You might be surprised to hear it, but I’m fascinated by rude people. Not in a good way, of course. Like you, my sinful side is usually rooting for a rude person’s demise. It’s just that the animalistic confidence is darkly intriguing. It’s the kind of behavior that, as I watch, I almost expect to hear David Attenborough’s voice narrating its necessity for a particular subspecies of humanity’s crass survival. You know what I mean. A conversation becomes a disagreement. With all their other skills used up, the subspecies human turns to rude name-calling. And why? Because it’s their only means of survival.

Sometimes, it’s little more than the subspecies’ unfortunate instinct.

“The rudeness is purposeful,” the British narrator might describe, his voice at the edge of an elderly rasp. “The customer must assert a sense of dominance over the waitress, and for good reason. Demeaning the server while also working her to death not only maintains the same sense of ascendency among the customer’s observing offspring, but once the waitress expires, the customer will have a warm and nutrition-rich place to lay her eggs, thereby increasing her brood.”

Sarcasm aside, rudeness does have its place. Although, in such circumstances, it’s no longer inappropriate discourteousness but proper defensiveness and proof of loyalty. It becomes an entirely different form of animalistic confidence. In other words, if a waitress spits on your food, making a scene seems somewhat appropriate. If a man pursues another man’s wife, the husband will likely be less-than-cordial to the pursuer. If a man comes for his children, the father’s words and deeds will align in far more offensive ways. Not only might he tell the offender to go to hell, but it’s likely he might send him there.

How do I know this? Well, let’s just leave it at that. In the meantime, there are other moments when the seemingly rude is appropriate. For example, if I were to put anything before you at the dinner table that had been in contact with animal feces, you would count my gesture as offensive. And rightly so. I’d only do that if I wanted you as an enemy. And yet, the Flóki Single Malt smoked with sheep dung would be an extraordinary exception. Pouring and placing this delightful dram before you would be a humble wish for friendship.

By the way, you read that correctly. Rather than using peat to smoke this Icelandic whisky’s barley, sheep excrement is employed. The sheep eat. Their gastrointestinal tracts expel piles of undigested food ridden with undesirable bacteria and cellular debris. These piles dry. They’re gathered, lit on fire, and smoked into moistened barley, the grains taking in the smoke’s unique character.

Are you at all surprised that Icelanders descend from Vikings? I’m not.

Now, being the type of father who instigates more than his fair share of toilet humor in the household, I can think of about fifty things to say about this whisky’s nature, all of which my wife would typically categorize as rude. However, in this instance, it would be sincere commentary, and it would be most appropriate. Indeed, this is some good… um… whisky.

The nose—a buttery sensation barely tinged with smoke but rich with coconut and dried fruit—makes you wonder where the folks at Eimverk got their sheep. The Philippines? Sri Lanka, maybe? And concentrating on the smokey aspect, a series of mysteries emerge, asking, “Whoever came up with this idea, what were they drinking at the time, and exactly how close to the campfire were the sheep?”

The palate is a maple wood charcuterie of the sheep’s barnyard friends. Either that or my mind is too fixed on the distinctive nature of the experience. I sensed cheese, charred beef, and sweet corn. While it’s a fine combination, I don’t want to overthink the corn. I just don’t.

The finish is exceptionally long, leaving peppery embers behind. The butter is there, too, except it’s a bit saltier than before. The sheep were definitely pastured near the sea.

Overall, and as mentioned before, this whisky is good. Now, would I recommend smoking your salmon this way on the grill? No. If you set a dung-smoked meal before me, you’ll receive a ruder, more primitive me. That’s never the kind of farm-to-table experience I’m willing to try. On the other hand, it’s an altogether different adventure to smoke grains later distilled into microbial-murdering alcohols. I’ll put that stuff in my mouth and won’t even feel the urge for a breath mint.