AN OPEN LETTER TO
BUDWEISER BEER
 
BY JOHN LIPMAN
 

Hey, Bud! Who died and made you king? Last time I looked, you were lager beer. Pure and simple. That wasn't enough? You had to be king?! You ignorant, social climbing, pretentious, self-reinventing Hop Head. Americans don't like kings! Not even King Kong.

Did you think no one would notice the change, Barley Brain? You think I'm gonna keep quiet? Guy like me, I see something, I say something!

Hey, Sudzilla: Repeat after me, you attitude-copping can of tap room scum: OYALTY-RAY UCKS-SAY.

Maybe that plastic 6-pack ring necktie thing you're wearing is too tight and it's cuttin' off the oxygen to your brain. Maybe you don't remember where you put your American History books, or that little scrap we had a while back called the American Revolution. Hey, don't go all Alzheimery on me. We busted Brit butt because we did NOT want to be told what to do by any mad man whose first name was "King". Am I getting' through to you? Are you even listenin' to me? You wanna be a case of Shaken Beer Syndrome?

Sure, we had guys named Count Basie and Duke Ellington and, yes, even Prince, but who listens to that Purple Rain shit? Nancy Reagan? And even Bruce is happy just being "The Boss". 'Cause "Boss" is no where near as offensive or as in-your-face-distasteful-to-everything-we-stand-for-in-America like "King".

I admit, Elvis kinda screws up my "No-Kings-in America" theory, but hey, he's dead. And I know, you and your little pill pals had something to do with that. Am I right, MacBeth? Hey, LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU. Christ, no wonder you drink! I'm warning you Budweisenheimer: Can the king stuff.

All right, all right. Maybe you were abused when you were just a half pint. Maybe you've got sexual issues 'cause guys are always grabbing you and mad mothers are always blamin' all sorts of shit on you. So much bad stuff gets laid on you, maybe you need to compensate, you know, feel better about your self. But a name change? You've got deep down issues that need professional help. Or what about a quick chugalug with that St. Pauli Girl out behind the bar? Jesus, she's hot. You interested? No, huh? Well then, fuck you! You malodorous malt fart fabricator.

Re-reading this, I realize I come off a little brusque. I could be more supportive, loving, constructive; leave you with your dignity. So. You want a new look, a makeover, feel better about yourself? Cut down on the carbs, lard ass - hit the gym. You could use a little, you know, definition from the neck down. Or if you can't hack the gym thing, what about a comb-over, chrome dome? But this hi-falutin' king stuff ain't gonna cut it. Never. No way.

And this whole "Responsibility Matters" rap? What kind of Dr. Phil-double-speak new age crapola is that? Is it code for "don't puke on the shag throw rug, please be considerate and try and make it to the bathroom? Is that your idea of maltzy-schmaltzy-noblesse oblige for some $2.95/sq. yd. floor covering? I don't buy that or beer on Sunday. At least not before 11 A.M.

It's not over between us. One night, it'll be just you and me: the "King" and I. Maybe in front of the TV, maybe out on the deck , maybe underneath the kitchen table, but, A-hole, YOU'RE GOING DOWN.

Oh, yeah, it's gonna happen. And you can bring all five of your wussy, pussy lite-brigade homies with you. Rex, 30 minutes with me and you'll be - do I have to spell it out - U-R-I-N-E! Not worth the nickel I get for haulin' your empty aluminum-can ass back to ABC Discount Wine and Liquors. No one's rootin' for you beer.

THE KING IS DEAD.
ALE TO THE CHIEF!

John Lipman
© 2005 all rights reserved



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