Tuesday, September 28, 2010

The Beer Mule

I am eternally wishing, hoping and fawning all over things that I cannot have. Like candy corn, which clearly I am only able to have two months of every year. Or, a pony. Because everyone knows that a pony is 1.) A giant waste of money and 2.) Never going to amount to anything.

It's true.

So, let's talk about something else we cannot have at our house but still continue to hurl our pale, lanky bodies upon out of pure desperation. What is it? Oh, just Yuengling. You know, America's oldest brewery? Every one's favorite old pal? Offer-er of the Brew Crew and crafter of fine, American beers? That place?

We cannot have the Yuengling. We've tried everything we know how to do, really. Like praying. And visiting Pittsburgh for vacation and drinking $9 drafts at the Pirates stadium during a 3-hour rain delay. Then there's the time we called the fine people at Yuengling and pleaded with them to tell us when they will give us their fine beer in the great Buckeye State. No such luck. They asked us what a "buckeye" was and then told us to suck it. In not so many words. And with a pleasant tone. Clearly they didn't get the proud and bold name of "America's Oldest Brewery" by being rude. Rude people can't stick around the beer brewing business for THAT long. They would be shoved out by the pleasant people at that foreign German brewery that bought American staple Bud Light. Or, Sam Adams. Those people seem pretty nice on TV, too.

But we still pine for the Yuengling. We seethe with jealousy when others are seen imbibing said beverage in our presence, demanding they immediately tell us right now asking them politely where they had the pleasure of purchasing such rare brewskies. Turns out, these people who make us jealous with their Yuengling ownership and drinksmanship had something that we did not: a friend/relative/beer mule residing on the East Coast of the United States of America. Someone who cheerily ran home, bought this rare beer, then returned with their special delivery from America's Oldest Brewery.

We need friends and relatives, we decided. Why can't WE have East Coast friends and relatives like everyone else does? It's just not fair. Not fair at all. So, we sat on it. Thinked it over. Hung out with our relatives who reside in the Hoosier State (seriously, they should be asking those people about what their state's name means, not us) and noticed something: they were drinking our beer. OUR beer! The beer we pined over endlessly! How did our immediate family members manage to get their equally pale and lanky fingers on this brew while we were left crying on our buckeye necklaces?

Turns out, we forgot a small--but important--detail in the family tree. The cousin and her husband who live in West Virginia. God's country. Yuengling territory. And they had become beer mules for our relatives. And somehow we didn't get in on the beer mulery. We immediately contacted said relatives, arranged a delivery and now? And now we have this in our garage. And all is well again.


The White Whimsies said...

Stopping by from Tuesday's Blog Hop. I am your newest follower.


*LLL with Leslie* said...

I am your newest follower. I am following you from Follow Me Back Tuesday. I would love if you would visit my blog and follow me back. Have a fantastic day!


Crystal said...

You're too cute-love the way you write. I'm here on the blog hop- following ya. Follow back.


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