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That moment when you realize the weekend’s a writeoff

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To Pumpkin Beer

I do believe I’ve had enough

Of Halloween-inspired beer.

I started with an open mind

But now I find these products queer.

If hops and barley weren’t enough,

The ghosts and goblins usher in

A cornucopious array

Of “pumpkin” everything but gin.

It’s not like I would ever turn

This autumn merchandise away.

My paws would tremble violently

Without a sip to start the day.

Elysian and Fernie ale,

Lost Souls and Schadenfreude—

My parents wouldn’t buy them all;

At first I was a bit annoyed.

But as we sampled one or two,

Then three and four and five,

The odds seemed most uncertain that

The hops and gingered cloves would jive.

Essentially I just want booze,

Not cinnamon or nutmeg musk,

Nor allspice-dusted candied yams—

Just alcohol from dawn to dusk.

For this my girlfriend says I’m shite,

Unworthy of a hug or cuddle.

That’s fine, I say, but what about

A beer that’s not a flavor muddle?

And then the bottles, people, look!

Each with a creepy pumpkin head…

They scare the shit out of this bear,

Redoubling his existing dread.

Perhaps purveyors of these brews

Don’t realize that I live in fear?

With Scary, Fluffy, and Miss P,

Why would I want scares from my beer?

If only talismanic power went

Along with this autumnal fare;

I’d ward off Fluffy and his twin,

Apocalyptic Scarybear.

Instead I reek not just of malt

But ginger barf and pumpkin tart.

If Mum gets just one rancid whiff,

An evil Maytag ride might start. (OMG!)

So goodbye, spicy cookie notes

Confounding my October ale.

You’ve left your dark kavorka* on

My moustache, chin, and furry tail.

When Halloween has come and gone,

I’ll give these funny beers a pass

Unless, again, I find myself

With DTs chomping at my ass.

*thanks again, beerbecue

MARQUIS DE LA TOUR—Sacrificed to a turkey

My Fellow Inebriates,

When we changed headquarters this summer, we lost the camera charger.

Dozens upon dozens of boxes have been searched, and it has not turned up.

But if we buy another one, it will turn up immediately. So we haven’t. And therefore it hasn’t turned up.

Where the hell are you?? Where did you go? Did my dad put you in his jacket pocket and then throw away the jacket? Did he insert you somewhere and forget about you? Arrrrghhhhhh!

Meanwhile the camera has lost its charge. This means no more drunken pictures or bear porn for the time being. And while it’s not such a loss in terms of yours truly, whose appearance follows an imperceptible but predictable trajectory from mangy to filthy, the kids in the house are aging, getting taller, growing their hair, losing their teeth. Undocumented.

They may well be teenagers by the time my dad breaks down and buys a new charger. He’ll arrive home with it, having surrendered the battle against Murphy’s Law and finally ponied up at the NCIX counter, only to interrupt Miss P necking on the couch with some scurrilous unworthy kid—because she will be 15 by the time he finally caves in. OMG!! We are dying without that little connector. The children are losing their recorded childhood, not to mention any documentary evidence they might one day proffer to Child Services. This is serious shit.

Surely not? Not in…in there?

It’s almost as awful as when my mum poured an entire bottle of MARQUIS DE LA TOUR over the Thanksgiving turkey. She does this every year, and I always cry when she does it. She says it “makes the gravy,” which seems to neglect the contribution of the gigantic dead bird being baptized by $12 sparkling vino.

Admittedly she did give me an infinitesimal sample before wasting the bottle. My thimbleful (NO PICTURES AVAILABLE) was pale gold with teeny moustache-tickling bubbles. The scent was delicate and pleasing if somewhat simple. On the tongue the bubbles danced with more sweetness than expected. While the flavor was crisp and clean, it nevertheless suggested melons and other fruits that appeal especially to the rapidly maturing kids (NO PICTURES AVAILABLE) who reside at LBHQ. Were one allowed to have a full glass of MARQUIS DE LA TOUR, the sipping would be easy and refreshing.

I don’t honestly think a small swallow of sparkling wine is adequate for a fair tasting, but my parents countered this argument by saying that Robert Parker regularly swishes as many as 50 wines around his gob in quick succession, rendering judgments within 30 seconds. Essentially they called me on my bitching and donated a bottle of perfectly good booze to a dead turkey. And then they said: “You’re lucky we’re not cooking a bear with an apple in its mouth.”

Hello, Child Services?