Dear Cold Beer, Cold Water (CB/CW),
You had me worried.
I arrived to the park shortly after 3:30 on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, beerless. My eyes and ears darted around the park looking for your mountain-man face and soothing voice, but you were no where to be seen. “He must be resupplying,” I comforted myself. But as time passed, I soon became more concerned. 4:00, no CB/CW. 4:30, still no CB/CW. “Is he okay? I hope he’s not sick, I hope he wasn’t murdered by a hooker. I pray he isn’t dead and alone in his apartment with his corpse being consumed by feral cats.” 5:00 I begin to panic, “this isn’t right, something must be wrong.”
Just as I was about ready to organize a search party of beanies and hunter’s plaid, I heard that familiar siren song in the distance: “Cold Beer, Cold Water.” Giddy, my friends and I organize a pile of money in preparation for I am about to employ your services for the first. time. ever. Like a heat-seeking missile, you smell the opportunity for a sale and head right over. “PBR. One for $3, two for $5.”
But as we crack open our PBRs, the memories of lost monies escape us. We have our beers.
Then we take our first sips: “Is this beer skunked?”