I never got a taste for the brown stuff. Once, as a teenager, I was ticked at being left home when everyone else went to the fair, because the last of seeding millet had to be done.
I protested by drinking some booze from the cabinet, a canadian toilet cleaner called crown royal. I was not an experienced drinker.
After finishing the seeding, I drove into an 80 acre field that was being left fallow to increase moisture storage for next year, and wrote my name in approximately 200 foot letters in the field with the full width of the 18 foot wide press drill I was driving. It was visible from 30,000 feet but none of my family saw it because they were focused on ground level stuff.
I told my brother in law on his death bed about it, and he still got pissed, it rallied him for another week. No point, just a lifelong aversion to whisky.
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