The Expert Jerk: What the ******** is Banquet Beer, anyway?

Why ask me a question about Coors?  Do I seem to be a Coors drinker?  Does it appear that I even care?  Oh, I’m just some jerk sent here to answer lame questions, is that it?  Whatever.  Since I’m a jerk and I exist only to serve the Great Questioners, here goes:  What is ‘banquet beer?’

Only the god of cowboys really knows, and he’s too stupid to remember or to be able to explain it to anyone.  So, we’re on our own trying to decipher Coors’ idiotic moniker.

Oh, all right.  Maybe not totally on our own.  According to the official Coors website (yes, I went there.  I didn’t enjoy it.  It made me deathly ill for weeks, but, hey, what do you care – you needed answers!) the name was added to the label in 1936 because miners in the 1800s threw parties called ‘banquets’ and drank Coors at them.  Yeah, that’s right.  Parties from the 1800s changed Coors label in 1936.  Brilliant.

So, let’s consider. Miners spend all day in dark underground caverns with a bunch of other guys.  They are all jacked up on weird chemicals wafting through the mine shafts, not to mention they are oxygen deprived.  At the end of the day, these madmen are released from their tunnels.  Drooling with stupidity and streaked with the underbelly of earth entrails they sally forth into the night demanding ‘banquets!’  They probably eat bits of bark, armadillo parts, any rodent stupid enough to get in their way – and they demand a drink to accompany this feast.  A sane person has just tossed away a big case of Coors pee.  The miners find it and declare it a treasure beyond all treasures.  “It done taste jes’ like’n’ that whizz we done drank last yonder weekend,” says one of the depraved inmates – miners! – to another.  The chief of the nuts declares the beer to be their ‘banquet beer.’  The Coors brewery hears of this.  They’re happy that someone finally likes their beer so they adopt the appellation.  Great stuff, eh? 

I mean, truly, not even the Coors company knows why it’s called ‘banquet beer’ other than that one obscure reference, yet it’s become ‘iconic’ of the igit canned beer.  Whatever.  You know what else is just spiffy?  If you go to most craft beer websites there’s a link called ‘Our Beers.’  Notice the ’s’ at the end of beer, denoting more than one.  At the Coors website, that option is singular.  One beer.  That’s it.  For however many years.  These idiots don’t even have to keep track of more than one beer and they still don’t know the roots of the name.

Well, I hope yer all happy now.  I have answered a question in a jerky fashion and uncovered more Coors stupidness.  And made myself sick in the process, what with all the cowboy beer viewing I had to do. 

Rain in the Desert

The desert doesn’t react all that well to water.  Oh, sure, it needs water.  But when the liquidy stuff descends from on high and assaults the ground, the hard soil puts up it defenses.  It becomes a wall that repels the water.   So it doesn’t seep into the earth, it puddles in the roads.  Well, more than puddles.  It creates lakes.

Now, in this little town of mine the roads are bad enough without the addition of gallons and gallons of water.  Add that and driving here is more fearsome than usual.  A number of streets become virtually impassable because of running water.  So, I had to go way out of my way just to pick up the kids today.  It’s infuriating.

Unfortunately, the roads don’t just flood with water when it rains; they’re also flooded by morons.  Desert people, in general, don’t seem to know how to drive in … weather.  There’s your jerks in the big trucks who just motor on down the road like the water isn’t there, sending it spewing onto the vehicles all around them.  Then there’s the people who are frightened to death at the very sight of water on the road.  They’ve got to stop the minute they see the stuff.  Dead stop.  In the road.  Oh, there are other people on the road, you say?  Who cares, man, there’s, like, water here!!  AAAHHH!!  Water!

Morons. 

BLOGGLE

You know these types:  no matter what you talk about, they’ve done it.  They know it.  They’ve lived it.  Any profession, any country, any era, they’ve been there.

These kind have the same lame job you do, but in the past (when they were 12 or something) they’ve worked with NASA or they’ve built specialized shark cages or have been guides in the wilds of Africa or some crap.

I always want to talk about how I’ve regularly consumed cyanide when these types are around.  It’s a given that they are idiots and don’t know what cyanide is and they’ll be all, “Oh, yeah, I used to throw back cyanide every other minute on my other job.  No one else could handle it but me.”

Moron.

So, in keeping with that theme … here’s a word that I think describes people like that:  darteldraid.

What, you say.  That’s not  a word.  You’re right.  Let’s make this a game.  We’ll call it Bloggle.  There’s a scrambled word, a rant that sorta describes the word (or, at least, part of the definition) and a “Comment” section on the blog.

Figure out the word and leave a comment.  Have a ball, eh!

An Old Post

From one of my old blogs.  Okay, from my only old blog on Yahoo 360.  It’s part of an absurd fantasy story I’m playing around with.  Here’s a bit of background:  Darryn is an amensiac who has been set on a cheesy quest, Cow is a talking green cow that found Darryn, Jargonbane is a heroic type who talks funny.  They’ve just had a bit of a chinwag at a tea shop and have headed into some dark tunnels under the mountains.

****

“Holy cow,” said Darryn. “No offense, Cow. I’m not saying you’re holy or anything.”

“Oh, now I’m a demon cow?”

“That’s not what I said, meant or intended!”

“Liar.”

Darryn rolled his green eyes. It was only at that moment that he remembered that his eyes were green. “Hey, my eyes are green,” he shouted in joy and some dirt and rocks fell upon him. Jargonbane was suddenly at his side, an apparition appearing from the darkness ahead, wroth and fey. His white armor was barely touched by the dust and grime. He put his white gloved hands round Darryn’s effiminate neck and squeezed ever so lightly.

“Silence from your mouth is all need we,” he said, in a fairly menacing way.

“Okay. Are you really trying to choke me?”

“If trying to choke you were I, choked be you would.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say. Very macho. Listen, another question. How can silence come out of my mouth? I mean, isn’t that, well, not possible? Doesn’t sound right. Silence wouldn’t come out of anything. It simply exi-”

At that point, Jargonbane squeezed more. Darryn eventually passed right out. Jargonbane tossed His Limpness onto Cow’s back. At which Cow took umbrage. “What the Narg, Jarg?”

“Your furry trap shut you will. The tunnel entrance weak is; large sounds collapse it will. Your familiar Darryn is, your burden remains he. Talking no more will I allow.”

Jargonbane wandered up front again.

Cow pouted. “I don’t have a furry trap, jerk.”