Imports Exported

Goober and I have discovered a unique social-political-gastronomical-ethanological phenomenon: imported beer. This may mean very little to some, but I think imported beer may be the ultimate vehicle for mass social catharsis.

Keep in mind here I said ‘imported beer,’ and by that I mean genuine imported beer, not the unleaded kind we usually get stateside. I’m talking about the real thing, or in Ireland, ‘da real ting,’ and by that I mean the full strength brew as beer was meant to be, the kind of alcohol content that could power rockets and can and does negatively (or positively, depending on your tastes) influence the behavior of actors and actresses down south, and has been proven to assist in the ignoring of proper social protocol among bored soccer fans throughout the UK. Keeping even more in mind here, I tend to be a Bailey’s man, but I’m always open to new and different liquid experiences. But, moving on to the idea of mass social catharsis…

This idea occurred to me while Goober and I were on our daily tidepool inspection. Ol’ Goober had to have a mild beer laxative this morning, due to his finishing my peanut butter, right down to the bottom of the jar, last night, and I noticed he got a slight buzz from it (the canine peanut butter buzz and the helpful beer laxative was explained to me, via Zoom, by Goober’s veterinarian). I noticed that while on this buzz, ol’ Goober displayed slightly less proficient motor skills, but significantly more entertaining behavior. He not only solved his internal difficulties, but had great fun stumbling around in the tidal pools, disturbing the aquatic life. And here’s when I thought about social catharsis. I thought that if Goober responded positively to a beer laxative, perhaps citizens all over the world might benefit from similar stimulation (perhaps an odd solution to global unrest, but I wouldn’t want to discount any remedy for societal ills).

So I thought to myself, ‘think globally and act locally’ or something like that (in reality, I know that slogan is nonsense, because if enough people thought locally, globally would take care of itself, and it’s impossible to think globally anyway, given the size of said globe and the variety of…everything on it, so I probably ‘thought Gooberly and acted personally’), and as soon as we got back to the house, I cracked open one of the bottles of Guinness Stout a friend had brought back from ‘the old country’ and left for me after dinner the other night. I had never before sampled this brand of beer. This is not your ordinary beer, by the way, but an evil brew that’s about 227% alcohol, looks like muddy water, and tastes like what fried fish fins must taste like after they’ve been buttered with casu marzu and dipped in anti-freeze. Determined to get a Goober-like buzz, I swilled the first half of the bottle and made it to just to the edge of the deck
before biffing, stoutly, over the railing, making it exported beer in extremis. This must have been a unique treat for the sea lions. Despite this gastrological rejection, I was determined to achieve my objective, and sipped the rest of the beer over the next fifteen minutes. I decided to test the validity of the buzz theory by doing some of my ordinary household chores while under the influence. Chopping tonight’s firewood was first on the list.

Finding the axe (‘ax’ to you Americans) took some time, since it seems to have relocated itself. I found it in, of all places, the tool shed. I’m not sure how it came to be there, because I’m pretty sure I looked there before I, uh, looked all over the house, the grounds, the gym, and the deck. But there it was, and I made sure to keep a firm grip on it, lest it divest itself of my company again. And the woodpile wasn’t in its usual place, of that I’m sure, although how it ended up where it did is one of those mysteries of the cosmos. In any event, I found it, spoke sternly to it about trying to hide from me, and got ready to, uh, hit it with the axe..? Yes, that’s what I was doing…getting ready to hit wood with my axe. Well, not just hit it. Split it. I prepped the way guys are supposed to prep, at least the way they prep in movies: prop axe against legs, grin cockily, spit in both palms (why they do that is one of those movie mysteries, since all it did for me was make my hands all wet…I wiped them on my pants. I bet the actors do that, too, off camera, of course), gripped axe in manly hands, address wood.

I felt the full effect of the Guinness kick in about the time I swung the ax overhead, and when the stroke was complete, I found the ax buried in the ground about a foot from the log. Under normal circumstances, I might have been a little concerned, but I’d only missed by a foot, and I felt good, so I took another swing.
I found the ax, half an hour later, sticking out of the tailgate of my old Jeep. Thus endeth The Great Guinness Experiment. And as for social catharsis? Pfffft!

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