My Fellow Inebriates,
This week the car decided it no longer wanted my mother driving it. Perhaps it got fed up with her sighs about its eight-cylinder profligacy. Maybe it remembered the sweltering day when she parked it under trees that drooled sap over its windshield. Or finally it just exercised a judgment call on her lack of coolness.
How did the BMW manage to bar my mother—but not my father—from driving it?
Ingeniously. The car has automatic seats, adjustable along half a dozen parameters and then—since no two drivers’ asses are exactly alike—recordable into memory.
Jiggle the levers up, down, and around until not just the seat but the mirrors and steering column are positioned exactly as you like them, then hit the “M” button followed by your number (1, 2, or 3). Since Dad’s the primary driver, he took number 1. Mum took number 2, and my friend Scarybear claims he has the number 3 setting “for midnight drives.” Voilá! That crazy car remembers your personal settings, so if somebody else changes them, all you have to do is press your button and your ass is happy again.
If the BMW itself is smug about its wonderful car seats, Dad is just grateful. Only the BMW provides the support he needs when his lower back hurts. He’ll even go for a long drive just to assuage back pain. Just him and the clever red car.
And even though most of the BMW’s features make Mum roll her eyes, she secretly loves the automatic seats—or at least she did until this week. That’s when the car got fed up with her bullshit comments about preferring “environmentally friendly” vehicles and froze Dad’s seat settings in place.
All very well if Mum were 5’10” like Dad, but she’s practically a Hobbit. If the car could actually achieve Scarybear-appropriate settings, those would be closer to my Mum’s number 2 than Dad’s number 1. Even if the car didn’t maliciously shut her out of its seat-adjusting wonderfulness, it probably just got fatigued going from one extreme to the other and back all the time.
Some men would be happy having the car all to themselves. For Dad it means driving the kids everywhere—swimming lessons, birthday parties, you name it. If we run out of milk, he has to go get it. The same goes for beer.
So what did he get?
Actually, Mum picked beer up before the car decided to take its revenge on her. BEACHCOMBER SUMMER ALE from Vancouver Island Brewery siren-called her from the liquor-store shelf on her last visit, and the car seemed okay about allowing it in the trunk. The car did not, however, point out that she’d accidentally bought a weissbeer; it isn’t quite smart enough to know she wouldn’t have intentionally picked a brew with fruity tasting notes. That, or it just thought “fuck you” and off they went.
For what it is, BEACHCOMBER SUMMER ALE does it well. Cloudy gold and hop-redolent, this unfiltered beer comes across clean and fizzy yet tropical with grapefruit predominating over a basic cereal foundation. It’s crisp and refreshing but not so light that those hops won’t rough you up a little. The fruit doesn’t stray into rotting-orchard territory, but all the same, if you don’t get the fruit-and-beer concept, you probably won’t be too excited about BEACHCOMBER.
I was, of course, excited. Whenever beer is opened, I get excited. And Mum should be excited too, because her next revelation was this, leveled at Dad:
“Ha! Now you are always the designated driver.”
My Fellow Inebriates,
It’s that wonderful time of year when Oprah tells us her Favorite Things.
I don’t know about you, but every year I wait with bated breath to hear what new luxuries Oprah’s pushing. She may enjoy mashed potatoes more than she likes vodka, but Oprah knows a thing or two about sybaritic living. Naturally I’m going to hijack her annual merchandising love fest, plunder it for keywords and tags, borrow her unauthorized image, and share some things I’d like to give and receive this season. So without further ado…
Oddly enough, many people don’t possess a flask. What a great gift for that closet drinker at your office, that frustrated parent at the playground…or you? And there’s nothing like Montgomery Scott to give you a warm, fuzzy feeling about secretive drinking.
The Apocalypse is a mere 25 days away, but you might want to hedge your bets and send out Christmas cards anyway.
And if that doesn’t remind you of the reason for the season, get your hairy mitts on a T-shirt from The Oatmeal.
For friends who don’t find Jell-O shots sufficiently harsh and enjoy an additional suggestion of illicit behavior, how about some syringe-shaped shots? Just squirt the shot into your mouth. Ahh!
For those friends who need a reminder where those shots will take them…
And for friends planning a visit to Walmart in hopes someone will snap a picture…
And for friends who are already featured among the People of Walmart…
Typically on Christmas morning we’re so busy tearing open gifts that we forget about the stockings, and then we get some lovely little surprises. This item isn’t really for drinking, but it contains 62% alcohol, and most of us could use it now and then.
But as charming as stocking stuffers are, there’s nothing like a go-for-broke, over-the-top present under the tree.
Anybody would feel lucky to get such a wondrous machine, but yes, Virginia, there are still more rarefied objects of desire in the merchandising world. Does Oprah, I wonder, have this unusual item…?
What a whirlwind of shopping! It must be so exhausting to be Oprah Winfrey. In fact, I have only enough energy to do it once a year. Cheers, my friends, and may you revel in these luxuries, whether choosing them for a loved one or wishing for them among your own holiday gifts. My fondest hopes go with you on your gift-buying forays.
♦ ♦ ♦
My Fellow Inebriates,
I made another attempt on the fridge today, this time to get an UGLY SWEATER MILK STOUT.
“Wait!” I pleaded. “I need that that UGLY SWEATER!”
Dad: “Buddy, you’re already wearing an ugly sweater.”
Mum: “You kind of are an ugly sweater.”