Swiss floated this idea one evening following the daydrinking midday Saturday timeslot. I was playing mini golf with my children at the time, because they happen to like mini golf. At first I was hesitant about the idea. Then I remembered how much fun I had researching out an article on malt liquor titled, It Works, Every Time. I was intoxicated with the idea that only in a market based system can something so terrible be marketable. People actually want to drink this stuff. Can you imagine the rancid grog they drink in Venezuela?
Oh, right.
I made a mental note of the bum drinks Swiss picked and noted his deadline. Officers…he required a draft ready for Wednesday, so that it can be reviewed Thursday, scheduled Friday for Saturday at the usual time. Which means by the time I’m ready to send it on Tuesday my team of monkeys with typewriters have to have it ready by Monday afternoon. They’ll be sitting around smoking Lucky Strikes until Thursday wondering if it got approved….
First up, is a classic around a game of bones or at the frat house: Mickey’s Fine Malt Liquor.
Also a Miller product first produced in 1962, Mickey’s is best known for its yellow hornet, and the distinctive wide mouth, waffle patterned bottle. Typically, two of these are consumed in a single sitting, at the same time. Many fraternity initiations have insisted pledges complete an ordeal known as the “Edward Forty Hands.” Here a pledge is required to have two of these duct taped to his hands and ordered to drink both over the course of an evening. Meet a girl? Too bad. Can’t unbutton your fly? Sorry, you’re just going to have to piss yourself.
The first time I had this I had an unknown quantity of Bacardi Silver and puked up a sink full of foam during W’s first term. It wasn’t my proudest moment but evidently it allowed for more gut space for the remainder of the 40. It’s still as bad and as hyper carbonated as I remember.
This one gets 2 out of five dumpsters.
The second one I also had issues finding initially, as my first choice 
was Natty Light. I made due and decided this one was as good as any….
I cracked it open, and then I saw the picture on my refrigerator.
“Who is STEVE SMITH??? My wife asked. “Is he the guy that played for the Carolina Panthers?”
“No, worse.” I replied.
“The guy on ESPN?” Again with the endless questions. Think! How did he get into the house? “Hello? I’m talking to you.” She said. “My eyes are up here!”
Her hand struck my occiput and brought my wits back. “Maybe not as bad as the guy on ESPN.” I had to call Swiss. I had to come up with a solution first, because Officers don’t like hearing about problems. They like solutions…..
____
“Thank you for calling Swiss Corpse International Industries, Legal Department.” Swiss’ receptionist answered.
“It’s pronounced ‘Core’ you stupid twit. The last one that failed to learn that was discovered by a team of engineers testing dive watches at the bottom of Lake Geneva.” I replied back indignantly.
“Password accepted, I’ll patch you through.” She replied sweetly.
I was confused. “Password?”
“mex, I told you never to call me at this number.” Swiss said. Something was eating at him. Another inane project? “You have three minutes…” No. They must have run out of Gruyére in the breakroom again. “…three minutes before I throw another receptionist into Lake Geneva.”
Damn. The wrong cheese AND an inane project.
“Swiss, I have a problem. STEVE SMITH took my dog.” I decided to be upfront.
“And by took your dog you mean—?”
“It’s a Chihuahua, ‘mean’ is physically impossible. At least I don’t think it is.” I interrupted him. He hates being interrupted. I can feel the icy, narrowed gaze through the phone. He was intentionally burning through my three minutes with a look that could ravenously tear open lesser men like a fat kid tearing open the foil on a Toblerone.
“Look, I don’t like hearing about problems. Tell me about solutions here.” Judas Priest. Right on cue.
“The last time he was seen was in Elephant Butte, New Mexico. I need somebody to write up the beer review this week so I can track him down and get that little dog back.” I replied. That wasn’t really a solution. He’s going to call me out in that.
“Heh. Elephant Butt.”
“No. Butte. Elephant Butte.”
“That’s what I said, Elephant Butt.”
“Stop that, you’re trying to waste my three minutes!”
“Yup.”
“Look can somebody cover my time slot this week?”
“The way I see it, I’m down two posters this week. You’ll need to take Sugarfree.”
“What? Why?”
“Nobody knows how to track STEVE SMITH better than him. You’ll need his help if you want to find that little ass dog.”
“Have you ever gone hiking in the woods with that guy!?”
“Pfft. No…Sucker.”
“That’s not funny.”
“For me it is.”
“Can somebody cover me or not?”
“Yeeeesh, I got it. I drank an Old English the other day before a board meeting. The vice-chairman is lucky I didn’t break his wee head off and used it to play rugby.”
“Umm.”
“Just meet Sugarfree in Silver City.”
“Truth or Consequences is closer, and they have an airport.”
“Tell me about it. I’m stopping you here.”
“That wasn’t three minutes.”
“I know. I’m wearing a Swiss made, COSC Certified, Omega Speedmaster Man on the motherfucking Moon. I stopped the chronograph at precisely 2:37 as certified by the Swiss government, because you didn’t come to me with a solution. This call is over.”
_____
“New Mexico. Its like regular Mexico just with more hippies, sensually fellating carne asada across their thin, pale lips…” Sugarfree was trying to make conversation.
“You know, you don’t have to do that. In fact by making so much noise we’re never going to find STEVE SMITH.” I interrupted him. Turns out, Sugarfree doesn’t like when people interrupt his stream of consciousness.
The forest was like any other. Dry. Green. Patches of dead pine 
needles strewn across the trail with the occasional dog turd.
“I lost it. Who are you? I don’t know where I am.” He began questioning his existence again.
“I’m mexican sharpshooter, and Swiss sent you here to help me track STEVE SMITH so I can find my tiny ass dog.” I explained—for the third time that day.
“Wait, you called Swiss?”
“Yes.”
“At work?” Sugarfree stared at me, in wide eyed terror.
“Yes.”
“Last time I called him at work he sent me his receptionist’s finger.” He explained.
“What?”
“Wanna know where I put it?”
“Judas Priest, NO!”
“No need to yell. The note said, ‘That’s the last time you point fingers at me.’”
“Wait, he mailed you a pun?”
“Right?” He twiddled his fingers in the air. “Narrowed gaze….” Sugarfree giggled while he pulled a large vial hanging around his neck, popped open the top and gingerly pulled out a tiny spoon. He then snorted the contents of the spoon. “It keeps me focused…where were we?”
“Finding STEVE SMITH.”
“Is that why you have an assault pew pew thingy?” He said with wide, bloodshot eyes.
“Yes. I’m anticipating that I will have to shoot him.”
“You’ll need a bigger gun. We should’ve brought Warty.” Sugarfree stared at the back of his hand. He then began fumbling the feather boa I purposefully pretended not to notice, around his neck.
“What are you doing?”
Sugarfree grasped the boa firmly and pulled it tight around his neck. His other hand reached into his chinos and rubbed furiously.
“You need a few minutes? I can be over there, where this is slightly less awkward.” I offered.
Sugarfree kept rubbing. He stared, unblinking with a small drop of blood running down his nose, into his mouth.
“It helps me if you say something dirty.” Sugarfree whispered.
I raised my AR and flipped off the safety.
“Relax, I’m just fucking with you.” Sugarfree pulled his hand out of his chinos to reveal a Beanie Baby. He tied some fishing wire around its neck and hung it on a nearby tree branch. “STEVE SMITH needs to be lured by the smell of taint. We’ll set up camp over there.”
_____
“Aye-ya-yie!” Sugarfree shouted in the middle of the night, I woke up, startled. I grabbed my rifle. “Oooh. Oooh. Oooh. Oooh.”
“Aye-ya-yie!” He just kept on yelling. “Oooh. Oooh. Oooh. Oooh.”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m communicating with STEVE SMITH.” Sugarfree replied. “Aye-ya-yie! Oooh. Oooh. Oooh. Oooh.”
“What, is he here?” I flipped off the safety on my AR.
“Yes. He wants to skeet in your hair. Aye-ya-yie!”
Then I turned around and saw him.
STEVE SMITH AYE-YA-YIE ON BROWN MAN
OOOH OOOH OOOH OOOH
_____
At that point I came to with this little ass dog licking my face. I was about halfway through the can of Hurricane when I woke up from the lucid nightmare. I am never drinking this shit again.
1 dumpster out of 5.
Why not? I can’t find it, and quite frankly I need a way better excuse to go to California—and possibly find it. Pliny probably did hate rye, so I will honor his memory by reviewing a rye pale ale.
