Songs Of Praise

Throughout history people have been singing songs praising the magnificence of alcohol. It is evident in all walks of life and every social stratum. For some, singing songs wasn’t enough, so they wrote them…or stole them. This practice spawned the most beautiful music and lyrics ever heard. Or so it seems when you’re on a binge.

The earliest song of praise I could find dates back to the year 1210. The melody was taken from a nativity song, “Or Hi Parra”, and the lyrics, originally praising the baby Jesus, were changed to glorify the wonders of beer:

Let it be seen – The ale will sing to us
Alleluia!
Whoever drinks some – May he be as he should
Thing of wonder!

It doesn’t sound like much, but it got a lot of play on the jukebox.
This was the start of a new trend in songs of praise. People figured the baby Jesus had been praised enough and that alcohol should be the focus for the rest of the millennium.

Skipping ahead six hundred years, you could hear sailors singing drinking songs across the ocean blue. One of the most popular was Yo Ho Ho (and a bottle of rum):

Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest – Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!

It’s a pretty jolly song for a bunch of guys who loved to rape and murder.

Not too many people know that “The Star Spangled Banner” was taken from an old English drinking song. The original lyrics went like this:

Oh, say over here – can you pass me a beer Hey check out that girl – Oh, sorry that’s your wife

Come to think of it, maybe we should have kept the original.

Then of course there’s “99 Bottles Of Beer On The Wall.” Most people sing this during long car rides. It’s also used as a form of torture in POW camps. Legend has that this song was based on a true story.

Other songs of praise are:

Red, Red Wine – praises wine. Tiny Bubbles – praises champagne. Tequila – praises tequila. The latter being the most direct about its subject matter, because the only lyric in the song is “tequila.” I wrote a similar song called “Whiskey.” Actually it wasn’t so much a song as it was me shouting “whiskey” at a bartender.

One of the most recent drinking songs is “Blame It”. Blame it on the alcohol, that is. From what I can decipher from the lyrics, if the guy drinks enough, the girl looks better to him. If the girl drinks enough, he looks better to her. If they both drink enough, they get laid. Not a bad formula.

So go out and get a bottle of wine, or champagne, or tequila, or beer, and sing a song in praise of alcohol. Or better yet, write one. After all, we could still use a song about moonshine.

– Will

Things You Can Throw

This past week, the Philadelphia Phillies, led by Pedro Martinez, destroyed the Cubs in a 12-5 game. One cubs fan was so upset that in the fifth inning, he threw his beer at outfielder, Shane Victoriano. Baseball fans are not the only people out there who should be annoyed at the offending Cubs fan, Johnny Macchione. I think I echo the sentiment of every moral person out there when I ask how the hell a man could waste beer like that during the recession?

THINGS TO THROW AT THE FIELD BEFORE YOUR BEER

1) Your Keys – Since you’re already committed to being a douche, you might as well be a confident douche. Throwing your keys sends a powerful message. It says that you are unafraid to be recognized for your actions. It says, “I am willing to cause true damage to a player.” It says, “You want a ride home, sexy?” And most of all, it says, “Hey, can I get those back?”

2) A ball – The ultimate in the stealthy move, bringing a ball of your own to the field will never be noticed, until there’s two balls in center field. Imagine the Benny Hill antics that will emerge when in your drunken rage, you bean a surprised outfielder from the stands. Think about how much fun it’ll be when he gets up woozily and can’t remember which is the ball he’s supposed to be playing with! And hey, if anyone ever gets upset with you for it, just tell them you thought this was just part of the game. Anyone around will be able to back you up on the idea that you’re a moron.

3) Children – Kids getting you down? We all know how it is, by the seventh inning, they’re yawning, they’re complaining they want something to eat and you’re too busy to buy them a seven-dollar pretzel. Why not give them the experience that every child dreams of and drop them on top of a major league ball player? Little Timmy/Sally will have such a blast when the realization hits that he/she is actually on the field where the game is happening! And what’s the player going to do? Throw them back? Oh no! That kid is going to the dugout to meet the team! That kid is going to be on the news! And hey, if the kid actually gets hurt, at least it’s your genetic line that you’re disabling, and I think we can all agree that’s a good thing.

4) Fucking Nothing – And then again, here’s an idea. Instead of your beer, why don’t you just sit the fuck down and not be a nuisance? And who is the team that all this is surrounding? Once again, it’s the mother-fucking Cubs. You know, I think folks cut Cubs fans a bit too much slack. Every year, they’re doing something retarded. I know your team hasn’t won in over 100 years, but if you can’t watch the game without getting into a retarded fury and throwing shit at the players or having an exorcism at the stadium or repeatedly littering the field with detritus over collective annoyance, it’s time to take up knitting.

– Jake

Beer For Peace

I don’t mean to get sentimental on you people. And I don’t mean anything racial by saying “you people.” But folks, sometimes we have to set aside our differences and look at things in a broader perspective. People, I encourage you to drink a beer for peace.

Yes, drink a beer for peace. If history has proven anything (and by my count, it hasn’t) alcohol is a peacemaker. Drink a beer for peace. The world is at war, our economy is crumbling and Michael Jackson is still dead. Drink a beer for peace. Let’s take a bigger look at this. Forget about the war we have here. What about the cosmic war between good and evil; the battle between Heaven and Hell? What if God and Satan put aside their quarreling for one hour, sat on an oak porch and drank a beer? They’d be laughing and hugging at the end of that hour, I assure you.

Drink a beer for peace. I’m being serious. What if we had a beer with Stalin? Or Malenkov? Or just the Russians in general? We wouldn’t have had a cold war. We would have had a tall, frosty war with foam dripping on the side.

Come on, people. Drink a beer for peace. Peace can’t drink for itself because it is not a living organism. That means you have to do it. But if you decide not to drink for peace, then can you drive me to the bar? I need a designated driver tonight.

– Will

Drinking Age

DISCLAIMER: I am not, in any way, supporting underage drinking with this piece. The legal drinking age is 21, and you should not taste a sip of alcohol until then. *snicker*

Illegally downloading music was all the rage back in the day when you had to pay $15.99 for a CD. Granted, you were getting 10-15 songs, but lots of the time you only really wanted one of them, and singles weren’t available for every possible song. People generally want to do the right thing, but when a rule or a price is absurd enough, it’s essentially ignored. And when everybody ignores a rule, enforcing it becomes a joke, and the rule ceases to exist.

This is how the American drinking age works. While some people drink in high school, most people begin in college (at least those I know). Nobody waits until they turn 21. Getting a fake ID is not considered a crime by most; people who would never commit a crime their whole life will get a fake ID without hesitation. You know how silly it all is; you fight and die for your country at 18, blah blah blah.

A lot of people think the drinking age should be lowered. But who’s going to vote for a senator or congressman trying to get that passed? And anyway, what’s the difference? Under 21, but want to drink? Lots of places don’t even card. And for the ones that do? Buy a fake ID. It’s not really a rule, anymore; it’s more a vague form of discrimination that occasionally may prevent you from entering a bar or buying beer. Yes, it’s a bit annoying at times, but so is Monday morning traffic.

– David

Being Bold

The different writers for the Brew Yorker write their blogs in fairly different ways. Will takes all the things he’s pissed off about at the moment, sticks them in a big hat and pulls one out, peas on it, burns it, and then has someone else read it to him; David takes various memories, rips them out of his skull, crushes them up and snorts them with a cocaine chaser; Steele finds obscure pages from history books from countries where he doesn’t actually speak the language and convinces himself that he’s figured out the story; and I read the news.

The problem I’m now encountering is that, although I realized that a week and a half devoted to Barack Obama having a beer with a Harvard professor and the cop who arrested said professor in his own house was quite enough coverage, I seem to be the Cassandra (mythical Trojan cursed with prophetic dreams that would never be believed by anyone – from now on, we will consider The Illiad to be on your reading list) of that point.

So this week, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to find an article about the president’s beer summit and pretend that it’s about something else.

Okay… let’s see… from OregonLive.com – “Beer summit: Taking bolder steps in debate on race in US”.

ALASKA – The heated debate on the great Bud/Coors “Race to the Summit” at Mount McKinley gained steam this week as members of MADD began protesting on the foot of the mountain. The climb has been controversial, ever since Peter Coors and Dave Peacock began arguing over whether Coors or Budweiser would be better fuel to a hiker trying to climb the highest mountain in North America. The two expeditions were quickly funded, and although the greater climbing community was disconcerted by the size of each expedition, Coors and Peacock pointed out how many beers the leader of each expedition would have to be consuming daily, and explained that the options were either to hire 15 extra members of each expedition who’s only job was to carry beer, or to blow up part of the mountain and build a bar.

The MADD protest began yesterday morning when MADD president Laura Dean-Mooney pointed out that with these men consuming 20 beers a day each, if either of them found a car on top of that mountain, it would be dangerous. Said Ms. Dean-Mooney, “So what that there aren’t many humans on Mount McKinley, there could still be cars, we don’t know what happens up there. There could be moose cars, bear cars, and if there’s cars, there’s driving, and if these men are around driving, than it is drunk driving! We must stop this awful drinking up the mountain race!”

Spokesmen for Molson-Coors and Anheuser-Busch both insisted that the men would not be driving while on the mountain. They also requested that we avoid looking at the helicopters carrying H2s circling the peak.

– Jake

Sick As A Dog; Drunk As A Skunk

I’m sick as a dog. It’s not so bad, just a mild cold. But I called in sick for work today, so I guess that qualifies me to be sick as a dog. This led me to wonder where did the term “sick as a dog” come from. When I have questions like this, I go to my own dog. My dog is eleven, which in dog years is 77. I just watched a documentary on Vincent Price and he died at 82. I hope my dog outlives Vincent Price. I don’t why but my big fear is that he won’t. So, earlier today I asked my dog where the phrase “sick as a dog” comes from. He told me that it goes all the way back to Chester, who was, of course, the dog of Jesus Christ. I know what you’re thinking: Jesus had a dog? And you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking you’re a moron because everyone knows Jesus had a dog and his name was Chester. One day Chester became sick because he had some bad turkey. Jesus came home and said, “Hey! What happened to my dog?” And Chester said, “Don’t just stand there, do something! My stomach’s killing me!” Jesus said, “Hang on, buddy.” Jesus rolled up his sleeve and started rubbing Chester’s stomach. Chester said, “Stop rubbing my belly and help me, you freak!” Jesus said, “Shut up and give me a minute!” Jesus rubbed his belly for twenty days and nights until finally Chester was healed. “Wow, how did you do that?” Chester asked. Jesus just smiled and went down into the basement to work on his time machine.

The moral of the story is a dog can be just as sick as a human, hence the phrase “sick as a human.” This got me to thinking about the term “drunk as a skunk.” Where did this come from? For questions like this, I go to the skunk that lives down the block. The skunk won a bundle in scratch-offs and was able to afford his own house. I asked where this phrase came from and he said it goes all the way back to the Civil War. Abraham Lincoln was making some of his famous mashed potato pie for the troops when he noticed General Grant was holding a skunk. “What are you doing with that skunk?” asked Lincoln. Grant said, “Skunk? How dare you? This is my brother-in-law and we’ve been drinking all day in celebration.” Lincoln said, “That’s not your brother-in-law, you souse. That’s a skunk!” Grant said, “How would you know? You never even met my brother-in-law!” Then Jesus arrived in his time machine and said, “I need lie down. That time machine gives you jet lag. I’m sick as a dog.” Grant said, “I’m drunk as a skunk.” Lincoln said, “I’m hairy as a clam.”

I’ve come to learn that history is the greatest teacher. I also learned that if you take too many cough drops, you get loopy.

– Will

Twilight

Sometimes when I drink beer, I think of the Twilight novels.

True story: my fiancée reads the Twilight books. She brings some down with her to Atlanta, my place of birth. One of my Atlanta friends, the only girl, expresses interest in reading them. So my fiancée lets her borrow them. I return three months later, and all of my friends (most of them males in their late twenties) have not only read these books, but become passionately in love with them.

They argue loudly over who’s better for Bella (the main character): Edward (the vampire) or Jacob (the werewolf). These arguments become very emotional and passionate, as friends’ past drug addictions and other emotional experiences are brought up as evidence in each side trying to prove their point. Some even go to conventions and brag about how much various cast members from the movies touch them.

After all this, I decided to read the books. The first three, as I expected, were terrible. But the fourth one was AMAZING.

Let me tell you something; Stephanie Meyer is one fucked up bitch! House destroying sex, superhuman infant romance, gory dismemberment of animals, immolation, and cannibalistic caesarian sections are just some of the rewards for reading 1500+ pages of teenage girl whining.

So here’s my suggestion; read the fourth book. If you can’t tell what’s going on, read some summaries or something. It’s pretty amazing. Mormons are screwy.

– David

Bringing The Beer Summit Global

Now that racial tensions have been soothed forever again by President Barack Obama and his now legendary “beer summit”, I think it’s time to see what kind of wings this idea has and… let it fly. Let’s bring this motherfucker global.

Peace in Central Asia
When India threw off the yoke of British oppression back in 1947, a group in India felt they weren’t represented in the country. These people, after helping India free themselves from Britain requested their own nation, and they got it. Pakistan. But strife and ethnic discomforts have long haunted the region. And now that both nations have attained nuclear status, the entire world has become at jeopardy due to two angry nations of little people pointing really big guns at each other. Well not anymore! Now that President Barack Obama has shown us how to do a beer summit, we’re going to sooth these ethnic tensions. Manmohan Singh calls up Asif Ali Zardari, and he’s all, “Yo! Why don’t you drop on by my capital and we have a brewski?” (except, of course, he says it in Hindi… no no… French) And then, Asif comes over, and Manmohan opens up a big ass bottle of Taj Mahal, and Zardari opens up… what’s a good Pakistani beer? Well there’s gotta be one, I mean. So they’re an Islamic country, what’s that got to do with it? Oh. Huh. Okay, moving on.

Peace in Utah
For years, splinter groups from the church of Latter Day Saints have become more and more extreme, sometimes becoming a problem for the entire United States, like in the past year when that colony of them was flushed out. Utah is burning, and it’s time to quell that flame with magic foaming bubbles of booze! What the fuck do you mean, “Mormons don’t drink.” Okay. How about they just sit down for a cup of coffee. Seriously? You’re joking. Oy.

Peace in the Middle East
Okay. This one is going to work. Ever since the creation of the state of Israel, there have been problems between the Israelis and the Palestinians. Well, no more! Mahmoud Abbas and Benjamin Netanyahu get together to drink Goldstar and… FUCK! More fucking… okay. MOVING ON.

Peace in the World
Ever since the US’s new age of Imperialism in the 1960s through 80s, we’ve been pissing off just about everyone who lives in the sand. That hatred has spread out to pretty much everyone who looks like us and fights on our side. Except the French. Everyone who hates the French hates them for completely different reasons. Anyway, most recently, the haters have reared their ugly head in the form of Osama bin Ladin and his Al Qaeda movement. Now, I think it’s time for Barack Obama to invite whoever the hell is now heading Al Qaeda to the white house for a beer. Gordon Brown’ll come, maybe Nouri al-Maliki – It’ll work! Really! I mean… you mean they don’t either? Really?

I’m noticing a trend.

– Jake

Terrible Songs That Sound Good When You’re Drunk: Journey – Don’t Stop Believing

There was period of time when everything was lame. Culture was at an all-time low, movies were long and obnoxious and Ronald Regan was president. This period was called the 1980’s. When the next generation goes to history class they will read about the 1980’s (or as I refer to it as The Dead Zone) as a blight on society. It was a time when mediocrity was admired and Gallagher was considered to be the funniest man in America. But the worst thing about the 80’s was the music. 80’s music reminds me of herpes. Just when you think it’s gone, you’re horrified to discover it’s still there. It wasn’t enough for Generation X to embrace this music, but now they have spread their horrific musical taste to their children. It’s just plain sickening.

That’s why every time you’re at a bar at some point some schmuck will walk up to the jukebox, take a dollar and actually pay to hear “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey. Journey is a band made up of former members of Santana. Allegedly, Santana kicked them out of the band when he listened to them play while sober. The band got together in the mid-70’s with one goal in mind: to kill rock and roll forever. In 1981 they released their biggest single, “Don’t Stop Believing.” If the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand sparked “the war to end all wars”, Journey sparked the song to end all music.

Drunk people love this song. It speaks to them. It’s like someone peeked into their booze-soaked hearts and wrote down their pain. The opening piano riff alone can send a crowded, dank bar into an emotional outburst. The only way these people can express their loneliness is by shouting the lyrics off-key. If you don’t know the words to the song, just grab a seat four blocks away from any bar and you’ll learn them. But I assume you don’t have the time, so here is a sample:

Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world
She took the midnight train going anywhere
Just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit
He took the midnight train going anywhere

I’m going to stop right there because this is stupid. You can tell this is a complete eighties anthem. A song about a people who are so fed up, they take the latest train going anywhere. What are they fed up with? If this song were about me, the answer would be Journey. But it isn’t about me; it’s about two dorks whose parents wouldn’t let them play with their pet rocks. Dorkus and Malorkus (as I named them) go to a crappy concert, meet and do the nasty. The message of the song: Don’t stop believing that you can get laid even in the worst decade of the twentieth century. How inspirational.

I can’t keep bashing the decade, the band and the song because I have to get to my main point. Sure, this monster ballad is irritating but after twelve beers and a shot of bourbon, it seems like the Ninth Symphony. The fact of the matter is this song will never be removed from the jukebox. So, when I sit at the bar with my beer in hand and I hear that never-ending chorus, it brings a tear to my eye. A tear that forms from a joyful realization: Thank God I grew up in the nineties.

– Will

The Brown Paper Bag

I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of disguising a beer bottle in a brown paper bag. People do it all the time in order to drink while outside; a thrill that never seemed to appeal too much to me, but to each his own. However, I always wondered how it was that cops never caught on; if someone’s drinking something out of a brown paper bag, surely it’s not Pepsi. Well, I finally discovered the secret the other day.

I have this friend, Ray Burr. He’s a cop. Anyway, Ray and I were eating Chinese food and watching “House, M.D.” in my apartment. I figured that, having completed the main meal, it was time to enjoy a much deserved fortune cookie. I reach into the brown paper bag the food was delivered in. Ray looks over at me, and screams “HOLY FUCKING SHIT WHERE DID YOUR HAND GO?” Before I knew it, he had run to the bathroom and came back with half the supplies in my medicine cabinet. As he poured Hydrogen Peroxide over my hand while sobbing and screaming something about his former partner, I tried to convince him that my hand was still there; after all, he was pouring Hydrogen Peroxide on it, as opposed to nothing. Soon, he understood what I was trying to say.

After this display, he was certainly quite embarrassed. He began apologizing profusely, and while at first I only wanted him to forget about it, I eventually decided that now was the perfect time to ask him why he thought my hand had vanished. Being in an emotional state, he quickly explained what I found out was actually a pretty big secret. Are you ready?

Cops can’t see ANYTHING if it’s behind a brown paper bag.

And it’s not just limited to actual brown paper bags. It’s the material. If you have a long sheet of brown paper, you could hide behind it if cops are looking for you. Heck, if you really want, you could build a suit out of brown paper, and you’d be invisible to cops.

I’m actually planning on testing this theory out next week. Funny enough, there are a few things I need from the police station down the block from where I live. This may be my chance to finally reclaim them. I’ll follow up with the results of my mission next week. Until then, remember the magic of brown paper bags.

-David

P.S.: The fortune from my fortune cookie read “Important in your bed, would be living the goods of others.” I’m not sure what “goods” other people are leaving in my bed, but I think that’s something I should look into.