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FLoitus Interruptus
Friday I ended what was a craptastic two week stint of stress and sobriety. I was worn down, beat. I had deprived my console of electric current during much of this time. I was really looking forward to kicking back, drinking a few beers, playing a few video games, and having a few laughs.
After I got the kids to bed that night, I peed. Because you know you never want to start a long trip without peeing first. I grabbed a beer out of the fridge. Then grabbed another beer out of the fridge. Then realized I’d already swallowed a few ounces out of the first, so I thought it best to grab a third. Because you know when you’re on a long trip you don’t want to run out of beer. I plopped in my comfy gaming chair, energized my tv, and fired up my 360. I donned my headset, pulled the mic close to my lips so the full force of my burps could be admired by all, grabbed my controller in both hands, and leaned forward slightly into my optimum gaming position. As my console loaded I wondered what my friends would be playing, what sorts of idiocy lay in store. My youngest offspring had added defecation to her bed time routine. So I was later than intended. I worried I might be too late to get into a game, that I might have to wait my turn for an empty spot in a lobby. I was excited to be playing. I couldn’t wait to get started.
My excitement was short lived. I hadn’t missed a thing. I had five friends online. Two were playing a genre in which I don’t normally dabble. One was in an eighteen month old sandbox, one watching Netflix, and one was away. Because sometimes when you get your mind right before going on a long trip you just want to stare at the pretty lights and giggle at the hairs on your pinky finger, you know, “away”.
Proboscis Problems?
Hi. My name is Snuphy. I have ED. No, no, not that kind of ED. I still get or turn into a raging hard on at the mere thought of lady parts. I think I have gaming ED. You know, the kind of ED where gaming no longer makes my loins stir as they once did.
Stromboli and Tap Handles
I've been frequenting a local pizza shop that has a small yet outstanding selection of craft beer. I’ve dubbed the joint the “Home of the $30 Pie”. It seems that by the time I pay for a pizza pie, pay for a beer or two to drink while waiting for the pie to bake, and pay for a selection of beer to drink at home while eating the pie, thirty bucks has flown out of my wallet.
I stopped in last week for a couple of essential items. While I was there I bumped into the owner, BeerMan. I was with the cashier with a bomber in one hand and a 4 pack of pounders in the other. BM looked over and said, "you look like a man with a plan". By "plan" I immediately thought he meant, "dump the day job, open a pizza shop, and make beer in the basement", you know, to be just like him. Since he caught me totally off guard, I had a deer in the headlights moment long enough to realize what he probably meant by "plan" was getting shitfaced on the beer I was holding.
Tuesday I had the opportunity to sit in court with the potential to be an expert witness, an opportunity I did not want, I did not ask for, and which was as about as far away from either my educational or professional background as I could get. This did not produce a Snuphy-be-productive-mood. Afterward, around 3 pm when my first meal of the day became possible, it should surprise no one that I immediately thought of Cuvee des Jacobsons, a delicious sour beer. BM had a fresh keg on tap. BM himself served me the wild, tart nectar.
As he handed me the beer, I asked BM about my first theoretical definition for "plan". His initial response was a guttural sound somewhere between a cough and a gag, one I neither can nor want to repeat. His first intelligible response was, "dude, no fucking way I'd wish this on anyone". He then dealt his personal kicker, "especially on someone who’s not single." Then I quickly learned BM is one of those friendly, "hi, how ya doin' - here's my life story" sorta fellas.
He's worked in restaurants all of his life, opened his own pizza shop 10 years ago. The shop means working 7 days a week, normally in excess of 10 hours per day. He built a brewery this last year. Which means in addition to 70 weekly hours of slinging pie he now also has to find time to brew, clean kegs, order grain, pimp his wares, manage recipes, and sleep. It's not hard to figure out where this leaves his wife and kids.
He's seen very little of his kids since the brewery was delivered. He and his wife now fight constantly. She is convinced that he is not really brewing until 4am, but is instead fucking the snot out of a whole harem of floozies. She's now so tied to the kids she doesn’t have the freedom to work for extra spending money. She no longer has his help at home, so without him around she can't keep up with the laundry and chores. His solution to buy a smaller house is just another reason to argue. Etc, etc. BM's personal life is a depressing, nightmarish mess.
When I asked him about his brewhouse and his beer, a miracle happened!! He was magically transformed from a miserable shit into a bright eyed, highly animated, enthusiastic monkey who could barely keep from stuffing a tap handle in his ass and stroking himself silly. He has plans for fruit beers, sour beers, hoppier than fuck beers, high alcohol beers, barrel aged beers. He’s ready to do a crazy 150 gallon experiment using the pizza yeast he has in the storeroom. He intends to brew his ass off, to keep his fermenters full, to make his brewery successful. There was no indication there is the slightest possibility of compromise in his “professional” life. Which means unless his wife manages to beat some sense into the man, BM’s family life is doomed to clusterfuckedness. I find this baffling, yet intriguing in a train wreck sort of way.
The craft brewing industry seems to be permeated with this sort of mentality. “Mr. Brewer, why did you get into brewing?” “Well, it seemed like the most financially irresponsible thing I could find to do that would also stress my relationships with loved ones well beyond acceptable limits. . . . . . . .and then there’s beeeer.” “Mr. Brewer, what would you tell someone interested in starting a career in brewing?” “DON’T DO IT !!”. “So if you had it to do all over again, would you still be a brewer?” “Hells fuckin’ yeah!!” Many of the most popular American craft breweries were founded with the knowledge that starting a brewery was a stupid idea. They did it anyway. Apparently, so did BM.
I clearly don’t understand this life model. Even if I did, I really don’t think I’d find anything useful in it for me. I just find it fascinating. Like reality tv fascinating, which is odd since I can’t stand reality tv. But now that I know this “damn the torpedoes, let’s make beer” ideology exists, I just can’t leave it alone. I won’t leave BM alone, which has already upped the ante. I’ve moved on from $30 pizza pies. I’m now rockin’ the veggie, mini stromboli. Those cheesy fuckers cost $50.
Back To School Night
So when a teacher says, "we're going to teach your children how to use scissors to cut themselves", why does it seem like I'm the only parent who laughs?
April in PA
I would have guessed that April 5th is too early in the year to contract poison ivy rash on one's testicle. I would have guessed wrong.
April in PA
I would have guessed that April 5th is too early in the year to contract poison ivy rash on one's testicle. I would have guessed wrong.
Flu Dementia
I’m sure everyone has had some sort of weird experience while in the throes of a flu induced fever. I know I have. For instance, at some point this last Thursday, somewhere between muddled sleep and consciousness, while sweating my ass off under what seemed to be the drastically insufficient cover of four blankets, I became convinced my right testicle had shrunk. That’s quite a disturbing discovery if you’re not properly prepared. So I spent quite some time stretching, prodding and squeezing my dangling participles until I was certain that my right one was at least as large as my left, and that both were still as large as they had been on Wednesday. By then, I had over manipulated Little Righty to the point it hurt. By Friday morning I had the flu and a sore nut. Normally when something leaves me with sore testicles I manage to gleam some sort of life lesson from the incident. If there is a lesson this time, I can’t figure out what it is.
Happy to be feeling better, especially down there.
Flu Dementia
I’m sure everyone has had some sort of weird experience while in the throes of a flu induced fever. I know I have. For instance, at some point this last Thursday, somewhere between muddled sleep and consciousness, while sweating my ass off under what seemed to be the drastically insufficient cover of four blankets, I became convinced my right testicle had shrunk. That’s quite a disturbing discovery if you’re not properly prepared. So I spent quite some time stretching, prodding and squeezing my dangling participles until I was certain that my right one was at least as large as my left, and that both were still as large as they had been on Wednesday. By then, I had over manipulated Little Righty to the point it hurt. By Friday morning I had the flu and a sore nut. Normally when something leaves me with sore testicles I manage to gleam some sort of life lesson from the incident. If there is a lesson this time, I can’t figure out what it is.
Happy to be feeling better, especially down there.
Happy Birthweek To Me
I'm actually disappointed during the years when there is a February 29th. Because on those years folks actually know when to celebrate my birthday. The other three years in between, however, seem to baffle everyone. The result is something more akin to a "birthweek" than a "birthday". This year my BW began last Friday when I blew out of work several hours early to embark on a beer related expedition that ended with a rarity, a real, actual, kid-free date with my wife. Saturday I was afforded the opportunity to sleep in and play Borderlands in an empty house before discovering an adult beverage called gueuze. Sunday I got to sleep in again, awoke to bacon and pancakes, was serenaded by my offspring, drank way too much St. Ambroise Oatmeal Stout, had a small family party, and ate lots of apple pie. Today a coworker bought me lunch and the Management bought me ice cream sandwiches. I should probably tell everyone that this birthday thing has gone on long enuf. Intsead, tonight I'm planning on more Ambroise before cracking the wrappers on my new controller and Bulletstorm. So maybe tomorrow I'll mention something. Or maybe not. Because I've been thinking. Next year there will be a leap year.
Happy Birthweek To Me
I'm actually disappointed during the years when there is a February 29th. Because on those years folks actually know when to celebrate my birthday. The other three years in between, however, seem to baffle everyone. The result is something more akin to a "birthweek" than a "birthday". This year my BW began last Friday when I blew out of work several hours early to embark on a beer related expedition that ended with a rarity, a real, actual, kid-free date with my wife. Saturday I was afforded the opportunity to sleep in and play Borderlands in an empty house before discovering an adult beverage called gueuze. Sunday I got to sleep in again, awoke to bacon and pancakes, was serenaded by my offspring, drank way too much St. Ambroise Oatmeal Stout, had a small family party, and ate lots of apple pie. Today a coworker bought me lunch and the Management bought me ice cream sandwiches. I should probably tell everyone that this birthday thing has gone on long enuf. Intsead, tonight I'm planning on more Ambroise before cracking the wrappers on my new controller and Bulletstorm. So maybe tomorrow I'll mention something. Or maybe not. Because I've been thinking. Next year there will be a leap year.
