Weblog Sin Pies

By Charley Daniels

She was my dream girl. For sure. She had long, luxurious curls the color of really good beer, and deep, dark, penetrating pale ale eyes. Her lips, so full and moist, tasted like beer. She had perfectly pinched, rosy cheeks, as though she’d been drinking a lot. Did I mention her hands? They were holding a beer. She was definitely my dream girl, but I don’t know why. Another thing about her: she was curvy, like an an hourglass almost, or a really strange-shaped beverage container — like a pilsner glass with boobs.

I had to meet her, which might ordinarily seem suspect, considering I already knew what her lips tasted like. But things are far from ordinary around here. So I walked up and offered her a beer, even though she already had one. “Would you like a beer?” I asked, cleverly. She looked at me with those drunken eyes, head cocked and brow raised.

“Have we met?” she asked.

“I was the guy who tasted your lips earlier.” The ice thus broken, our conversation could only improve from there. Soon I discovered that her name is Beer (it’s foreign, I guess?), which explains the confusion when I offered her one. As we talked we both smiled uncontrollably, not unlike two teenagers who didn’t get carded at the beer garden.

The wedding was a blur.

Now Beer and I have been inseparable for longer than I am able to remember. For some people, love is sensuality, security, laundry, and infidelity. For me and my lady, it’s late nights, ill-advised road trips, bleary-eyed confessions, lack of inhibition — you know, fun stuff. That’s why she is my dream girl, an addiction for which no 12-step program has the cure.