|Hovey provided this reminder, a picture of hell in a box.|
This is not a case of Engrish because the writing was not in any form of English from either side of the Atlantic. For that matter, it might not be Chinese hieroglyphics. It could be random slashes of ink on the carton and the bottle.
If whoever designed the containers had drank much of that crap, it probably was random slashes in an attempt to spell out "I'VE BEEN POISONED TO DEATH! HELP ME!"
I believe Hovey as he's never lied to me, nor given me reason to doubt him. After that
Hovey said the Chinese call it "white liquor" as he sat down at the table with me and handed over a barest sip of the stuff in a plastic cup. I immediately thought of the "white"
"It has bamboo with a hint of machine oil. They like to get foreigners drunk on it," he said.
Hah. A challenge! Not that I intended to get smashed on the stuff, but I certainly had to sample this stuff which the Chinese like to foist on unsuspecting Westerners. I immediately thought of sheep's eyeballs and other "delicacies" foisted off on us Western types much to the amusement of the Eastern hosts.
I sipped. Being Southern Born, Southern Bred and determined to stand tall in the face of adversity, I put on my best poker face as it burned its way down. The burn wasn't that rough.
That stuff would have to go a LONG way to be called bad. I'm thinking a 20-year soak in burnt oak casks might bring it to the level of moderately effective paint thinner.
Vile. Demonically vile.
I felt my genes mutating.
Except worse. No. You can't imagine. Be more thankful than you can imagine that you haven't found out and pour on greater hope that you will never try it.
"They love it," Hovey said.
While Hovey did not lie to me, I feel certain the Chinese lied to him.
I told Hovey alcoholics who shoot hair spray into water to remove the alcohol for drinking would sip that stuff and become stone cold sober and never, ever drink again.
Polly tried it a second time because she could not believe her first taste. Words fail me.
I was certain the last bit of the stuff
It took four good bourbon and sodas to erase the taste. It took that much to straighten my insides out.
Intrinsically vile. You'd serve this to people whom you hate so badly you want them to keep living.
Even now I can remember it and the memory is causing my stomach to cramp.
I'll see if I can get a bottle to share with y'all next time you come around.