I still think about you. I think about the first time. Ã¢â‚¬Å“I love this beer, this MilwaukeeÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s Best,Ã¢â‚¬Â I said. Ã¢â‚¬Å“And I love this whiskey, this Jim Beam. I doubt I could love either of them more than I already do.Ã¢â‚¬Â
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 couldnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t handle us. Ã¢â‚¬Å“What the f**k did you just do?Ã¢â‚¬Â, was one response. Ã¢â‚¬Å“ThatÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s disgusting. YouÃ¢â‚¬â„¢re really, really gross,Ã¢â‚¬Â was another.
But with all the hate in the world, they couldnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t take away our memories together. That was your job. Maybe we did make messes, burn bridges, deface properties public and private; maybe we didnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t. Ã¢â‚¬Å“I have no recollection of that, officer.Ã¢â‚¬Â You made these words true.
Even so, there were times my faith wavered. Ã¢â‚¬Å“Yeah, thatÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s called a boilermaker. Lots of people do it.Ã¢â‚¬Â No. This is a Whiskaliburr. I invented it. Ã¢â‚¬Å“Nope. Boilermaker. Fairly common amongst heavy drinkers.Ã¢â‚¬Â Suddenly, my pride in innovation was replaced with embarrassment. You werenÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t mine at all. You were a floozy, shared by the masses.
I swore you off. Sake bombs from now on! But that didnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢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 somethingÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s missing. You are, Whiskaliburr. You are missing.
You are missed.