When raised to the nostrils it whispers bald-faced lies to me... "I'm not 129 proof, I'm a gentle cinnamon spiced rum-like buttered white-bread vanilla-nymph, go ahead, sip me straight..." As I gullibly touch the glass to my lips, a sudden "FWOOSH" of green banana and wood resin curl my nose-hairs. The instant the syrup-like medicinal candy-corn sap rushes onto my palate: My entire mouth starts fizzing, my ears pop and I suddenly find I've grown a full handle-bar mustache... Well played Booker, well played... Then the cinnamon fireball arrives, and stays for breakfast. I then tried it with (lots of) water... Then in a Manhattan (sacrilege, I know). It's like taming an angry lion with a folding chair and a towel-whip. The sweet vermouth realized what I was about and refused to pour from the bottle, like old ketchup. The ice then caught on fire and the cherry jumped out of the glass. I guess there's nothing left to do with the stuff but open clogged drains and remove grease stains from asphalt. Oh, believe me, it's good, a little too good... I'm going to go back to Scotch now... huddled in a corner... rocking back and forth...