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By: Alex Sandell
"We're just buying it to get drunk," she said while hopping up and down like a girl 15 years younger than her 30 years, "So why pay for flavor?" It seemed like a good point at the time. Her perfectly bouncing boobs may have had something to do with swaying my vote. So we bought a $9.50 case of Gluek (rhymes with "sick" -- which, in retrospect, makes perfect sense) Golden Light beer. A sub-standard beer brewed right here, in Minnesota.
We bring it back to my place and I fill a couple of glasses with the hops of hobos. I've never seen a beer this clear before. It looks sort of like urine after you've way over-hydrated yourself with a gallon or two of water. And it has even less fizz than your piss on its clearest day. A Gatorade day.
The way I usually tilt a pint to pour a beer without it foaming over? Useless.
Gluek Golden Light dribbles into the glass without so much as an offending bubble. "Who cares, as long as it gets us wasted?" She asks -- titties still elastic, alive and enticing. I shrug my shoulders and bite my tongue to avoid smiling at her sheer enthusiasm over inebriation.
There's no smiling once I try the beer. It doesn't taste like beer at all -- at least not any beer that I've tried. It's metallic. It's watery. If you can imagine someone melting down nickels into a liquid and carbonating the end result, you can pretty much imagine the taste of Gluek.
I wanted to stop after the first can. She wanted to keep going. She got her way.
Five cans in, she was vomiting. Another can in and I joined her.
I can usually drink a good 6 or 7 pints of Guinness Stout without so much as a butterfly in my stomach. It wasn't the alcohol making me puke (is there actual alcohol in Gluek Golden Light?) -- I wasn't even feeling much of a buzz. It was the unfiltered sewer water that went into the beer that had us both vomiting like teeny-boppers at our first mini-kegger.
I held her head over the toilet as she puked up her guts for a second time. She finished and said, "Now I'm gonna lose my buzz -- Let's have another." How could I argue with logic like that? Hoping her downing another drink would wash out whatever chunk-of-tomato looking thing she had stuck between her teeth, I poured 2 more glasses. We eventually got drunk, stumbled off to bed and fucked in that special way that drunkards tend to fuck.
I woke up the next morning and puked up nickel-flavored vomit two or three more times. The next 24 hours I've suffered with a rumbling, tumbling tummy. Almost as though my small and large intestine are repeatedly screaming, "Why?" "Why did you force us to digest this $9.50 swill, you rotten bastard?" This must be why they call it rotgut.
That's the last time I pay less than $10.00 for a case of beer. As for her? She just wants to get drunk. It works well, as I just want to get laid. The next case of Gluek is on me ... and it's all hers. Maybe she'll spring for the birth-control.
Got Rotgut? Email!
©2007 Alex Sandell/Cerebellum Inc. [All Rights Reserved]. Copy this without my permission and I'll force-feed you a case of warm Gluek!
LOST mysteries solved. Spoilers. Season 4. Future Jack Kate. Jack loves Kate. Who's in the casket? Through the Looking Glass. Hurley and Libby naked.