Beer, same thing now. Who knew that beer-flavored beer would be a special order? You had this experience yet? Huh? You're walking around in a neighborhood you don't live in, but you've seen a million times before, and you see a brand new bar that looks like an Irish bar, right? You walk in with your friend. Still looks like an Irish bar, there's a bartender behind the bar. You walk up and go, "Hey, how's about a couple of Budweisers?" "I can't do that." "Why not?" "Well, because this isn't really a bar." "Oh, well what is it?" "This is a microbrewery." "Oh really, asshole? Well, why don't you go in the back and microbrew me up a batch of fucking Budweiser then, okay? Because this is America, and I am very thirsty. Pull up your pants!"
Microbrewery... you can't even order a shot of whiskey anymore without some special little story being attached to it. You want a boiler... that's a tough word or two. "Gimme a shot of whiskey." "Oh, that's not just whiskey." "Okay, what is it?" "That's 182-year-old oak barrel family recipe sipping whiskey." "Oh really? Watch this. CLANG! Gimme another one, alright? Then gimme another, and I'm gonna sip the whole fucking bottle, asshole, alright? And get two bowls of pretzels out here, too! Shithead!" Special family recipe... you know what, sip this. Sip this right here.
My brother-in-law comes over, last Christmas. "Hey man, look what I got you for Christmas." "What's that?" "Special Sam Adams beer dispenser, man." "Oh really?" "Yeah, six different flavors." "You know what? Put it in the fridge. Put it in the bottom of the fridge and bury it." (whispers under breath) Fucking asshole...
So months go by, of course, right? Then I'm watching the hockey playoffs, I'm eating pretzels and I'm thirsty and I'm thinking "Oh man! Oh, the team's tight!" I go up, I open the refrigerator door, and I can see a beer out of the corner of my eye. I grab it, I pull the cap off, I've almost scored and... SPPPPPP! Cranberry ale. Cranberry nut crunch fucking ale! Let me tell you something folks: cranberries and beer do not go together, okay? One's for bladder infections, one's for getting drunk. Yes! Yes! I'm forty, I don't need to be standing in my kitchen tasting cranberries during a hockey game.
I take a look at the label of my beer. You know who's on my beer label? Santa Claus is on my beer label! Santa--I swear to God! You know, Mike Ditka can be on my beer label, Dick Butkis, Cindy Crawford, they can all be on my beer label, not fucking Santa, okay? Let's put the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy on there too, call it Pussy Ale while you're at it, go ahead. Oh, my God...
Pete's Brew, Pete's Wicked Brew, Pete's Wicked Summer Brew, who the FUCK is Pete? Fuck Pete! Pete... Pete...
I can't believe I have to get angry about this shit. I never though they'd change, the beer and the coffee. Who knew?
I'm gonna open my own bar. It's gonna be the most retro bar in the history of New York. They're gonna serve coffee, donuts, cigarettes, beer, and whiskey, and THAT'S IT! That's it! That's right. I'm gonna call it McLeary's. We're gonna play the Rolling Stones twenty-four hours a day. And you know what, if I see just a millimeter of underwear, YOU'RE OUT! I'm gonna have a big metal detector to get all those cock ring guys, too. Right at the front door, BEEP BEEP BEEP. "You got a cock ring?" "Uh, no..." "You lyin' piece of shit, get out! Turn up the Stones." All Stones, all the time. No house, no techno, no rave. No Puff Daddy, no H.R. Puffinstuff, no Puff the Magic Dragon. No Chemical Brothers, no Chemical Sisters, no hip trip skip fucking hop, no. Stones. Twenty-four hours a day. That's right. All we do is we drink, we cry, we fart, and we fight, that's it. "Oh, I was down at McLeary's the other night, it was fucking great! I shit my pants, and they gave me new pants! I beat up my mom, she beat me up, it was great! Then we puked, it was excellent! The Stones were there, man!"