The Bushmills Black Bush (750 ml flash mob enabler)

Tasting notes:
     The nose smells like the comely corner barmaid after she drenched her torso in Bushmills Black Bush. Fragrant heather body wash, a firm pair of purple peeled grapes, and the electrostatic discharge of a vintage 1980s VCR running smokin' old classics. I get closer, like a man walking into a shrubby grubby valley, exuding a fresh loamy scent like a moist furrow just ploughed by a sharp, fierce iron blade pulled by a miniature buffalo (a lowland anoaBubalus depressicornis). 

     On the mouth, it's like passionately and ardently kissing the comely corner barmaid while she's immersed in a bathtub filled with Black Bush, after she gargled Black Bush. It's as smooth as the line I dropped at the bar, prompting: "I never go home with patrons, or patrones," she said with a saucy wink, her curly springy glossy raven hair shining like liquid triply-distilled brea–yup, that's Spanish for tar–as she pressed her generous, generous portions of whiskey on me.
     The finish goes down like a ripe luscious banana flambĂ©ed in Black Bush. [John: That's what she said!]  Like long, lascivious licks of pairs of vanilla beans cured in fino sherry. It's like Black Bush poured on a pair of over-ripe and bruised juicy honey dew melons, and burying my face in them as I drink from the saturated sweetness of the hollow left by carefully, tenderly, and gently scraping out the seeds and pulp. It's like a copper-shafted arrow (with a heart-shaped steel-tipped head) penetrating deeply into a black bush of damp pussy willow (Salix discolor). It's like being in the end of broad innuendo on a broad with Black Bush.

--On the scale of endings to Alfred Hitchcock movies--
The Bushmills Black Bush is the ending to North by Northwest--That is, it's a train inexorably and single-mindedly steaming into the entrance of a tunnel that's surrounded by dark hedges.