The Beer Fairy Hates Me
Sometimes, the beer fairy makes a visit and leaves great treasures in your fridge, or on your porch. I woke up Sunday with just such a treasure. I get up before 9am almost everyday because I have a dog that can’t shit in a toilet.
During the week, that lazy sack of shit stays in my bed until the last possible second. I get out of the shower and there he is, sleeping with his head on the pillow and covers pulled up over his body like some fucking petulant school child trying to play hooky. He waits until my clothes are on and I double check to make sure all my stuff is ready for work. Only when I grab the leash does he reluctantly drag his ass out of bed with what I can only describe as the most over-exaggerated stretching routine. Then he looks at me like I am disturbing him from some super important dog business. I take him to the park, but he takes his sweet fucking time finding a place to piss and shit. Then he slowly ambles back to the house sniffing every goddamn thing on the way home for 3 minutes. Fuck that dog.
On weekends it is a completely different story. The dog can’t fucking wait to leap out of bed. He can’t wait for me to get up too. Sometimes, the sun is not even up yet and I wake up to his giant furry head an inch from my face and he’s just growling. Not a pleasant way to wake up on the only days I am allowed to sleep in. This past Sunday was no different. The dog got me up and dressed at the ungodly weekend hour of 8:30. We went through our morning routine of shitting in the park and pissing on the lamp post. When we got back to the house, someone had generously left a cold can of Busch on the porch! Who was this sadistic angel? An arch enemy? A misguided youth? A forgetful drunk? Who knows.
Anyway, this is a review of this magical can of Busch. It was cold. I tastes like a weird mixture of poverty, desperation, xenophobia, and NASCAR. It also smells like a stadium bathroom. Basically if you find yourself drinking this then some asshole invited you on his boat to go water ski. You hate this jerk off and his taste in beer, but you love water skiing and never turn down a free beer.
If you find yourself buying this beer you are one of those people who sort of looks like a skeleton because you don’t quite have enough skin to cover your face. Maybe your eyes look a little too taught. Maybe your mouth is especially boney because you don’t have a normal amount of collagen in your skin and your cheeks look sallow. You look like death or the Mick Jagger of poverty. Your fingers are nicotine stained, your shirt has no sleeves, and you drive a tow truck for a living.
The only good thing I can say about Busch is that I once hooked up with a girl at a party who was wearing a shirt that said “if you think my mountains are nice, you should taste my Busch.” That experience was not terrible. Even though it was free, this beer is.