Disclaimer: I own nothing but the mug, and when I turn 21, the rum ;)
Swaying gently, rocking like the faithful sea, the bronze-hued rum lolled enticingly as it was laid to rest in front of Jack Sparrow. Rough splinters of wood nested this treasure of intoxication in an alluring array.
He would wait. Yes, he would wait until the scent had more fully enveloped his senses and the swishing of fiery liquid had calmed. For this moment, the first few eternities and seconds, he would just admire it; watch how the dirty, gritty light vainly relished in its muted reflections glancing off the gentle, enveloping liquid.
Eventually he would quietly wrap his hand around the crude handle, cradling it for what it promised and what it held. Ever so softly, he would drag the course and granular container towards himself. Then again he would pause, for fractions of an eternal second, and wait once more for the movement-induced rustling of the glorious fluid to settle. For that moment he would look away, perhaps slide his eyes across the room, but they would return, they always did, and again they would sink in the welcome depths of the pirate's ambrosia.
At that point, the climax would occur, the raising of the wooden vessel and its powerful contents to a desperate mouth.
Then something indescribable would take place. Something no one could describe in a word, or in years. Something only the experienced could know, dream, and obsess over: the taste. From the moment of entrance, to the dying vestiges of aftertaste, the actual consumption of the rum could not even be imagined by the most colorful of minds.
But that moment had not arrived, in fact, the drink was still swaying from its abrupt landing on the table. No, at this moment Jack was still admiring its amber promises. But when he had drunk it, he would once again resume his attempts at putting into words the inexpressible bliss of swallowing the rum.
Then he would order another.