Ah, yes. Beer. It’s been around for ages. It has been used in international trade and labor. It has been utilized as a weapon against loneliness and depression. It has served as a love potion, turning people into creatures of beauty who live life with reckless abandon. It has been a loyal friend and a trusted confidant. A provider of courage and zeal. Liquid joy. A golden slice of heaven. For thousands of years, mankind has seen almost all of the effects of drinking beer. Almost.
Because all of you are my friends, much like Mr. Snuffleupagus, I shall tell you a secret. A secret only shared between me and my ice-cold bottle of Red Horse beer. A secret that is as earth-shattering as the fabled “female orgasm”. A secret that I shall now let you know: Beer gives me superpowers.
Wait, where’re you going?! Come on, hear me out here. Just give me a couple of minutes. 45 minutes tops. Okay? Okay.
Beer, the sweet nectar from the gods, bestows superpowers upon me every time I take a sip of it. Telepathy, the ability to communicate with but a thought, and psychokinesis, the ability to manipulate the physical world with only the power of the mind. With beer flowing through my body, I can bend a spoon. I can influence the composition and taste of food. I can navigate through the dark streets by communicating with my RAV 4 telepathically. Fucker, my RAV 4, is the one who does all the driving.
Yes, inexplicably, beer also endows Fucker with the gift of sentience every time I consume the heavenly concoction. Must be the owner-property essence link I have with Fucker. You see, if you own an automobile long enough, a link develops between you and your car. It’s a scientific fact. Look it up. Anyway, I don’t drink and drive. I drink and I let Fucker drive me and my friends home. It is understandable that my friends fear for their lives whenever I give them a ride home from a joyous night of beer drinking and asshattery. They’re not aware that I and Fucker become superpowered, thanks to beer. The fools.
I sometimes amaze even myself in a bar whenever I call for a waiter and after a few minutes, he serves us pizza, with me not having any recollection that I ordered any. Telepathy! I tell the waiter that I want some pizza by projecting my thoughts into his mind. Poor schmuck probably gets weirded out, but I always make sure that I erase the whole incident from his memory. My friends tell me I just mumble incoherently and poke the menu where a picture of a slice of pizza is located, but they’re all drunk so, whatever.
I trust that whatever I’ve told you, dear friends, will remain a secret. I shared to you this precious knowledge in the hopes that you too might realize the true awesomeness of beer. Please do not share this secret beyond our small Intarnetz circle of friends. People will think you’re crazy and shit if you do that. Like they say, “What happens in the Intarnetz, stays in the Intarnetz. LOL!”
No, I’m not drunk. Why?