Are you feeling lucky, punk?

Summer summer summer summer summer SUMMER! It’s coming. It’s here! And so begins the season of sweat. Time for mowing lawns, drooling over asses at the beach, and drinking the crap out of some ICE COLD BEER.

Today, I mowed the lawn in my boxer shorts. My reward upon finishing the front yard? A delicious Pabst Blue Ribbon, chilled to 34 degrees Fahrenheit. Fuckin’ perfection. As an atheist/agnostic/whatever-I-am, an ice cold PBR is the one thing in this world that rattles my disbelief. After knowing the joy that lives inside this can, perhaps I’ve been a fool… perhaps there is a God afterall.

And you know, for a long time I was concerned. Not sure if you’re aware but Pabst has a bit of a reputation. It’s known for being one of the only beers that are cool enough for hipsters. Well. I say forget all that. You know who else drinks Pabst? This guy:

If this fat bastard is “hip,” then… I really don’t know what to say. It’s not just a hipster beer, it’s also the official drink of bad-asses. Today, I drank my Pabst while I mowed the lawn in boxer shorts. I smoked cigarettes too, hand-rolled. At no time was I dancing to Crystal Castles. Nor did I ever put on a totally radical headband. Yup, just a shitty old t-shirt and some boxers, as I tightly gripped my motherfucking 12 fl. oz. soulmate.

You know who else drinks Pabst, besides hipsters? Dirty fucking Harry. Yes. Clint Eastwood. He’s old and a little grumpy, for good reason of course. And he will beat your ass with a tree branch if you step to him. Today, when the lawn was done, I put on some pants. And I took a fresh one out to the front porch. And drank big gulps. And made that ridiculous hushy “ahhh” sound after every goddamn sip. I squinted my eyes toward the sunny end of the street, just like the real bad-asses do. I was hanging out, just waiting for some young punks to come and start some trouble. I’d have been ready for ’em. If somebody would’ve shown up to take a piss on my freshly-mowed grass, I’d have beat ’em down with my busted up snow shovel. Because now that winter’s over, I need to put that thing to use somehow.

And yes, there were more bad-ass things to my day too. Like playing frisbee with my little cousins. And getting ice cream cones from Mister Softee. And yes, of course, the good TV shows were on earlier tonight. But I assure you. When I watch The Office and 30 Rock, I am very stoic and bad-ass about it. So. Don’t get your wires crossed. I’m a hardcore dude.

And now? It’s after midnight (bad-asses often don’t maintain healthy sleeping habits) and I’m drinking a Pabst. And I’m listening to The Gun Club. This is the real American rock and roll music. Jeffrey Lee singin’ about highways, fucking, fire, and dudes named Johnny and Jack. God damn. GOD DAMN!

In fact, here’s a song of theirs that you may enjoy.
She’s Like Heroin To Me

Summer is here. And as I tilt my head back toward the heavens, to imbibe another taste of pure liquid magic, I know everything is getting better and better.


About R. Spacely

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4 Responses to Are you feeling lucky, punk?

  1. Amber says:

    I associate PBR with hipsters. At the little ironic hipster diner near my house they sell $1 pitchers of PBR on Saturday nights.

    And I love this sentence: “When I watch The Office and 30 Rock, I am very stoic and bad-ass about it.”

  2. DUDZILLA says:

    Great stuff young Jedi!!! PBR does EFFing RULE!!!!! Is it cool if I use the two pictures, the one of the fat bastard with the PBR case on his head and the one with CLINT sitting on his porch enjoying the ‘nectar of the GODS’ while yelling at those damn neighborhood punks to get off his grass?

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