Herb's Official Memo Regarding the Old Fashioned THC Drink Situation, Effective Immediately
I have been watching you. I have been watching all of you. And after considerable review, I am issuing this memo because somebody has to, and it was clearly not going to be Lou. Lou is in a parking lot somewhere, on speakerphone, explaining the Mets rotation to a guy who sells mulch. So this falls to me.
The subject of this memo is your drinking pace. Specifically: it is wrong. You are nursing that old fashioned THC drink like it is the last can of anything left on earth and you are rationing it for a winter you are not sure is coming. You are not rationing anything. It is eight milligrams. It is a classic cocktail format. It is already cold. And you are sitting there, holding it like a museum artifact, taking one small sip every eleven minutes like that is a personality trait.
It is not a personality trait. It is a problem. And I have identified it, which means it is now my problem, which means it is your problem in written form.
A Full Audit of Why You Nurse a Drink Like It Owes You Money
I have been an accountant for longer than some of you have been alive, and I know what overcautious looks like. It looks like a man with a perfectly good old fashioned THC drink in his hand, at the correct temperature, with the correct bitters, and the correct orange profile, sitting untouched on a coaster while he explains to the room why he is "taking it slow tonight."
Taking it slow. Tonight. As if the drink is going to penalize you for finishing it. As if Lou's Damn Right I'm Old Fashioned is some kind of liability that requires a risk assessment before each sip.
Here is what I know about Lou's Damn Right I'm Old Fashioned: it is eight milligrams of hemp-derived THC. It is bitters, orange, oak. It is a classic, done correctly, in a can, without ice you have to pay for (and yes, I am still furious about paid ice. Ice is weather. Nobody charged you for last Tuesday's rain). It is not a puzzle to be solved at a glacial pace. It is a drink. Drink it.
The nano-emulsification means it hits in minutes, not an hour from now when you have already given up and switched to water. Clean onset. Clean offset. No drag. I did not engineer this timeline so you could squander it by treating the can like fine porcelain at a flea market.
The Part Where I Describe What "Correct Pace" Actually Looks Like
Here is a drink of the correct kind. I am having one. It tastes like someone took an old fashioned seriously, which is more than I can say for the bartender last Tuesday who put a smoked rosemary sprig in one and handed it to me like he deserved a standing ovation. He did not. You do not garnish an old fashioned with theatre. You do not improve it. You sit down, you respect what it is, and you drink it at the pace of a person who knows what they ordered and why.
That pace, for the record, is not a geological pace. It is not a "I'll finish this sometime before the game ends" pace. It is the pace of a man who understands that eight milligrams is the correct dose for a night out, not a clinical trial. Stronger than a microdose. Lighter than a mistake. It is calibrated. It is the sweet spot. I identified this. Nobody has thanked me, but I have identified it.
And while we are here: the terpenes. The blend in this can is not decorative. Linalool, Beta-Caryophyllene, Citronellol. Chosen specifically so the edge comes off and the room loosens up and you, specifically you, get funnier and more talkative. That is the Canned Laughter formula. It is formulated to make you social. It does not work if you are holding the can for thirty minutes like a hand warmer.
A Brief Note on the Competition (This Will Be Brief Because They Do Not Deserve the Words)
Other drinks in this refrigerator are also excellent, and I will name them because I am fair and because they are ours. Mary's M Train Double Espresso Martini, for the person who refuses to call it a night. Jane's Fancy Shmancy Pomegranate Cosmopolitan, for the person who wants an entrance. Herb's Very Manly Peach Bellini, which is mine, and which has bubbles, and which I stand behind completely.
But tonight we are talking about Lou's. Because Lou's is the can you reach for when you have decided, correctly, that the classic was classic for a reason. And then you hold it for forty minutes. And I am issuing a formal complaint.
If you are new and would like to audition all of them before committing, that is what the Variety Pack is for. Sixteen cans. One of each. Try them at the pace of a normal person who respects their own time.
The Findings, Summarized for the Record
- • You are drinking too slowly. This is documented.
- • The can is already cold. You did not do that. The refrigerator did that. Respect the refrigerator's work.
- • Eight milligrams is correct. Not too much. Not too little. Stop negotiating with the can.
- • An old fashioned is a classic because it was right the first time. This one has THC and no alcohol and no regret and no $18 bar tab. You are winning on every metric.
- • The terpenes are doing their job. Let them do their job.
Lou's Damn Right I'm Old Fashioned is in the fridge right now. It has been in the fridge. It will continue to be in the fridge until you go get it, at which point I am asking you, formally and in writing, to drink it like a person who decided to have a drink and then had it.
That is the memo. You are dismissed.
Lou is still in that parking lot. He would tell you the same thing, but his version would take forty minutes and involve a story about a pipe fitting from 2003 that is, ultimately, the same point.
He would also tell you the watch is right twice a day, and so is he. And on this one, I am forced to agree with him.
Herb & Lou's is for adults 21 and older. Hemp-derived THC products are not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any condition. Please check your local laws before ordering. Drink responsibly, at whatever pace the accountant recommends.
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