The Day That Beer Tasted Like Toothpaste

Question: Have you ever gone to a liquor store and asked the person behind the counter if they have any ‘minty-fresh’ flavored beer? No? Well done, you’re not a crazy mentalist.

And if you have, you are probably the one individual that loves 11.21am kick off times.

There aren’t many things in this world that anger me. However, my beer being ruined due to the fact someone has decided that the college football game I’m attending should start ridiculously early is something that does.

After brushing my gnashers shortly before tailgating, I couldn’t shrug the ‘toothpastey’ taste from my pallet. Miller Lite had suddenly become Mint Lite.

I eventually got over this faux pas and moved on with my life.

Earlier in the day, I’d been given perspective whilst walking to Kyle Field. I almost didn’t have a life to move on with.

I know what you’re thinking. Crazy driver? Heat exhaustion? Heart attack from eating at Dennys?


Golf ball.

After saying that I’d never seen a soul playing golf on the course near the university campus, on Saturday morning, I had a rude awakening.

My ordeal began when I was walking down George Bush Drive. I was going about my business whilst pondering why College Station doesn’t have a Dunkin Donuts. After all, I had been led to believe that ‘America runs on Dunkin’. College Station seemed like it was doing fine without one. Yet more advertising lies? Surely not?

As these sophisticated thoughts consumed me, I heard the elegant sound of a golf ball dropping onto freshly-cut grass.

A golfer had delightfully approached the green with a gracefully-timed chip shot. I stopped to admire the glory of it. I started clapping and ironically called out in my best American accent ‘in the hole!’. Everyone was having a lovely time. Well, until he four-putted on the green. Things then turned sour. He hadn’t done himself, or his onlooking family justice.

I continued walking. The greenery and the smell of a fresh Saturday morning filled the air.

That’s when, out of nowhere, a golf ball came trickling down the sidewalk at literally four or five miles an hour. It was coming right for me. I’ll be honest, initially, I was terrified. Who wouldn’t be?

That’s when I got my act together. I suddenly transformed into Jack Bauer out of the TV show ‘24’.

If I don’t negotiate with terrorists, I certainly wasn’t about to start negotiating with oncoming golf balls.

So what did I do? I nonchalantly let the ball zoom between my legs.

I don’t like to write my own reviews, but I must say, the swag involved was off the charts.

Shortly after, reality struck. A large gentleman came running/waddling in my direction. He wanted to know where his ball had ended up. I had to deliver the sorry blow that it had probably made it’s way to South Texas Avenue by that point and that it was probably best he take a drop shot.

He looked disappointed. I then suggested he could go all the way to Texas Ave and heave the ball all the way back to whatever hole he was on. I said he’d do well to do it with a couple of big hits using one of his impressively large drivers. The lunacy of that thought amused me.

Unfortunately, it didn’t amuse him.

Oh well, serves him right for nearly dismantling one of my ankles.

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