Re: Big Bend pics and whatnot

from: Mugtoe

The beer down there sucks ass compared to what you can find everywhere up here. That's not so much the case as it used to be, but it's true enough to warrant comment. There are few things more vile than Pearl beer or Falstaff. Generic beer with the white cans and black lettering that says "BEER" down there is canned by Pearl, or used to be back in the 80s the last time I drank any. I'm not even sure they still make Pearl, to be honest. The brewery contained a museum of bizarre and deformed animals, including two-headed baby cows'n stuff like that. I mean sick shit. My folks took us on a tour of it when we were in San Antonio, and I think it traumatized me or somethin. I was like nine or so, and I couldn't figure out why they had all these dead animals crowded into this place and were makin me walk through em like a bunch of monsters. They let me drink after that. I hadn't really thought about that much, but I'd already been drinkin long before that anyway. My dad used to have these company parties when I was a child, and he'd rent gaming tables and roast a goat out back on a spit and have the maid's father come tend bar til he got so drunk Dad had to take him home to Bear Creek (the colored section of town) and return to bartend himself; and we'd get our faces burned turnin the spit on the cabrito out back. Everybody'd laugh when I'd sneak up to an end table on my hands and knees and grab a highball and drink it while someone looked the other way. People thought that was cute. Hell, I thought it was cute. I broke my arm when I was three playing Batman and jumping off a porch. Donny Hawkins tripped me, and I fractured both bones in my forearm. My mother took me to Dr Susatt, and he handed me a tiny cup with some liquid in it. I asked him what it was and he said, "Dope." I swear to God I remember that as clear as a bell. That would've been 1966. I gulped it down, but I was hollerin to beat hell anyway. There's more Goddamn people skitzin in Parker and Palo Pinto counties right now than you've met in yer life, I swear. It's fuckin weird. It was always a good place for people to cook, I guess, but everyone from White Settlement west is wired to the tits and goin high screech with their hair on fire as I type this. I stayed boned on that schwag the whole time I was there, but it was rank. Someone had spilled transmission fluid and clorox or somethin on it (they hadn't, but that was the way they were makin it sound). I figured it couldn't be any worse than some of the other stuff I've put in my body, so I took it cheap. It actually wasn't bad, just tasted stale like last years bud found under a broken fridge in the back yard and sprayed with an atomizer for moistness. I was high duck on that all week on that shit for some reason, and it didn't cost me but change. Dad bought my beer and tacos and paid for my motel room. I drove and offered moral guidance. I was in DFW airport this mornin and sat down to eat two tacos from taco bell in the terminal. I sat across from this guy who was reading Paul Johnson's "History of the Jews". I'd read it twice and liked it and mentioned that to him. He started a conversation and asked me what I do and such as that, and then he asked me if I believed in the inerrancy of the Bible. I said no, that I did not, actually, and that I thought they left quite a bit out and forgot some others and had it fuggered, but that it didn't matter if it still fired on half the cylinders and I liked it just fine for folks like my grandmother. He said he believed Moses wrote the Pentateuch. I told him there was decent scholarship to allow for feminine authorship of at least a few of those books. I did allow as how I hold with the power of intercessory prayer, if for no other reason than my own presence in the airport. But my grandmother's prayer closet has been retired, and I'm wingin it on momentary soliloquoys where before was a running dialogue. I shouldn't smoke a post.



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