Archive for Will Purpura

Songs Of Praise

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on August 21, 2009 by thebrewyorker

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
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

Lesser Dangers: Episode 2

Posted in Fun... with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 21, 2009 by thebrewyorker

You have been warned. Repeatedly. Yet still you commit errors whilst heavily drinking. We’ll tell you one more time, but this is it: beware!

Youtube link here.

George and Gracie

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 17, 2009 by thebrewyorker

We’ve all been put into difficult situations by our friends. Let the Brew Yorker help you out in such a place!

YouTube link here.

Beer For Peace

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on August 15, 2009 by thebrewyorker

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

Sick As A Dog; Drunk As A Skunk

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on August 8, 2009 by thebrewyorker

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

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

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on August 1, 2009 by thebrewyorker

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

Journal Of An Obnoxious Drunk

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on July 26, 2009 by thebrewyorker

February, 20th

3 A.M.

Well, it happened again today. They threw me out of the bar again for yelling at the bartender. I just wanted to tell her that I would like to sleep with her later, but the music was too loud. Afterwards, I went to the diner. I asked the waitress what the specials were. She told me and then I just ordered water. You should have seen the look on her face. The manager told me that I had to order something other than that or I had to leave. I told him he has to order something or he has to leave. Then I gave him the finger. I got out of there before he called the cops.

I decided to go to my friend Carl’s house to see if he had any beer in the fridge. His girlfriend answered the door. I asked her if she had any beer. She asked me if I knew what time it was. I asked what that had to do with beer. She slammed the door on me, so I kept ringing the doorbell. Then that reminded me of that song, “Ring My Bell,” so I started signing it really loud. Then Carl came to the door. He told me that his girlfriend had work in the morning so I should stop the noise. I asked him if I could see her naked and he slammed the door on me.

As I write this, I’m slowly realizing something. The nature of friendship is to care for another and be there when that person is in need. I was in need today and my friends turned their backs on me. Sometimes I think I don’t belong in this world and I dream of a land where people will accept me for who I am. They will let me sing off-key, vomit in their cars and make awkward passes at their sisters. Am I not a human being? When you tickle me, do I not laugh? When I do five Irish car-bombs in a row, do I not remember my name? I will not stop dreaming until this becomes a reality. Maybe when I wake up, it will come true. After all, tomorrow is another day.

P.S. I peed the bed again.

– Will