Originally written December 12, 2016 at Park Lane Tavern
I don’t root for any sports team. If I like a band, I purchase rather than pirate. Only one entity in this world is worth squealing in the presence of, despairing in separation from, crushing the tracheas of naysayers and opponents… at least figuratively, and on social media, and sometimes of waitresses in restaurants that dare exclude it from their libational ouvre…
Boston Lager, my bubbly, well-balanced bae,
I’ve coveted you. We were celebrating with rare steaks in San Angelo and when you disappeared at the end of the meal, so did my soul. And that glass, that tulip shaped glass you wore… I kept it. Snuck it home in a lady-friend’s purse, I did. Sniffed it just once before cleaning it and adding it to the shrine. How it sparkled, like the tears I shed whilst on the toilet expelling my penance for ordering that steak cooked rare. I am a greedy fool. You bring it out in me.
I’ve fought for you. I was turning 23. Every time that waitress came out to take my order I asked again if she had you in stock. She never did. She probably didn’t even know it was my birthday. I implored the manager –no, threatened her employees to have you in stock at once; no other beer would do! But she couldn’t give you to me. So I told her I’d have a whiskey. Also, I had a Blowjob Shot, an Irish Car Bomb, and -not one, but two Four Horsemen. It was my birthday, after all.
I’ve paid for you. And you ain’t cheap.
I’ve loved you. They call you the old man’s beer. They wait for the seasonal wenches in October and Winter and Summer, but I remain true. You were there first, you are there always. Your exotic dark caramel body begs to be cupped by these gentle man-hands, hoisted, and cherished. I could practically drink you in. Nope, literally. I can literally drink you in. You’re beer.
Baby, I swear it’s not product placement. It’s the real deal. Cheers to us.