I Can Haz Beers?

Firestone Walker/Nectar Ales Nectar IPA
You can crush sandstone pebbles beneath yer feet. You can wade into icy waters upon mountain tops. You can even dangle makeshift fishing poles almost 8 feet from your casting spot. But you cannot, cannot resist the urge to return to civilization when you know that yer future holds the glorious bounty of the Nectar IPA.
The golden shimmer of bear urine flowing downstream on a near-dry river bed in mid-August heat only serves to remind you of the lusciousness of yer dearly desired brew. Wait, only bear turds—-black and wrinkled. Must have been yer own piss down this scruffy, parched creek. Tis a bad sign. The dreaded dehydration of the backwoods. No man should be forced to watch his own bodily nutrients abandon ship so hastily.
In those last moments before yer preserved like a mummy on Thirst Ridge, try to imagine what you’ve missed because of a mere packing mistake. You. Dummy. Yer water filter is as clogged as yer nose would be inhaling the dankest whiffs of weedy hop nasal lozenges.
There’s nothing left to do now but sink into a heat-drenched stupor and gaze in hallucination at an imaginary bar booth where smooth, slender arched wood literally caresses your bottom. You lean in to chatter politics and nonsense in a haughty, nose-turning way and watch every other respectable patron gulp gallons of Nectar.
And they laugh at the thought of sharing it with yer snooty, dying ass.
-Pedro

You can crush sandstone pebbles beneath yer feet. You can wade into icy waters upon mountain tops. You can even dangle makeshift fishing poles almost 8 feet from your casting spot. But you cannot, cannot resist the urge to return to civilization when you know that yer future holds the glorious bounty of the Nectar IPA.

The golden shimmer of bear urine flowing downstream on a near-dry river bed in mid-August heat only serves to remind you of the lusciousness of yer dearly desired brew. Wait, only bear turds—-black and wrinkled. Must have been yer own piss down this scruffy, parched creek. Tis a bad sign. The dreaded dehydration of the backwoods. No man should be forced to watch his own bodily nutrients abandon ship so hastily.

In those last moments before yer preserved like a mummy on Thirst Ridge, try to imagine what you’ve missed because of a mere packing mistake. You. Dummy. Yer water filter is as clogged as yer nose would be inhaling the dankest whiffs of weedy hop nasal lozenges.

There’s nothing left to do now but sink into a heat-drenched stupor and gaze in hallucination at an imaginary bar booth where smooth, slender arched wood literally caresses your bottom. You lean in to chatter politics and nonsense in a haughty, nose-turning way and watch every other respectable patron gulp gallons of Nectar.

And they laugh at the thought of sharing it with yer snooty, dying ass.

-Pedro

1 year ago