American whiskey consumption has reached levels not seen since 1970, when the nation needed all the whiskey it could get to deal with the decaying infrastructure, obnoxious raindrops, and depressed clowns. "We are busier than I ever could have imagined," Chris Morris, a master distiller in Kentucky told the Associated Press, noting the rise in whiskey consumption over the past 15 years.

Perhaps it's the ill tidings of the news cycle, or a greater appreciation of the craftsmanship and ingenuity of the Bluegrass State, but Americans are guzzling whiskey faster than they can make it, leading distillers to begin packing away whiskey for a decade from now, when demand will simply be overwhelming.

The distillers envision a decade from now, when from the wasteland that was once America, ravenous hordes of whiskey-drinkers cross the Ohio River and blaze a path of destruction, the Sherman's of their day, so very hungry for that sweet, sweet nectar they once called whiskey, but now call "vis vitae."

It is there, behind the steadfast doors of a refurbished Fort Knox, that the whiskey resides, surrounded by what's left of the Kentucky National Guard, never touching the drink—for fear of what would consume them, for perhaps a vision of what drove this country to the brink... and then over it.

There! In the distance, the horde moves closer. They want the whiskey, but they cannot have it. They must not have it. The guards stand strong, gaining courage in number.

Softly, one sentry begins to sing, "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord..."

The rest join him, their chorus rings across the rolling hills of Appalachia, "He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored...."

The ragged horde grows nearer. "Whiskey," they mutter. "Whiskey for us. Whiskey forever."

The guards sing, "He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword..." And on sword they charge without abandon towards the gaggle, lost amid the flame, the passion for the whiskey. They fall. The fort is lost, and the whiskey is drank.

"Glory, glory, glory," a wounded guard repeats, his body broken and buried in the murk....

Or maybe we'll just keep enjoying whiskey because it is great and everyone will make money and have a good time! Many possibilities here.