One more day till election day!
Not that I get to vote or anything. Lacking ID or any documents connecting me to my Langley residence, and—thanks to the Fair Elections Act—unvouchable, and all this compounded by the fact that I’m a bear…I do not get to cast a ballot in tomorrow’s federal election.
So even if I don’t get any representation, my parents do, and I have one day to convince them to support my issues when they go to the polls.
So what are my issues? Well, I’m glad you asked, my fellow inebriates.
First of all, I’m a bear, right? Let’s consult Google to see what the party leaders are doing for bears these days.
Did you know that pandas have thumbs? I DON’T HAVE THUMBS! I could really use some thumbs when I’m trying to open a bottle of POWDER MOUNTAIN LAGER from Whistler Brewing. Honestly, a thumb is pretty evolved, wouldn’t you say? But Harper still doesn’t seem to get what a civilized animal this is. I mean, it just got out of a FedEx crate after journeying from China. OMG, Harper, shake the panda’s hand!
Although, to be fair, Harper does love cuddling with animals.
Next up, Thomas Mulcair:
He really seems to be mocking that bear. I do hope not. We bears are such dignified animals.
Okay, Trudeau time.
This search yields by far the most abundant and diverse array of pictures. By all means, my fellow inebriates, I recommend you try it.
For one thing, I don’t think that one on the right is really, like, a bear. What is it doing? Irradiating him? With love? Whatever it’s doing, I sincerely hope it doesn’t impair Justin’s ability to put more beer money in the pockets of the, ahem, middle class, to which we could possibly belong at least aspirationally.
We need that beer money, Justin. We need to buy more POWDER MOUNTAIN LAGER. It’s malty and substantial, especially for a lager, with a lovely fresh redolence and a palate-pleasing, almost chestnutty aftertaste. If we had this in the fridge everyday, I’d drink it everyday. (Not like I need to tell you that, my fellow inebriates.) POWDER MOUNTAIN manages to be simultaneously crisp and chewy, fizzy and malty, with a long, lingering aftertaste.
I’m gonna leave the election to my parents. But I vote we buy more POWDER MOUNTAIN LAGER.
In the downstairs bathtub this morning: two of the meatiest, most massive silverfish ever seen, squaring off with a hefty spider. Suspended above them by an invisible thread: the exoskeleton of one of their mates, presumably tortured to death by the spider.
Of course I wanted to see who would win. But my mother didn’t care. “F**k you guys,” she said, and shot all three down the drain with the showerhead.
That’s the level of enlightenment at LBHQ.
I thought my mother could use a beer but she has an inexplicable resistance to drinking at 7:00 am, and her unwillingness to let me watch the silverfish-spider death match is pretty much indicative of her unwillingness to take any of my good suggestions.
So I had to wait until 5:00 pm to try this new beer in the fridge: Parallel 49 FILTHY DIRTY IPA. And even then I had to fight my dad for a share of it, which felt sort of like being a silverfish versus a big-ass hairy spider. But fight my dad I did, my fellow inebriates, and here’s what FILTHY DIRTY was like:
Ahhh! Let me start with 7.2% alcohol. It had me there, friends, but it was only getting started. FILTHY DIRTY boasts an IBU of 55, the combined effort of Chinook, Centennial, Citra, Simco, and Ahtanium hops—not fighting it out but harmonizing into a piney, grapefruity, bittersweet hopfest with a creamy mouthfeel and a long linger. My dad and I marveled at the various hop contributions; as we savored the IPA we could taste tropical notes and subtle bready malt backnotes. It was totally, totally yummy.
My mum said it tasted like elastic bands and earwax, which is what she says about all IPAs. We called her a philistine and suggested she get into the kitchen and make the family some pizza.
And that, my fellow inebriates, was a lot like picking a fight with a big spider. Don’t even ask who won.
My Fellow Inebriates,
I totally forgot about Mother’s Day, which perhaps explains why my mother totally forgot to invite me when they opened a bottle of Parallel 49 SALTY SCOT SCOTCH ALE. If you can trust her tasting notes, it was a heavy, wintry ale with lashings of caramel—a malt bomb packing 7.5% ABV under a finger of fizzy, off-white foam. It developed, she said, as it warmed, coffee and brown sugar coming to the fore, adhering nicely to the palate in a boozy, friendly, wintry, not-quite-Mother’s-Day fashion.
Why did she not invite me? I’m thinking…maybe she doesn’t equate me with the other kids. You know, the little human girls…Yeah.
And another thing…every so often I notice that my mother isn’t a bear. I mean, she can get ugly like a bear, but ultimately her chromosome count’s off. Not a bear.
And if she couldn’t find it in her heart to invite me for some SALTY SCOT, well, would she do what this mama bear’s doing for her little cub on the highway?
I WOULD SETTLE FOR SOME SALTY SCOT!!!