Party Foul

Just after opening a deliciously cold bottle of Samuel Adams Summer Ale, my life-mate, John-George, and I thought it would be a super idea to wrestle on the couch near the table on which my sweating beer was perched. Suffice it to say we did not think this action through. Bump went my bottom against the table, teeter-totter-thud went my beer and glugglugglug went the thirsty carpet beneath. As I gave the sandy colored berber a hateful glare, I came to realize two very important things:

1. I detest physical contact.
2. I like my beer.

This sad occurrence and the resultant recognition have led me to seek out others who enjoy malty, hopsy, barleyy beveragi and who would prefer to limit their communication and interaction with others to a series of ones and zeroes only. If this is you, please comment.

I welcome connoisseurs and casuals alike. Come you critics of Carlsberg, fans of Fosters and lovers of Labatt.

As found in a previously unreleased version of E. Lazarus' The New Colossus:

Give me your thirsty, friends of yore,
Your huddled masses yearning to drink for free,
The classy lady and the screaming whore.
Send these, be they of twenty-one, to me:
I lift my glass beneath the golden pour.