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.”

”Daaammmnnnn.”

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?”

“Yep.”

(epic photo by Andrew of Mission Mission)