On the 14th floor of Headquarters, Dale and Dean, two Diageo marketing associates, stand side by side urinating in the Men's room while sipping Smirnoff on the rocks.
Dean says to Dale, "So we got the green light to bottle those six-year-old Talisker malt leftovers that Bell's, Buchanan's, and VAT 69 rejected."
Dale responds, "Ah yes, the whole rejuvenated cask pitch. Good work on that one."
"Good work to you, sir, for convincing them to sell it for more than the 10 year old. Unique, bold, vivacious in fact."
"Like the whisky!"
"Whatever you say, man." They laugh, clinking their glasses, pissing into urinals chiseled from Rosebank distillery stone.
Dale asks, "So what are we going to call this crap?"
Dean says, "Well, it's spirit heavy and a little rough. And it's from Scotland. Their weather's shit and they're proud of it. We can name it after something stormy."
Dale puts his drink down and taps the urinal-mounted touchscreen. He goes to Google.com. Starts a search. "Okay, something stormy. Something stormy. Bowmore has their Tempest. Cutty Sark has their Storm... That's it! Talisker Storm!"
The urinals flush in unison, gallons of the River Tay gushing down into the sewer.
"Brilliant! I'll drop them an email with the name. This should make all the whiny discerning whisky geeks happy now that they're getting another Talisker single malt."
Dean and Dale stride towards the bathroom door.
"Eh, fuck 'em. They've never been our target audience anyway."
Dean's iPhone dings. "Ah. Gotta go. They're installing marble flooring in the shitter at our Brora condo."
They exit the bathroom without washing their hands.