This may, or may not, be the last post for some time - at the very least, until the summer months. I may move on to other internet-based things - a web-based reality series is or isn't being spitballed by high ranking internet executives at this very moment. I may also begin work on a line of science fiction novels chronicling an alternative history of humanity where humans are cold-blooded instead of warm-blooded.
I would like to offer some parting wisdom, based largely on life experience. Along with that, I would also like to reveal some of the more personal information about myself that up until now has been kept rather, well, personal. And it would be unfair to the economy to keep some of my most guarded and successful business secrets locked in the vault of a mind that is quickly eroding away - like a poorly crafted mud brick in a humid climate.
Actually, first business secret - avoid mud bricks at all costs, regardless of climate. Never let a man with dreadlocks talk you into joining a mud brick revivalist community, regardless of how many beers he buys you and regardless of how appealing a summer in Maine sounds.
Never rent office space using a credit card if the APR is over 12%. You are digging a hole for yourself that might as well be your grave.
If your going to rent office space, never tell the company or person your renting from that your business is largely based around drinking beer and then writing about your experiences - especially if they appear to be unaware of futuristic theories of "mental economics" that you learned about that summer you spent in Maine. They will make you buy additional insurance.
Never yell "Drinks on me!" at an employee recruiting event. Never hold said event at Ruby Tuesday, even if you read that they are starting to carry some craft brews.
Never crash a holiday office party at Applebee's. Their beer selection sucks and you will drink Ultimate Margaritas all night and probably end up sleeping with someone who's gender is not easily identifiable. Learn from my mistakes, people.
If, during a passionate session of sexual intercourse between you and another person whose mojo you're not necessarily very familiar with, you have to actively think about the female anatomy to try and reason your way to an understanding of the logistics of the situation, then something really strange is happening and you would be better off not knowing what it is.
Never offer a job to a woman based on her looks. Unless you are a pimp - an actual pimp - not a guy that did real well in college because you worked in the writing lab and had nice eyes.
Never bring weed to a coke party. Or a box of knives. Or Pepsi.
My grandmother recently bought my 2 year old daughter a Bible activity book. And while I am not a Bible guy per se, I would be really grateful for the gift if not for the 800 stickers it comes with. Sixty of which are loaves of bread. People think musical instruments or noisy toys are the worst presents from the parents' perspective. Nope. It's stickers and it's not even close.
While we are on the topic of my daughter - she is 2 years old now and is literally the greatest 2 year old the world has seen and will ever see. I'm talking past, present, and future. I mean, I'm not entirely sure what someone like Mother Teresa or Daniel Day Lewis was like as a two year old, but I consider it highly doubtful that they could top what this little lady has going on for herself. Also, I apologize to all the people that mistakingly think or have thought that their 2 year old offspring was the greatest. You were/are incorrect. As a consolation, it is not the only thing you've been wrong about (you're not as good looking as you think, for example), so don't take it too personally. People are wrong all the time. The one exception being me, right now, about this.
When buying a case beer over $40, always check for a "best by" date. Some beers age well, some are better fresh. I'd go into more detail here but in this age of smart phones and everyone walking around wearing computer goggles, if you find yourself in a situation where additional information is needed just, you know, use those things.
Don't buy cases of expensive beer while drunk. You'll forget the above tip. Or you'll drop said case of beer. On your computer goggles.
Speaking of beers that get better with age, I just drank my last bottle of Hair of the Dog Brewing Company's Adam. It was from 2010. It was amazing. The style is called an "Old Ale" and the beer was dark, malty, smelled like a fig newton if a fig newton was made with whole grains, and had a taste that reminds me of chewing on the leather strings of a baseball glove - and I mean that in a good way. This one had a ton of great, strange flavors that I didn't put to much thought into - I just tried to enjoy it and savor the moment.
And then, of course, there are moments you wish you could forget - don't let a medical intern be a part of any procedures involving liquid nitrogen and the tip of your nose. Seriously. A lot can go wrong.
The decision on whether or not to manscape on the day of a full body skin check at the dermatologist is one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make. It needed to be done but I didn't want them to think I did it for them. I also didn't want them to miss a strange mole. Or get lost in the dense forest that had grown between my legs over the course of a very long winter. I couldn't help but imagine a strange scenario in which the medical intern would somehow lose her way while navigating about the dark woodlands of my pubis - like I would open my eyes and she wouldn't be in the examining room with me anymore and as I looked left and right in a slightly bewildered panic I would hear her voice call out "Hello?". I would call out to her, asking her where she was and she would respond "I think I'm lost in your pubic hair. Could you get the actual doctor?" And then I would yell for the doctor and he would come in and at first be completely horrified at the crab nebula floating around my genitals and then ask what the problem was. At that point the intern would call out from the curly labyrinth of my crotch and explain to the doc what had happened. The doctor would then leave the room momentarily, returning with several hundred feet of nylon rope and a rock climbing harness. From here, I think it pretty obvious how this plays out so I will spare you the closing details of my neurosis.
Don't tell you friends about your couponing habits. Or about the dry skin on your hips during the winter months. Or about the soap you bought on the internet. Unless, of course, you find yourself in the uncomfortable position of being overly respected by your peers. Then, by all means, use these topics to lower their expectations of your ability to function normally in society.
Don't talk about advanced baseball statistics with Philadelphia Phillies fans. As fans of the Phillies, they are clearly still struggling to grasp the basics of the game.
One of my earliest memories is taking a bath. I was probably 3 or 4 years old. My dad was in the room with me. I farted in the tub and it made a lot of bubbles. We LOL'd.
Around the same time, my mom claims she caught me trying on her pantyhose. Several times. This I do not remember. Honestly. But it certainly peaks my interest...
I do remember that my mom would let me wear a cape and eat toothpaste right from the tube. Lots of it. This gave me great powers. I could fly, lift heavy things over my head, and run really fast. I called myself the Incredible Conan. Turns out eating half a tube of toothpaste is pretty bad for a young child. Turns out I was probably hallucinating and couldn't actually do any of those things that I just said I could do as the Incredible Conan. This probably also explains why I am 4'9". And 3000 pounds.
I also remember a recurring dream in which I found a secret passage behind my refrigerator which I used to escape from the evil villains that were trying to take over our apartment complex. The leader of this terrible group was a man wearing a tuxedo that had a purple octopus for a head.
Turns out that was probably just my interpretation of a Catholic mass my mother took me to after I ingested half a tube of toothpaste.
I remember I had a toy alligator that I loved to take to the local pool. That is until one day I stubbed my toe on the cement around the pool. It bled a lot. I blamed the alligator for the mishap and never played with it again. I still blame the alligator. For the stubbed toe and everything that has gone wrong since then. My therapist actual made me write the alligator a letter. I wrote, "Dear Alligator, Thanks for ruining my life. You fucking asshole. Sincerely, Beer on my Shirt."
The therapist said I was missing the point - that I was supposed to forgive the alligator. So I had to write another letter. I wrote, "Dear Alligator, My therapist is a god damned idiot. Sincerely, Beer on my Shirt." (And yes, I am aware that this joke may not be entirely original.)
As I write this, I am wearing a three piece suit made of alligator skin and I am sweating quite a bit. For one, it is just not a very breathable material and really it makes about zero sense to make slacks, a vest, and a blazer out of the stuff. And then there is also the idea that this suit may come to life and exact retribution for the strange hate mail I had been sending it.
And in conclusion, I leave you with the greatest spam comment I have ever received here at Beer On My Shirt. It maybe the greatest spam comment ever written. I have removed the link to a website that originally appeared at the bottom (for build-it-yourself sheds). I think it is from the ghost of Raymond Carver.
Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "Hacksaws, Saisons, and Sears":
The firewood was put to good use as Keith sometimes uses it in the see-through fireplace between the kitchen and living room to grill or cook in the hanging Dutch oven. "I learned to listen to books on tape so I didn't get stressed at the drive," she said. With a little sand, rocks, cement and the right containers, you can make your own.