I am drinking Kwaczek and wasting my time (and yours).
How did I meet this exotic ethilic essence and why I am loving it so?
Kwaczek, according to my resident spies, is a local product of a small hamlet in Moravia. My ancestral roots are in Moravia. My ancestors may have started drinking it while following Julius Cesar's legions buying up slaves for Roman latifundists (OK, recruiting manpower for agricultural enterprises in Italy). They had been imbibing Kwaczek for two thousand years and their body had evolved to take it. I am genetically engineered to drink this vodka. It is like the neolithic diet theory: since our ancestors fed on semi-wild whole cereals, we are adapted to it and we get sick eating fine milled white flour bread. I am made for Kwaczek and Kwaczek is made for me, other drinks make me sick. Let fair Scotts drink whisky, let terrible Germans drink beer, let Hungarians cry over their Tokay, let industrious Chinese drink rice wine, let muscular Ibos drink palm wine - for me, it is Kwaczek. I consider them all jolly good drinking buddies and blood relatives, and I have drunk (and vomited) with all of them, yet I shall not deny: I am a Kwaczek Jew.
Shabat shalom. Le-Chaim!
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