My beer has been stolen. Pabst. Blue. Ribbon. It’s been stolen by the bro-bras. You know them. Nice enough guys, well-intentioned. Fun to hang out with. But the fuckers stole my beer.
My dad drank it. So I did too. Drank it for years. Chanted the famous Dennis Hopper quote: “What kind of beer do you drink? Heineken?! Fuck that shit!!! Pabst! Blue! Ribbon!!!” Thought about making the t-shirt. Didn’t. Better to just drink it.
Then I noticed everyone was drinking it. It was served in the trendiest bars in the trendiest towns. For four freakin’ dollars a can! You know the towns: the ones with good stuff on the edges like rivers and fields full of Huns. The kinds of places that sadly show up on Top Ten Outdoor Town lists. The places where people move and get the “Insert-Town-Name-Here Starter Kit.” Example, the Bozeman, Montana, starter kit is a drift boat, a Tacoma and a bird dog.
Then I overheard things like: “Bra, want to go drink some Peebers?” and “Hey bro, ‘nother PBR?” To which I thought: “WTF?”
This for a beer that won the blue ribbon in Chicago in another century. This for a beer that has been held in the calloused hands of loggers and miners and union head-crackers and oilfield trash for decades. Now poached by the New West minions and the Subaru cavalry. Alas. One of my pals, a bro-bra, even puts Clamato into his Peeber. To which I say: “WTF?”
So I’ve got a new brand. Or maybe I should say, a new old brand. Stay the fuck away from my Hamm’s. And my Oly. And my Old Milwaukee. And my Schlitz.