That was the finalist when the beer-saying committee chose the new beer saying for our beer-saying blackboard at Cobblestones yesterday.
I had submitted a beer passage by my maybe-she’s-related-but-I’m-not-sure distant cousin, Sylvia Plath;
“The beer tastes good to my throat, cold and bitter, and the three boys and the beer and the queer freeness of the situation makes me feel like laughing forever. So I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on top of the beer can. I am looking very healthy and flushed and bright-eyed, having both a good tan and a rather excellent fever.”
“Too dramatic” judged the committee. (Elizabeth) Have you MET my maybe-cousin!?
(Plus, its a small board)
Alas, I hung my head heavy as a nodding stone, saddened by the relinquishment of my impassioned plea, stifling a maddened cry. I felt a duty to pay homage in words of beer to my long dead, by her hand, maybe cousin or maybe not, and how we loved so many the same things, lipstick, light headed freedom, passion–the fever–oh and beer….I cry for her. I cry for beer. I cry in beer. More beer sir, more beer…