So Memorial Day came and went and I didn’t blog about it which means I suck. When I think of Memorial Day, I think about the greatest generation and those who fought in WWII. No offense to our current soldiers because I love ’em as well, but many of those in the aforementioned generation of men didn’t choose to fight in a war. They were drafted and didn’t complain about having to do so either.
My grandpa was one of those men, along with his brothers. My great Uncle Art used to jump out of planes as a parachutist, but you could never get him to talk about it. It was an off limits topic of conversation. Boo to that, but you had to respect it.
Here’s a couple of my favorite pics of the kids visiting my grandpa’s grave. Ace was cleaning the headstone on her own without any prompting and who knows what Cool was doing.
My grandpa died in his mid 50s when I was in the fourth grade. He deserves his own post instead of a mention in this random topic post, so I’m going to stop right here with him. Suffice to say that he ruled and I loved him dearly.
My last post:
My most recent post involved me lamenting the fact that my 4 year old recognizes that I’m a fat ass and promising myself that I was going to go ahead and do something about it. While I sort of meant to out myself on this blog so that I could maybe be held accountable, what I didn’t realize was how amazing so many of my followers and even some new WP readers are as human beings.
I invited followers to go ahead and chastise me for slipping up and being fat, but what I got instead was a bunch of great advice and encouragement from a bunch of people I only know from this blog. Some people I’d never even heard from before.
In appreciation, let me update you on my progress during the past 30 or so hours. I actually ate a banana for breakfast this morning because many of you said not to skip meals. Then I had beets, green beans and cottage cheese instead of double french fries and dumplings for my side dishes at lunch today! Sadly, softball was cancelled, but I have managed to drink about 1o beers as promised and make $100 by selling two baby cribs to some woman I thought might stab and rob me in the park and ride lot.
That makes me sad to know that I’ll never have another crib sleeper in my house…
Hey neighbors AC or GB, do you read my blog? I only ask because, even though it’s 11pm, I almost ran to your homes to come ask you if I could rock your babies while they slept for a little bit! Lol, creepy??
Anyway, I did not run yesterday or today and I suck for that too, but I will, I promise!
A friend of mine went to Grant’s Farm earlier this week and it made me smile. I used to work there during my college years and I fucking LOVED it. Loved it! It’s still free to get in for God’s sake!
Anyway, this is one of my favorite Grant’s Farm memories.
We here in St. Louis, well, real St. Louisans, enjoy our beer. We loved our Anheuser-Busch products a lot before the Brazilians bought the brewery a few years ago.
Grant’s Farm used to give out free samples of beer. When I was a kid it was basically an open bar all day long. I remember my parents and their friends all stacking their cups on the table three feet tall and there’d be several of these stacks. Then they’d drive us piss drunk to Ted Drewes for frozen custard and we’d all have a swell time. That was when cars were made of steel instead of styrofoam and plastic and people weren’t such vaginas about drinking and driving.
By the time I was working at Grant’s farm, the limit was 2 10 ounce cups of beer and then you were cut off. There were two bartenders working most of the time and folks would respect the two beer limit for the most part. Sometimes folks would come in for a third and that was fine, but when it got to be the fourth or fifth, then we had to tell them to scram. Of course folks would send spouses and friends in to get them beers that they weren’t going to drink, and that was fine with us as well.
Sundays at Grant’s Farm are what we liked to call Jefferson County Day. For those of you not in Missouri, Jefferson County at that time had a reputation as a redneck or hillbilly county.
Grant’s Farm had 12 different free beers on tap to be sampled. On Sundays, the Jefferson County crowd would come in and examine the taps like they’ve never seen them before and almost all of them would choose to drink…wait for it! Wouldn’t you drink something different when it was free? Anyway, most of them would choose Busch Beer!
They’d eyeball all of the tap handles like they’ve never seen anything like them before and then ask as though it was the first time, “Can I try one of them thar…what’s that say, Busch Beers?”
Whatever Jim Bob.
Busch Beer is what those fucks drank all.the.damn.time. God forbid they try a Michelob Golden Draft or Amber Bock or whatever while it’s free, no no! Busch Beer is in their blood.
Anyway, one particularly hefty gentleman one Sunday managed to get five samples before I could tell him that we couldn’t serve him another. In fact, I gave him a sixth because he was a big boy who looked like he could handle it and I didn’t feel like arguing with him.
I gave him his sixth beer and said:
“Sir, this is at least your sixth beer so I can’t give you anymore, I’m sorry.”
He leaves but comes back in the other line next to mine. It’s 7 feet away from me and this man is like 6’6″ tall.
“Sir”, I say, “take that last beer, but you’re done!” That’s 7 that I know of for him that day.
He comes back in the old man’s line. Hold on, this is the old man, Dick Weber.
Anyway, I tell Jeff County that he’s done and that he’ll have to leave. He storms off and I can see him commiserating at his table in an area right in my line of sight.
His wife comes in.
She’s had four samples herself already and is sent on her way empty handed.
I see them all huddling again and suddenly here comes Junior into the bar. Junior is, no shit now, 7 or 8 years old. He’s big and fat like his dad, but still.
Junior orders a Brush.
What I ask him?
“Can I get a Brush? ” he asks again.
“What the fuck is a Brush!?” I ask.
“Beer? Brush Beer?” he says.
Uh, I don’t know what you’re saying, please point at the tap you want I tell him. He looks perplexed, leaves and goes to talk to his fat fuck dad right in front of me again. They both come in together and Junior asks for another “Brush Beer”.
“Busch,” says dad. “He means Busch.”
Holy hell, I’m thinking, is this guy serious?
I ask Junior for an ID and he starts crying. Uh, he’s fucking 8 years old! They return to their table.
Again, right in my line of sight, I watch Jeff County talking to another son, this one is at least older than 8. He may have been 12.
He comes in and very confidently asks for a sample of Busch Beer.
“I need to see an ID sir,” I say to the 12 year old.
“Oh,” he says. “Hold on.” He leaves and I watch as him and dad discuss strategy again.
I watch as dad hands 12 year old something from his wallet. It’s his id. Sigh…
Jr. comes back in with dad’s id and is sent away for obvious reasons.
Dad and he are talking, no shit now, right the fuck in front of my face, when I see them exchange shirts. Yup, they took off their shirts and switched with each other.
Dad comes in wearing a shirt 4 sizes too small and orders another beer!
It’s not even worth the argument. I give him another beer, at least his 8th free 10 ounce sample of Busch now, and beg him to leave. He looks smug, as though he’s won some battle of the wits or something and finally leaves.
Jefferson County Day at the Grant’s Farm. Every Sunday.