TERMINAL LAUGHTER

By EDWARD PETRENKO and LEE TIPTON

Alright, shitty beer: You and I both know that all the beer stores are closed, and Darlene’s sure as shit not letting us back in the house anytime soon. So it’s just me and you now.

What’s that? You think that just because you taste like shit I’m not going to drink you? Ha! You can’t stop me; shittier beers than you have tried, my thrice-fermented friend. I’m talking the sort of cardboard boxed, erection-stifling ass-piss that’s only brewed in Eastern European satellite states that don’t even exist anymore. Yeah. You heard me. It was me who bought all that Zlänk when the bloc collapsed, you lukewarm excuse for a yeast infection. You’re gettin’ drank and I’m gettin’ drunk.

I tell you what, shitty beer, you’re gonna regret ever being brewed in that Turkish guy’s hot tub. Yeah, that’s right. I know your kind. Summer 1987, East-end Pittsburgh, am I not mistaken? Yeah, you don’t need no label for me to read you like a book.

Maybe you’ll see some old friends down there, shitty beer… back in Sigma Tau, they called me the Yeast Beast, mainly ’cause I drank any beer they threw at me. Brampton Beer-’n-Glass? Did kegstands! Mule Fist Brew? More, please! Wacky Wizard’s Mystery Mead? Fuck, I think so… point is, you’re fucked.

What, you think I’m scared ’cause the cops just drove by? News flash, Einstein – this van hasn’t run in eight years. Scream, and I’ll drink you.

I don’t care if you were translucent when I first cracked you open this morning; I figure you got at least three more hours of being liquid left in you. And even if you do begin to coagulate, once I strain your sorry ass through this here Steelers jersey, it’s clear sailing right to Gut Town USA, you son of a bitch.

KISS MY ASS, SHITTY BEER!

Get in there. Get in my stomache. Do it, beer.

…

Ooh, fuck. We’ll call it a draw.