’Tis a miracle that we found each other in this Buffalo Wild Wings — but we have precious little time, so with you I shall be candid: I want you to drink me like one of your craft beers.
Oh, I know. It’s silly for me, another bourgeois Miller Lite, to ask you to drink me like some scandalously citrus-scented IPA, but that is exactly what I desire. Let us abscond to a room adorned with masculine oak: piano gently playing, fire erotically flickering, some unthinkable cataclysm about to befall us…. and there, I wish that you orally savor me like one of those voluptuous coffee stouts that titillate you so.
Nose my floral notes. Imbibe me as you would some free-wheeling harlot session beer and thrust yourself into my triple hops brewed complexity. The last thing I need is to be quaffed like another porcelain doll beer — all wrapped up in a faux Bavarian pilsner raiment. I’m so much more than that!
I want to be liberated from my stuffy, aristocratic Miller Brewing Company peerage. Treat me rough — toss me in one of those “growlers” all your craft beers cavort around in… with their notes of bourbon and plum wickedly exposed for all the world to feast upon! I’m not one of those beers, Jack! I could never be! Mother would not allow it!
Oh dear! My heart is pounding! They say the bar is soon to close — it is as if the universe itself is against our forbidden tryst!
Let us share one final, illicit sip. Don’t speak. Just listen to this ballad of love and loss, emanating deep from my recyclable [CT,MA,IA,NY,VT,ME,OR 5¢ MI 10¢] bosom —
Here, a bar; wherever you are
I believe that the hops do go on
Don’t fear, I’m always your beer
And you’ve tasted my hops
And my hops will go on and on
[Irish Tin Whistle Solo]
*Drops Miller Lite bottle in North Atlantic*