d Pardon My Juice: A Brewer, a Mexican Ghost Hunter, and Me.

Tuesday, January 10

A Brewer, a Mexican Ghost Hunter, and Me.

I was almost run over by a Beer Truck today. It was a normal Mildly Annoying Winter in the Pacifistic North West. I walked away from another Roller Coaster Laugh Ride I call our writers meetings daydreaming. Thinking of what it would be like to have a hip drug addiction or to be in Jail and part of a gang called the “Pink Dinosaurs”. In my dreams I saw myself as short-tempered Mexican American with dreams of marring an overweight white girl from the Southern Nevada.

Little did I know that my very daydream would be what was driving my would be killer. Manny, age 39, Born in East Dallas, had his own daydreams while driving the truck. As a child his mother had told him stories of ghost and ghouls. At this moment in time Manny’s thoughts were of the classic Bill Murray film “Ghost Busters”. Seeing himself defeat Gozer, the demon god, his imaginings distracted him from watching the road.

Our fates would be drawn together by something even greater than either of us, a dream of one Harry Schmidt, a beer brewer from the Canadian plains. As a child his life was filled with the stories of doctors and lawyers. Not that his family were Doctors or Lawyers, they just happen to know and enjoy telling stories about them. Harry hated what his childhood had been and wanted to drown his horrible memories in beer. But he longed for a beer that could sink the recollections like Napoleon in a sinking boat. So he created Schmidt Beer, the Beer community’s biggest and most historic failure.

Our three fates brought together.

But I saw the truck coming and stepped back onto the curb. Manny snapped out of his dream and realized he was late for his delivery of 35-year-old Schmidt Beer. And dear old Mr. Schmidt died at the age of 67, due to a mix up between his Doctor and his Lawyer.

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