Sweet dreams and fond memories.

Lassiter charged blindly into the thick column of gun smoke and confederate cannon fodder falling facedown onto the rocky bottom of a small dried up creek in some God forsaken no named place in Northern Mississippi near Corinth. He stood up and scampered up the far side bank injuring both feet protected by flimsy, shoddy, rottened leathered boots provided courtesy of President Jefferson Davis. Upon reaching the crest he pointed his musket down and pulled the trigger. Following the trajectory of the mini ball he jumped feet first into the rifle pit stuffed with a blue sea of Yankee infantrymen and severely sprained both ankles. He wildly thrust, stabbed and slashed with his rifle expertly wielding his razor sharp bayonet until the steel broke off in some poor bastards head. He then began wildly cracking more skulls with the butt end of his rifle until that too was shattered and he collapsed in utter exhaustion. Upon awakening, he was surrounded by 27 dead or dieing men of the Union Army including a recently breveted Major. All others in that hole had scurried away like rats deserting a sinking ship when confronted by Lassiter, the one man whirling dervish. Had Lassiter been a Yankee in the Federal Army of Northern Aggression trespassing on this sacred Southern land he would have been awarded The Purple Heart, The Bronze Star, promoted to Private First Class,(PFC) and nominated for the Congressional Medal of Honor. But since he volunteered to serve in the Confederate State's Army he didn't get spit to polish his rotten boots. He looked around and realized that all his comrades were running for their lives pursued by white hot canister and grape fired from the superior Union cannons. Lassiter sat up, wiped the sweat from his forehead, felt his heart pounding in his chest and heard the soft rhythmic breathing of Inge, his new bride, the twenty year old Swedish super model with natural platinum blonde hair and a perfect ten super hot body laying next to him in bed. He realized he was dreaming again. One hundred years later the soft, ultra left and almost Communistic American Psychiatric Association would say Lassiter was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, (PTSD.) Lassiter called it sweet dreams and fond memories. It was around 3:00 AM, the typical time when these recurring dreams occurred and Lassiter decided to get up and start the day. Getting out of bed rather noisily hoping to wake Inge so she too would get up and perhaps prepare a nice breakfast, Lassiter poured himself a dram of Coal Ila, Alc.: 59.1%, Proof 118.2, 25 year old cask strength single malt. A refill hogsheads with a gold color. The first nose of sweet vegetables and very mellow. The first taste, carmalized neeps. A drop of water brings out pork crackling and old leather reminding him of his government issue Army boots. The long finish is smooth. Like many Veterans, Lassiter looked back on his time in the service fondly and if encountered would tell a Psychiatrist to "go to Hell." And Maaltmen, remember its Veteran's Day. Give thanks. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman.

Body and soul.

Alastair MacQualter Graham, M.D., newly conscripted army sawbones didn't fraternize with the other men in the Army of Northern Virginia until one day he met Chaplin Franklin Ulysses Swaggart, ordained Baptist minister from Corinth, Mississippi. Better known as the Reverend F.U. The men shared a deep and profound devotion to ...............whisky. Preacher F. U.did not single out catholic Pappists for disparagement, condemnation and damnation like most of his fellow protestant clergyman. In fact, F. U.didn't have a discriminating bone in his body, he hated all other religions equally and considered each one competition for the dwindling funds available for tithing. You see tithing a Protestant invention, described in the Old Testament, consists of giving 10 percent of earnings to the church. For the Reverend Franklin Ulysses Swaggart it meant something quite different and during the war of Northern Aggression he became a wealthy man spawning many generations of swindling, dishonest and whoring Swaggart men of the cloth. Celebrating their newfound friendship, the men enjoyed several drams of MaCallan Whisky Maker's Edition single malt with a lingering finish. 42.8% alc/vol. with a bronze color, fresh bowl of sweet fruit nose, first taste of sweet fruit and spice,second taste introduces complex candied fruit and West Indies spice with a subtle smokey finish predictive of a long deep friendship between these two professionals. One tending the body, the other ministering to the soul. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman

Life in camp

Scratching the boil on his arse that was coalescing but not yet ready to explode, draining a purulent slop into his pants, Alistair MacQualter Graham, M.D. gently eased himself into a field chair to put on his boots. Reaching for the already rotting cheap leather confederate boots, a corpulent rat scurried away only to look back at Alistair as if to say, "You sombitch cow pie, you disturbed my nest." It was going to be one of those days. Reaching for the bottle, Alastair poured himself a dram of Jura Diurachs' own, 16 year old, 40% vol/alcohol, with a copper orange colour, astringent nose, peppery chocolate first taste, oranges and spice second taste and a warm, "come to Jesus" finish. With whisky like this, who needs boots? Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman

Wait what, No darkies?

Squatting to empty his aching loose bowels the next morning, Alistair MacQualter Graham, M.D., the newly commissioned sawbone for the succesh Northern Army of Virginia yelled at a private passing by, "Hey you, where are my darkies," assuming that every medical officer would be issued several slaves to make Army life more tolerable. After all, wasn't that what the Confederacy was all about? Private Jimmy Byrd Ewell from some back woods, no name shat hole in South Carolina said, "There ain't no darkies here Suh." "Theys all back on the plantations slaven' for the masta or done run away to fight for the Federals." "Alls hehya is us poor dumb bastard white folk sacrificing health, limb and life trying to preserve the owners way of life." The shock of having no darkies started to settle in and not finding anything to wipe his stinking arse Alistair hiked up his soiled damp gray wool britches and headed back to his tent for a morning dram of Balcones Baby Blue, The Original Texas Corn Whisky, batch BB 15.12. 46% alc/vol. Beautifully bronzed color. The nose captures the essence of prized corn. The first taste explodes with a rich oily maize and nuttiness flavor. The second taste refines into true American whisky with a complex and soft finish. Feeling the alcohol entering his bloodstream, Alistair thought, maybe this stint wouldn't be so bad after all. Slàinte, Tommy Maatman.

Reporting for duty.

Stepping off the wagon, Dr. Alistair MacQualter Graham sank into eight inches of a mixture of slim, mud, horse urine and feces as he reported for duty at the Head Quarters of the Northern Army of Virginia under the command of General Robert E. Lee. He walked into the Field Hospital operating theatre without bothering to stamp off the mud from his boots. Dr. Graham didn't notice that the tables were covered with several layers of dried blood, bone fragments and the slim of human entrails with large black clouds of swarming flesh eating black flies overhead. For some reason the sour smell of decaying bodies and bacterial gangrene didn't seem to bother him. He was only interested in finding his quarters and getting settled in and comfortable. To his surprise and chagrin the "Officer's Quarters" was a small canvas tent reeking of moldy damp fabric covering a mud floor scattered with flea infested straw. Unpacking, Dr. Alistair MacQuarter Graham, hired Army hack, wondered if enlisting was such a good idea and how much it would cost Daddy to get him out of this Hell Hole? Not having talked to his father for several years and not bothering to express his gratitude for getting him into Harvard Medical School, Alistair pondered his next move. Bingo, a glass of 10 year old Port Charlotte Second Limited Edition Islay Single Malt. Extremely rare 50% alc./vol with a Floral nose, copper color, heavily peated first taste and a medicinal finish. In fact, just what the Doctor ordered and the right medicine considering the circumstances. Merry Christmas Maaltmen. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman

Introducing Dr. Graham.

In the year of our Lord Jesus Christ on April 13, 1840, Alastair MacQualter Graham was born with an 18 carat gold spoon shoved down his pie hole to two narcissistic, wealthy, blue blooded Bostonian Yankees who could not have cared less. Everybody assumed the young lad would follow family tradition and enter the idle, corrupt, conniving and swindling profession of banking. Allistair's father was surprised to learn that his lazy seed wanted to be a surgeon! Most surgeons like barbers were itenerent low lifes not held with much regard by those in high society. The boy neglected his studies and spent his youth capturing and dissecting animals for fun. Later he would bury the carcass only to dig it up months later to examine the maggot, cleansed of flesh, bones. Keeping in line with his life's philosophy of doing as little as possible with minimal effort, Alastair applied to the new Homeopathic Medical School at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor only to be quickly and soundly rejected due to "poor academic preparation, lack of ambition and fortitude and questionable moral character." Hoping to be rid of his son, the elder Graham, quickly endowed a chair at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts and to nobody's surprise, Alistair was granted admission and ultimately graduated at the bottom of his class in 1861. That year in April, the Confederacy, threatened by the Northern state's bully posturing, attacked Fort Sumpter and the Great American War of Northern Aggression was off and running. Alistair Mac Qualter Graham, M.D. having failed at multiple attempts to establish a private surgical practice due to his fondness for adult beverages, decided to enlist in the Army as an hired saw. Thinking it wouldn't be too bad to own some slaves to help out a bit it seemed logical to hitch up with the Army of Northern Virginia under the command of General Robert E. Lee despite the fact that he had nothing in common with the South other than his new belief in slavery. So began the career of Alistair MacQualter Graham, M.D., budding young Army hack with a soon to be abundance of hapless severely injured young patients. Fortunately, despite the multitude of snake eyed, theiving, self taught ambulance chasing attorneys, medical malpractice was not the problem it would later become. Most patients succumbed to medical mistakes and were simply buried in shallow graves and forgotten. In addition, Army surgeons lived from pay check to pay check drinking away most of their money and never accumulated assets making any legal action moot. A medical degree, a budding practice, a lot of down time between battles and an abundance of American whiskey, Scotch whisky and rye. What was not to like? Had Dr. Graham found Heaven on Earth? Feeling good about himself and his new found interest in slavery, Alastair poured himself a dram of Double Black Johnny Walker 40% alcohol, 80 proof whisky with a peaty nose and coal smoldering smoke with spice back ground. Kicking back, Alistair savored the burn and waited for the issuing of his darkies. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman.

Tommy Maaltman, the Oracle

Tommy Maaltman "is a polital genius, an oracle, a wise sage with his finger on the pulse, a rare man who keeps his head and clearly sees the future." (See Tommy Maaltman's Malt Musings, 2/26/2011, once again, another shameless plug.). These are the words Kellyanne Conway used when after the 2016 Presedential Election she imediately telephoned Tommy Maaltman asking, no begging, him to join her team she is assembling to smooth the transition of power from the communist O'bama to President Donald J. Trump. It's a new dawn Maaltmen. It's true, Tommy Maaltman predicted the Trump movement. Tommy Maaltman saw the tidal wave of polital change coming. Tommy Maaltman saw the signs and read them correctly. Tommy Maaltman saw the times changing. Tommy Maaltman saw the pain and suffering of the people. Too many taxes, too much political correctness, too little incentive to succeed and Tommy Maaltman giggled when the Tsunami hit on November 8, 2016. So Tommy Maaltman is going to sit back with his feet on the desk and grab a huge juicy........dram of Macallan, the Highland Single Malt Scotch Whisky, Whisky Maker's Edition, 42.6% Alc/vol. with a burnt corn syrup color, fresh fruit and toffee nose, sweet fruit with spice first taste, smooth mellow smoky fruit with roasted ginger and clove second taste and a subtle smoky finish. And no Kellyanne, Tommy Maaltman won't be joining your team or any other team for that matter. That's not what Tommy Maaltman is all about. It would dramatically interfere with his true passion, i.e., procuring, sampling, tasting, discovering and critiquing cask strength single malt Scotch whisky. It's going to be HUGE, it's AMAZING, make Tommy Maaltman......I mean America great again. Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman