As all of you sure definitively know—mainly due to the fact that anyone whom reads this blog is both an insatiable alcoholic and someone who Jesus blessed with taste buds capable of tasting greatness—Anheuser-Busch is a great American company that makes the greatest product that America has ever known. Or at least it was. However, even though the company is now controlled by dirty Europeans who love (more effective) socialized medicine, (universal) unnecessary literacy and second place finishes in hockey at the Jr. Goodwill Games, its legacy remains the same. The Clydesdales. The Budweiser frogs and the fellas yelling “Wasssuuuppp!!!” The American flag can. The goddamn beer itself. No matter who owns it, AB will always represent these United States. No matter where the corporate headquarters are located, Anheuser-Busch will always be ours.
Dear Readers,
As all of you sure definitively know—mainly due to the fact that anyone whom reads this blog is both an insatiable alcoholic and someone who Jesus blessed with taste buds capable of tasting greatness—Anheuser-Busch is a great American company that makes the greatest product that America has ever known. Or at least it was. However, even though the company is now controlled by dirty Europeans who love (more effective) socialized medicine, (universal) unnecessary literacy and second place finishes in hockey at the Jr. Goodwill Games, its legacy remains the same. The Clydesdales. The Budweiser frogs and the fellas yelling “Wasssuuuppp!!!” The American flag can. The goddamn beer itself. No matter who owns it, AB will always represent these United States. No matter where the corporate headquarters are located, Anheuser-Busch will always be ours.
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Dear Readers,
As all of you should know—assuming that you were able to watch the comedy hit The Hangover while also being able to take your eyes off of Bradley Cooper’s head full of hair or Kim Jeong’s equally folic filled crotchal region—some guys just can’t handle Vegas. It is too decadent for them. Too lurid. Too alive. Too full of possibility and temptation and gluttony and destruction. Las Vegas is a lawless land. Figuratively. Literally. Historically. Right down to the most inherent portion of its origin. Right down to the point in time where some mobster or another stood out in the middle of this desolate wasteland and imagined what this piece of swirling sand might one day become. Gambling. Prostitution. Extortion. These things are not just tolerated in Las Vegas; they are encouraged. These things are not just a part of the Vegas experience; these things are the reason that the place came to be. Dear Readers,
As all of you should know—because you are presumably not from Boston and therefore know how to read and deduce things logically and with reason—the New England Patriots are rotten and filthy cheaters. This statement is supported by the fact that they blatantly cheat to win football games. This statement is bolstered by that episode of Entourage with Tom Brady in it wherein he possibly cheat to win charity golf events. This statement is buoyed by that dream I had were Bill Belichick cheated in a futile attempt to win an Academic Decathlon in order to keep Adam Sandler from proving his worth and inheriting his father’s company, even after the decathlon’s moderator asked him to leave his wife, who is a dirty dirty tramp by the way, alone. Dear Readers,
As all of you should know—primarily because you have called a psychic hotline and been told that you were going to meet someone tall, dark and handsome on your trip to the Bahamas by a qualified fortune teller only to end up being stuck in the hotel room the entire vacation because you drank the tap water and got a scorching case of dysentery (leaving you to wonder if your feces, while tall and dark, is in fact handsome?)—attempting to predict the future can often be a very risky, and at times fruitless, proposition. Dear Readers,
As all of you should know—primarily because you must be as socially awkward as I am or else you wouldn’t spend your time “reading” and would be out jet skiing or playing beach volleyball all summer long like a cool mix of Rob Gronkowski and Kerri Walsh—making friends is no easy task. It takes time. It takes energy. It takes the ability to make audible comments that do not cause other people to be filled with the desire to Photoshop a picture of you wearing a soiled diaper and place it on Instagram with the caption “Kid still can’t poop in a toilet…hilarious” Dear Readers,
As all of you should know—assuming that you both appreciate art and are not someone who is, as they say, stupid as F—the film Paul Blart: Mall Cop is a classic piece of American cinema. It is light. It is hilarious. It is, unequivocally, Kevin James’ seminal work. And considering that Hitch, I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry, Zookeeper, and Doug Heffernan’s 1 episode arch on the Ted Danson vehicle Becker are all a part of the man's acting cannon, I really can’t make a more complimentary statement about any body of work that has ever existed than the one I just made. Author's Note: The second, of two, letters addressed to St. Louis Rams owner Enos Stanley Kroenke in response to his increasingly earnest attempt to relocate the team to Los Angeles.
Dear Stan, Or Enos. Perhaps I should call you Enos. After all, that is the name that your parents gave you. After all that is, culturally, what you generally would be called by the people who know you. After all, at the end of the day Enos, you do not know me, but I certainly know you. After all, at the end of the day Enos, you and I are anything but strangers. I have written to you before. And written about you. And thought about you. And dreamt about you. I’ve spent considerable time imagining what I’d say if I ever came across you, if you and I were ever to find ourselves face to face in a dark alley off of a random street, if you and I were ever together somewhere, anywhere, where I could tell you exactly what it is that I think of you; somewhere, anywhere where we’d be on equal ground; somewhere, anywhere where your wealth and standing would not be able to stop me from speaking my mind. Dear Readers,
As all of you should unimpeachably be sure of—due to the fact that there are still aspects of our daily lives that irrationally make us leave the comfort of our own domiciles—we have reached the time of year where it is hot outside. In fact it’s so dang hot that milk (and by extension soft cheeses) is, until further notice, a bad choice (click red words or look above for further clarification). It’s so dang hot that my ability to be alive has, for all extensive purposes, ceased to matter to me. That’s the effect that heat has on me: it makes me give up. It makes me lose my will to fight, to breathe, to live. It even makes me turn my back on the one thing that I thought would always define me: my insatiable desire to be proud to be an American...where at least I know I'm free. Dear Readers,
As all of you should know—primarily because you have the exact same priorities in your life as I do and therefore have spent the past 8ish months doing nothing but drooling in front of your computer and waiting for Jason LaConfora to tweet about what Stan Kroenke’s pooping habits could mean for potential NFL relocation—the proposed stadium on St. Louis North riverfront scored a major coup yesterday as St. Louis City judge Robert Frawley stuck down a city ordinance requiring a public vote from St. Louis residences in order for the city to use any public money to fund the new facility. Dear Readers,
As Al Pacino once said as part of the only string of words in the entire lexicon of the English language that could possibly motivate a personal to physically climb out of hell (hopefully Hitler has never heard it. Get it?): "when you get old in life, things get taken from you..that’s just part of life." I look back at this moment, on my 28th birthday, at the past 2.8 decades of my existence and realize how incredibly simple, and yet salient, that observation is. Reflecting on my past I am stuck thinking about all of the things that have been taken from my grasp throughout my time on this planet, things that, due to me not being Liam Neeson’s daughter, I can never get back. Naptime. Being given free juice boxes during school. Being under the weight limit to legally test ride a Segway. My innocence. |
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