My Brother Shops for Beer
I hate shopping. If you were to ask my wife what is the worst three things in the world to do with me she would probably name every imaginable form of shopping while continually tell you to simply not do that. For me it would seem that this condition is well known, as Veronica has a habit of telling everyone how much of a jerk I become, although it seems that some people haven’t gotten the message as some of them continue to ask me to entertain them while they browse. It seems odd, but spending time with me—regardless of situation—just seems like a pretty terrible time.
This occasion, though, the request was presented by my brother who was only briefly in town; my guess being that he wanted the most condensed me experience possible poorly decided to take me shopping at a beer store so he could experience both my emotions, anger and drunk. In his defense he had been told by a trusted source that this was one of the seven wonders of the drinking world, so he might have been willing to risk the annoyance just to have someone that he could throw in the way of getting mugged instead of simply wanting to spend time with me. Saying that now explains a lot. I am way slower runner than he is now…
I might be showing my terrible ignorance at the entire “good beer” market that exists in the world, but I have to say that this was the first time that I have ever been to a place that sells cartoonishly oversized drinking jugs that one can fill up with beer on location. I am sure that there plenty of logical reasons that you would want to drink something directly from a tap instead of a bottle version of it, as even in my less then expansive drinking back story I can notice a flavor difference in the two, that point given I am totally positive there at the very least the people that work there have to shoo someone away from the taps who is openly guzzling from them in much the same way Homer Simpson would. I am also pretty sure that person would be me if I ever went back.
Besides the temptation to put my mouth directly below the tap and drink, in much the same wave of temptation that I imagine anyone who works with a soft serve ice cream machine feels, they did have some really awesome organization going throughout. Most places have no form of rhyme or reason for placement aside from either “cheap or not cheap” or my favorite and commonly used “there was a space here”; that is nowhere good enough for the Shangri-La of drunkards. Imported beers were listed by nationality, from dark to light, although all I really saw was the price below listing how many hundreds of dollars some of them cost per case—because it is always good to know where you should go when you have a monocle and are confused on how to impress strangers.
Pretty much the worst part of any shopping experience is paying for things, this is normally compounded when I am not the one purchasing said items and have to avoid the urge to simply stop pretending to be interested in consumerism and simply wait in the car—Veronica says this is rude and obnoxious. Oddly the playground of beer kept me interested, at the very least briefly, by the amount of containers they had for purchase next to the register. As previous updates have noted I am a huge fan of drinking beer out of large vats of things, as it reduces amount of trips needed to achieve the desired goal. It was almost like someone knew that I was going to be shopping here and decided that I needed something to distract me while the grownups did their business. This is how I imagine that my wife feels in most everyday situations.