11 Bourbon Hunting Tips for Those with Asthma

Last Updated on December 2, 2025 by Michael

Look. Nobody talks about this. The bourbon community pretends asthmatics don’t exist. The asthma community pretends bourbon doesn’t exist. And somewhere in the forgotten middle sits a very specific group of lunatics clutching rescue inhalers in one hand and refreshing bourbon Twitter with the other, wondering why God chose violence on the exact morning Total Wine gets a Blanton’s shipment.

This is for the wheezers. The ones who’ve panic-googled “albuterol whiskey interaction” at 2am like it’s a matter of national security. The ones who’ve had to explain to a deeply concerned pulmonologist why they were “doing cardio” at 6am. On a Tuesday. Outside a liquor store. In January. In Ohio.

Your struggle is seen.

1. Scout Stores During Low-Allergen Hours

That bottle of Weller 12 sitting in the back room since the Obama administration? That’s not bourbon anymore. That’s a dust grenade wrapped in glass and false hope. One employee reaches back there and suddenly you’re experiencing what scientists would clinically describe as “complete and instantaneous respiratory betrayal.”

Go early. Before the dust gets stirred up by forty finance bros named Tyler aggressively fondling every bottle like they’re inspecting heirloom tomatoes at a Whole Foods in Connecticut.

2. Left Pocket. Inhaler. Non-Negotiable.

Why left?

Because phones live in the right pocket. And at some point — this is a when, not an if — you’re going to see a bottle drop notification AND feel your chest tighten at the exact same moment. The universe finds this absolutely hilarious. It’s been workshopping this bit for years.

“A backup inhaler seems excessive.”

No. Having an asthma attack in aisle 7 while maintaining unbroken eye contact with the last bottle of Eagle Rare — physically unable to reach for it because both hands are occupied with the task of keeping you alive — THAT is excessive. The backup inhaler is just good planning.

3. Never Run

Some guy starts power-walking toward allocated whiskey. Every primitive instinct fires at once: CHASE. HUNT. THAT BOTTLE BELONGS TO YOU BY ANCIENT RIGHT.

Your lungs are already drafting a resignation letter. Two weeks notice. Full benefits forfeiture. Forwarding address: the afterlife.

Let him sprint.

Here’s the prophecy: he’s going to clip a Fireball display. Tiny bottles everywhere. A whole situation. Manager gets paged. And you? You’re strolling up with fully operational airways, casually asking about the back room while Kyle over there is still picking cinnamon whiskey out of his boat shoes.

Slow and steady. This isn’t a motivational poster — it’s a survival doctrine.

4. The Employee Relationship Problem

Goal: they see that E.H. Taylor shipment and your face materializes like a bourbon-seeking Bat-Signal.

Problem: asthma makes you sound deeply suspicious even when you’re just standing there. Existing. Being a regular person in a store.

The slightly labored breathing. Occasional wheeze. That throat-clearing thing. In any other context, totally fine. Nobody cares. But hovering near an employee asking about allocated releases with slightly too much intensity? It reads… different.

Do you mention the asthma? “Hey quick heads up, I have asthma, that’s why I sound like this.” Actually no, that’s somehow worse. “Hi, I’m medically compromised, anyway got any Weller?” Horrifying. Scratch that.

This one’s genuinely hard. Good luck out there.

5. Speakeasies Are Death Traps

“Speakeasy vibes” is code for “unventilated basement that serves whiskey.” Exposed brick. One candle. Zero air circulation. Thick cigar smoke because some guy in a waistcoat has decided it’s 1923 and he’s a railroad tycoon now.

Your blood oxygen levels do not care about the aesthetic.

“Do you have any allocated bourbon?”

“We do.”

“Excellent. Quick follow-up: what’s the CFM rating on your air handling unit?”

They never know. Not once.

6. Lines Will Test You

Outdoor lines for allocated drops. In the elements. Pollen. Cold air. Car exhaust. A guy who bathed in Acqua di Gio this morning.

Cold air: trigger. Pollen: trigger. Excitement about potentially getting a bottle: somehow also a trigger. Cologne guy: trigger. Cologne guy is now vaping: you’re going to die in this line and the bottle won’t even be worth it.

Bring a scarf. People will assume you’re mysterious instead of medically compromised. This is the only upside.

7. Contain the Excitement

Finding an MSRP Stagg Jr. in the wild can literally trigger an asthma attack. The adrenaline spike, the sharp surprised inhale — your bronchioles interpret this as a home invasion and respond accordingly.

Your soul can celebrate later. In private. Where your respiratory system isn’t monitoring the situation like a disapproving parent.

8. Secondary Market = Respiratory Roulette

Meeting strangers in parking lots to trade bourbon is already sketch. Factor in that their 2014 Accord smells like wet golden retriever, three competing air fresheners, and whatever organism has been evolving in the backseat since the first Biden administration?

Now you can’t breathe AND you’re evaluating a bottle while some guy named Dave explains secondary pricing with absolutely no awareness that you are in medical crisis and cannot respond because your airways have closed for the evening. Like a restaurant. Sorry, no more air service after 9pm.

Outdoor trades only.

9. Some Stores Are Just Hostile

Old buildings. Carpet from 1987 that’s never been cleaned, only compressed. Dust motes floating in the bourbon aisle sunbeam like they’re being cinematically lit for a murder documentary. The cigar corner with ventilation that was last serviced during the Reagan years.

You know exactly which store this is. Every town has one.

Pop in. Take one breath. If your lungs stage an immediate walkout, leave. There are other stores. Your respiratory system is not an acceptable sacrifice.

(Okay fine, maybe for George T. Stagg. But that’s the only exception and everyone knows it.)

10. Don’t Assault Your Sinuses

You got the bottle home. Victory.

And here’s where amateurs destroy themselves: they rip out that cork and inhale like they’re trying to absorb the bourbon directly into their prefrontal cortex through sheer nasal determination. Like the flavor notes will bypass digestion entirely if they just breathe hard enough.

This is way too much. A guaranteed coughing fit. Not even how you’re supposed to nose whiskey. And embarrassing if anyone’s home.

Gentle. Small sniffs. Your lungs have had a day. They don’t need you jamming ethanol vapors into them like you’re pull-starting a lawnmower.

11. Don’t Celebrate Too Hard

Found the unicorn. Stars aligned. Lungs cooperated. The bottle is yours.

Slight buzzkill incoming: alcohol can worsen asthma symptoms for some people. Histamines. Sulfites. The universe being petty because you finally won something for once.

Pace yourself. You waited this long. Both organs are watching.

Checklist:

• Inhaler
• Backup inhaler
• Store pre-scouted
• Someone knows your location (just in case)
• Expectations managed
• Lungs as ready as they’ll ever be

Get out there. Hunt those bottles. Manage those airways.

You’re not just a bourbon hunter. You’re a bourbon hunter with a documented respiratory condition, and that makes every allocated find twice as hard-earned.

The whiskey gods respect the struggle.

Stay wheezy.