Hoppy Beer and White Pride

I love craft breweries, which I learned from John is something that women put on their OKCupid profiles to get men to like them. (Also, "Go Broncos!") (John is a cynical person.)

Earlier this month Wendy and I went on a brewery tour of Southwestern Colorado we designed with another woman who, like us, loves craft beer. Over 4-1/2 days we went to 16 breweries in Buena Vista, Poncha Springs, Pagosa Springs, Durango, Ouray, Montrose, Crested Butte, and Fairplay. At one of the least inspiring, we sat on the patio and a guy came in. He was cute in-a-hard-living-bandanaed way and smiled at everyone. Wendy pointed out that his shirt had a swastika and a couple of white lightning bolts on it, and some words and images I didn't study. It was not unlike sitting on a grassy knoll in the middle of Kansas as a dark funnel cloud barreled down. I didn't want it to be there but there it was, and I had to do something about it.

So I leaped over two tables and crouched like a puma in front of him. Before the waitress could take his order I delivered one of my renowned left hooks that laid him flat on the filthy floor, and then kicked him in the nuts until my toes bled. He wept things like "Why, why?" and "Please, please." I used my cat claws and ripped his t-shirt off, then shredded it to a dozen hankies which I tossed at him while growling, "Here, you crybaby, blow your supremely white snot into this."

What really happened is I couldn't finish my beer, the waitress didn't bring our tab fast enough, I insisted we leave without paying but my friends paid anyway as I clenched and unclenched my useless fists.

That night I dreamed I was in a pub run by Malcolm X, who stood behind the bar wearing a skinny tie while polishing his glasses. All the beer was gluten free and non-alcoholic. I ordered the Penitent Lager, over-tipped, and hung my head.