I Hear Drunk Voices

Kick that ol' robotic, futuristic, George Jetson, crazy joint…

One of the problems about counting beers over the last two (1, 2) summers is mentally keeping notes of the numbers. The little voice in your head becomes more and more confused as the beer numbers pile up over the course of a long day, week, and month. So this summer, since I’m not counting, I have simply chose to ignore the little voice in my head. In fact, I’ve put that little fucker on full lock down mode and won’t listen to him like your dog won’t listen to you when you tell him not to piss in your shoes. To ensure I don’t listen to him and his lame counting, I have replaced his voice with that of Charlie Brown’s teacher, an unintelligible auctioneer, or the speaker box at a Jack in the Box drive-thru from 1989.

For instance, this past week would’ve seen a lot of counting with me and former two time Slushy Gutter winner JayBiz (Hi Haters!) and crew lounging on the LoDo’s deck swilling fresh CLs; me and former two time Slushy Gutter winner Mummy once again swilling beers at a one year old’s birthday party, including some prime Busch Lights. That was followed by some BLs at the annual Highlands Street Fair and back to ol' trusty CL with a late dinner at Patrick Caroll’s Pub in Denver. Sunday would’ve seen The Commish celebrating Father’s Day with a few smooooooooth CLs. But all that shit doesn’t matter, because the little voice wasn’t counting and all I heard was “wah wah wah wah wah.” (109)

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