Will
or,
Amstel
Your man there kindly invited myself to join his little so-soing circle and I, as a man of many words, could barely refuse. Rather than force the reader to wade through a profile to get a feel for the man who is himself, I shall begin by offering the following tale of a typical night out.
I went about my cups the other night, as is my custom of the day of the heavenly firmament. What better way to celebrate the partition of the waters above from those below than by rejoining them? This night was exceptional in that one of my bartenders presented me with a present, from his to my self: an Old Milwaukee® hat with a poorly stitched deer on it, of a suitable hunter orange hue. I went on for quite a while to him about it, the hunter, the orange, the yellow beer of orange hunters, the authenticity of the hat- beyond the registered TM symbol, it had a solid fabric back. This is in contrast to the ironically resurgent mesh-backed, or trucker, hats that the Emojugen are wearing with straight faces as they mope around their record store workplaces alternately making people feel inferior and attempting seduction of girls by making them feel inferior. The point being that Old Milwaukee ® has no need to go out of its way to impress people with high-faluting trendy meshbacking, and had it been mesh, then 9:1 odds say that it'd have been silkscreened by some shaggy unkempt idler terrified that any of his friends might see him in the mall getting his kioskwork commissioned. That he in turn could hold his sighting them there against them would not occur to him, so clouded would be his eyes with the obscene profits to be made selling his knockoff wares on eBay. I say, Sir, I believe we have met. Phonneas Manjack, was it?
After about a half hour of my exposition, other circumstances called my good man away. He was presently replaced by a man who may be called Will, but who certainly drank Amstel Light. By then I'd stown away my various effects in said hat lying on the bar, and Amstel asked about the hat. He made some joke about a moose, while I patiently explained, again and again, that it was in fact a deer. Embarassed as he was, he assured me that he was only kidding, although I certainly missed the jest. He told me that he'd never seen a moose, and I, seeing the chance to regain control of a night swaying awry, regaled him with the Tale of the Manchester Moose. He could not believe that the moose had a police entourage for the protection of the public. I assured him that it was so; a moose is every bit as vicious as your man's typical suburban soccer mom. Another unfortunate trait the two share is the (erroneous) sense of invulnerability that comes from having too high a center of mass, the one from its legs, the other by its SUV. Neither is a beast with which to be fucked.
He said something then about my getting shot for wearing the hat outside. This was another of those "jokes" of his, whatever that may mean. I assured him that he was quite mistaken, that not only would I not be mistakenly be shot by any hunters, their vision confused by my hat's namesake, but that not even the (nonexistent) gangs of the area would take offense, as they have all mutually agreed that Hunter Orange is the universal non-gang color. He didn't "get" my jibes any more than his. Alas, poor Amstel. I knew him.
I went about my cups the other night, as is my custom of the day of the heavenly firmament. What better way to celebrate the partition of the waters above from those below than by rejoining them? This night was exceptional in that one of my bartenders presented me with a present, from his to my self: an Old Milwaukee® hat with a poorly stitched deer on it, of a suitable hunter orange hue. I went on for quite a while to him about it, the hunter, the orange, the yellow beer of orange hunters, the authenticity of the hat- beyond the registered TM symbol, it had a solid fabric back. This is in contrast to the ironically resurgent mesh-backed, or trucker, hats that the Emojugen are wearing with straight faces as they mope around their record store workplaces alternately making people feel inferior and attempting seduction of girls by making them feel inferior. The point being that Old Milwaukee ® has no need to go out of its way to impress people with high-faluting trendy meshbacking, and had it been mesh, then 9:1 odds say that it'd have been silkscreened by some shaggy unkempt idler terrified that any of his friends might see him in the mall getting his kioskwork commissioned. That he in turn could hold his sighting them there against them would not occur to him, so clouded would be his eyes with the obscene profits to be made selling his knockoff wares on eBay. I say, Sir, I believe we have met. Phonneas Manjack, was it?
After about a half hour of my exposition, other circumstances called my good man away. He was presently replaced by a man who may be called Will, but who certainly drank Amstel Light. By then I'd stown away my various effects in said hat lying on the bar, and Amstel asked about the hat. He made some joke about a moose, while I patiently explained, again and again, that it was in fact a deer. Embarassed as he was, he assured me that he was only kidding, although I certainly missed the jest. He told me that he'd never seen a moose, and I, seeing the chance to regain control of a night swaying awry, regaled him with the Tale of the Manchester Moose. He could not believe that the moose had a police entourage for the protection of the public. I assured him that it was so; a moose is every bit as vicious as your man's typical suburban soccer mom. Another unfortunate trait the two share is the (erroneous) sense of invulnerability that comes from having too high a center of mass, the one from its legs, the other by its SUV. Neither is a beast with which to be fucked.
He said something then about my getting shot for wearing the hat outside. This was another of those "jokes" of his, whatever that may mean. I assured him that he was quite mistaken, that not only would I not be mistakenly be shot by any hunters, their vision confused by my hat's namesake, but that not even the (nonexistent) gangs of the area would take offense, as they have all mutually agreed that Hunter Orange is the universal non-gang color. He didn't "get" my jibes any more than his. Alas, poor Amstel. I knew him.
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