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Somehow both candidates were able to slip away without discovery. No one, neither their assistants nor their Secret Service “handlers,” knew where they were. Each wore baggy clothes, hooded sweatshirts, and sneakers in order to hide their identities as they passed through the streets of the commoners.

Eventually they met at the prearranged location. One had already reserved a back room in the little pub, a quiet room off to the side and out-of-the-way.

“Barack?” the one asked somewhat hushed as he entered the room, shivering from the cold and brushing the raindrops from his pullover.

“Over here, Mitt,” came a voice from a corner of the room where there was considerably less light.

“Were you followed?” the President asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Did you bring a bottle?”

“Yes. By the way, why do I always have to bring the bottle, Barack?” Romney retorted with irritation. “You always drink my stuff and never bring anything.”

“Oh, c’mon, now. You can afford to spread the whisky around,” Obama responded almost on cue with hands gesturing openly. “So, what are we drinking?”

Taking a seat across from his opponent, “It’s something very good, tonight.” He pulled a paper bag out from under his pullover and handed it across the table.

Sliding the bottle out of the bag by its neck, the eyes of the President became momentarily wide, “Ah, yes, the Glenmorangie 18 year old. Great choice, Mitt.”

The cork was pulled and two drams were filled.

“To the American people,” Mitt toasted.

“To bigger government,” Obama shifted with a disingenuous and toothy smile.

“Whatever,” Romney gritted with a similar smile and clinked Obama’s glass.

Each man nosed his glass, swirled the whisky for a moment, and then nosed again. Romney raised his glass to his mouth, sipped and savored, and then after a considerable moment, swallowed. Obama first took out some note cards and set them on the table in front of him, and then took a sip and swallowed.

“So what do you think?” Romney asked, offering Barack the first word.

Looking to his note cards, he began reading with a voice that tried to project that he wasn’t reading. “The nose… is… uh… good… and it’s… uh… sweet. I like it. And the palate, well it’s… tasty… and inoffensive. The finish, ya know, well, it’s… something that everyone should experience. You see, my belief is one that supports the middle class. I don’t think that these higher end whiskies should be just for the one percent. See, if we regulate the whisky companies, we can bring the whisky production costs down and make the great whiskies accessible to everyone in America. I just want everyone to be able to afford what we have, Mitt, don’t you?”

“Now, with all due respect, my friend,” Romney smiled patiently, “first of all, you didn’t even know what bottle I was going to bring so how can you already have an evaluation for the nose, palate, and finish written on your little traveling teleprompters? Don’t you think you should actually understand the individual whisky before you evaluate it? I’ve been in business for twenty-five years. I’ve consumed a lot of whisky, and so, I know a little something about it.”

Mitt wasn’t done. “And second of all, this is a nice bottle of whisky, but it’s something that any guy with a job can afford if he really wants it. It’s not like it’s a bottle of Scoresby.”

“Well, you see Mitt, in my mind… there’s… no… Glenmorangie Scotch and… there’s no… Macallan Scotch and Scoresby Scotch, there’s… just Scotch. There’s no Irish whisky and Canadian whisky and Scotch whisky, there’s just… whisky.”

“Again, Mr. President, with all due respect, that’s what is so wonderful about whisky – there are various kinds, each offering something a little different, each being a contributing member to the whole whisky family.”

Romney continued, “When I meet a whisky, I see a whisky with potential, with gifts, with something to offer, to contribute as an individual, something that if it does things right, it can succeed. For example, this Glenmorangie 18 year old we have tonight, the nose is more than just sweet. I smell vanilla. I smell citrus, and perhaps some nuttiness. And the palate, it’s not just ‘tasty’, it’s more than that. It’s a little spicy, and the nuttiness I smelled before is translating now as cashews or maybe even pistachios. And the finish, wow! What a finish! It’s surprisingly dry for everything I just experienced, but at the same time the spicy citrus hangs around a little longer than most… ”

Obama interrupted, “But that’s not what you said about Glenmorangie when you were Governor, Mitt. You said that Glenmorangie just smelled like cashews, not cashews and pistachios. You’re flip-flopping here. You’re changing your story.”

“Again, Mr. President,” Romney said tipping his head slightly, “you are missing the point. And by the way, when it comes to whisky, attacking me isn’t an agenda. I’m speaking in detail, telling you what I think, and you, well you’ve got your talking points ready on your note cards.”

“Well… I’ll have… more flexibility to tell you what I think after the election.”

“Again, with all due respect, my friend…” Romney said and then paused to reconsider what he was about to say. After a brief moment, he took hold of his bottle, “On second thought, Mr. President…” he said while standing up, “Like I told you last week at our secret whisky tasting summit – you’re an idiot. I’m pretty sure I have this election in the bag.”

As Romney made his way to the door, Obama called, “So, I’ll see you next Thursday, then, after the election?”

“Yes,” Romney said, “and I’ll just plan to bring the whisky as usual because, well, I’m pretty sure you’ll be out of a job.”

Days passed. The election came and went. Obama wasn’t out of a job, but was re-elected by an extremely slim majority of the country. Romney was distraught, wondering just how an entire nation could be found to be so ignorant. He revved up his laptop and began searching the internet for truth. And then he came upon angelsportion.com, and in particular, a very lengthy and vivid posting regarding Scoresby Scotch. It was in that post that he received the insight he needed.

Essentially, in our post-modern world of mass-produced truths, Scoresby will always have the upper hand. And until the “better” is actually tasted, the “crappy” will almost always get elected. Until then, he would continue to work to introduce the “better.”