He’s bonging three cans of this shit. The band you hired to get the slampieces loose? They’re all dead. Why? Nobody knows. It’s like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas fucked The Hangover and this party is the mutant offspring.

You wake up the next day face-down in the courtyard amidst a pile of vomit with the worst physical and moral hangover you’ve ever had. You’re wearing a diaper, floaties, and a Santa hat. Dozens of cans that once held the cheapest, most unsavory beverage known to man are scattered around you. None of your brothers know what happened. Nobody really wants to know. Anyone that tried to get laid could tell you it was the worst fraternity-wide case of whiskey-dick to ever descend upon a chapter.

I guess things wouldn’t change much.

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