Last night, I lost my credibility. It happened innocently at first, during the customary contest for audience members at the Lucky Stiff Burlesque at the Pussycat Lounge. They needed [s]victims[/s]volunteers; I was on the first row as is my wont, and when the elfin Remy Vicious made a beeline for me, I knew my fate was sealed. In short order, two more volunteers were roped in and we faced the daunting task of drinking each a bottle of Budweiser with our hands behind our backs. I did. I’m a trained professional. From the first dreg to the last dreg and all the dreck in between; meanwhile the other two sputtered and gagged, and had to call their hands to the rescue. And thus it came to pass that I, Senior Editor of the New York City Beer Guide and all-round beer geek, am now for ever tarred and sullied in the eyes of my peers. I drank a Bud. It could have been worse, of course; it could have been Rolling Rock!
Oh, and what did I win? I won a drink ticket (a whiskey sour soon rinsed off that nasty taste in my mouth) and a dozen fresh dollar bills that I recycled promptly on the various performers as they took the stage later on, especially on the aforementioned Remy and on Sister Ammo, the hot nun.
You shouldn’t feel that bad. I mean, one just doesn’t say “no” to Remy Vicious. At least, we poor mortal men don’t. Not that I’ve ever had the chance, mind you, but should it come up I feel certain that I wouldn’t.
We love Budweiser. For the love of God, we love Budweiwers so very much.
I rest my case.