When I retire, I’m going to go to work for Jack Daniel’s. I want to be one of their tour guides. I want to walk down a beautiful gently sloping hill all day.
I’m working right now on my mumbly grunty way of talking. I’m practicing saying slightly crude things to folks I think might giggle and then smiling as if I have no idea why they might have thought I was being suggestive. I’m going to dig a little at the EPA and rail against the tax code. I’m going to be a part of the best performance art project ever.
I’m going to give those tourists the hillbilly they want to see and I’m going to laugh as they shell out $114.57 for my product.
How brilliant is Jack Daniel’s?
Somehow, they convinced the state legislature to let them sell Jack at the distillery. Since Lynchburg is in a dry county, that means that the only liquor story in the county is at the distillery and the only thing they sell is Jack.
Of course, I’d probably get fired for spending the hot days hiding out in the barrel houses, where it is cool and dark and smells like wood and water and corn. That’s my favorite place on the whole tour.