It’s nearly all wheat and malt and zero hops for a rich flavor profile that never really resolves as anything; it’s 2% alcohol and comes only in 72-ounce bottles with extremely small mouths, making it the only one-bottle session beer on the market; and the finish is almost an afterthought. It’s a white ale.
(Apparently never-ending follow-up to this piece.)
A phone rings in Peter King’s office. It’s Commissioner Roger Goodell.
"Peter, this doesn’t look good.”
"I agree, sir, it looks awful. I’m doing what I can, but there may be no avoiding this one.”
"Look, Peter, you’ve gotta do something more."
"Well, we’ve got one response up. We’ve gotta cover it. But unless there’s new news, SI’s not going to let us run another one walking this back."
"Dammit, Peter, I’m your boss."
Peter King pauses a second and thinks, Wait, that can’t be right, can it? It doesn’t feel right. But Roger has never lied to him before.
"What can I do?"
"First of all, we heard Janay Rice had punching relationships all over town, getting punched by other guys on the side—real ‘fly girl’ stuff. Ray has already voluntarily entered into a Double-Sorry Probationary Period and is being treated by Dr. Keith Ablow. Next, we’re developing new league-sponsored domestic violence shinguards. All the players have to wear them in Week 12. $79.99 at Shop NFL.com. Finally…"
"Yeah, that’s my cat."
"Sir, I’m gonna go ahead and have to cite you for improper catte. Your catte is just cat, and it doesn’t have any weed, which as you know is a violation of Internet Protocol—the social one, not the programming one—420."
"The Caturday Laws."
"That’s right. Now, I’m gonna write you a summons, and that means that you’re gonna have to appear in court to demonstrate your catte compliance."
"With the weed."
"Yes. Now, a comply fail can result in a summary judgment of fail, and a fail warrant can be issued for your wincarceration."
"Just give your cat a bong, sir."
"You mean catte."
"Christ, now you’ve got me doing it. Just sign here, please, to certify that you understood this summons."
"O-o-kay…. Will that do?”
"Sir, no. You know better than that. Your name isn’t ironically misspelled anywhere."
"Sory, it’s early yet. Don’t even talk to me until I’ve had my Pepis."
"That’s the spirit. You take care of that now, sir. And you want to know something cool?"
"That’s right, sir. omgood day."
"Slap a tity, officer."
And he just sort of lurks in the corner for a while, trying not to be obvious about the fact that he’s interrupting a party or whatever, but being really obvious about it anyway, and finally he’s like:
"Hey, I need a favor."
And he says it all portentous, like it’s so important that he’s going to just tell me what the fucking favor is, only he stands there and kind of cocktail-broods at me for a while until I’m all:
Then he pauses AGAIN, like the world is just made up of pauses that everyone has to use before the end of the month to make quota.
"I need you to pick Buffy up from the airport."
And I just stare at him for ten seconds, because it’s like, a) I can’t believe he’s still doing this shit and b) he asked me to do this like six months ago. And I’m like:
"Fuck you, you pick her up."
"I can’t, I’m a vampire."
"The fuck you are, dude." And I hold up my iPhone to his cheek and take a picture. "See? Microdermabrasion. Not a vampire."
"Vampires can have bad skin."
"I don’t give a fuck, your show went off the air last century. You’re on a show called Bones now, and it’s the fucking worst.”
"That doesn’t sound like me."
"Dude, you did a show about 9/11 like ten years after it happened, and everyone stood around the magic liquid CGI tube watching people get CGI’d into victims or hijackers, and the whole thing was like Patriot Nerd Morgue, and I’m pretty sure you had to cry in it, only no blood came out because you’re not a vampire, man."
"But the sun hurts."
"Because you’re in Hollywood and over 40. You still haven’t bought me the pizza you promised from last time, and I had to listen to her for 90 minutes back on the 405 telling me she ‘has a calling,’ so you do it. And tell her she isn’t Buffy anymore either."
"She doesn’t know…"
"Dude, I know.”