Dear Whiskaliburr

Dear Whiskaliburr,

I still think about you. I think about the first time. “I love this beer, this Milwaukee’s Best,” I said. “And I love this whiskey, this Jim Beam. I doubt I could love either of them more than I already do.”

But I could. I drank an inch of the beer and I replaced that inch with whiskey. After a couple stirs of the can, I had you. Whiskaliburr. Beer that tastes like whiskey. Whiskey that drinks like beer.

I remember when people couldn’t handle us. “What the f**k did you just do?”, was one response. “That’s disgusting. You’re really, really gross,” was another.

But with all the hate in the world, they couldn’t take away our memories together. That was your job. Maybe we did make messes, burn bridges, deface properties public and private; maybe we didn’t. “I have no recollection of that, officer.” You made these words true.

Even so, there were times my faith wavered. “Yeah, that’s called a boilermaker. Lots of people do it.” No. This is a Whiskaliburr. I invented it. “Nope. Boilermaker. Fairly common amongst heavy drinkers.” Suddenly, my pride in innovation was replaced with embarrassment. You weren’t mine at all. You were a floozy, shared by the masses.

I swore you off. Sake bombs from now on! But that didn’t last. My lackluster feelings towards sushi made sure of that. And when I returned, we were stronger for it. I understood. Millions may enjoy beer and whiskey together, but far fewer drink it from the can. And only one calls you Whiskaliburr.

So we lived. Our days were numbered; you always knew that. But we lived. And then we stopped. I left college, the fake world. The real world, my next chapter, had no place for you.

But I do still think about you. Every time I drive by a college bar or a cheap liquor store, I think about you. Every time I crack open a cheap beer, I know that something’s missing. You are, Whiskaliburr. You are missing.

You are missed.

~Don Julian

2 Comments on "Dear Whiskaliburr"

  1. Jiggles July 27, 2011 at 7:51 pm - Reply

    brilliant

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