Today, I crave beer. Big, overflowing steins with heads that go for miles gallivant through my head. I thirst for nutty brown honey dipped almond burnt oak aged golden bronze creamy top-fermented mild brown pale hopped doppelbock sweet bitters.

There’s a pub down the street that serves Guinness Ale with a shamrock drawn into its head, as if to insinuate that it is your good fortune to be imbibing such ale of the gods. And darn it all, like cats want milk, I want one.

But I don’t just have to have a Guinness. I’d settle for a pale ale, a cream ale, a brown ale, a Belgian lambic or Finnish sahti… heck, I’m so thirsty for an ale that I’d drink the chosen beverage of the Ford truck drivin’, backwards baseball cap wearin’, fist-in-the-air-to-Nickelback rockin’ mulletheads: Molson Club (also called “fart juice” to some on the Prairies for its less obvious abilities).

I need a beer, but dammit, I’m allergic to alcohol. Talk about frustration.

Dear lord almighty, will someone please be my proxy drinker and have a beer for me? That be just swell thanks.

(Edit: Read in the glaring light of the day after: my goodness, what hyperbole.)