How the Clinch Stole Beermas by Dr. Brews

 

, How the Clinch Stole Beermas by Dr. Brews

Every Brew-Who down in Brew-ville liked Beermas a lot… 

But the Butt-Clinch, who lived in a dry county just north of Brew-ville, did NOT!

The Clinch hated Beermas! The whole brewing season! Now, please don’t ask why. Only his prude friends knew the reason. It could be his bottle caps weren’t screwed on just right. It could be, perhaps, that his special diabetic shoes were too tight. But I think the most likely reason of all may have been that his liver was two sizes too small.

But, whatever the reason, his liver or his Velcro shoes, he stood there on Beermas Eve, hating the Brew-Whos, staring down from his foyer with a sour, Cheek-Clinchy scowl, at the shiny fermenting tanks being wiped down with a towel. For he knew every Brew-Who down in Brew-ville giving thanks was busy now, priming their tanks.

“And they’re gathering their bottles!” His fat-encased throat started to clear. “Tomorrow is Beermas! It’s practically here!” Then he winced, and grabbed his sausage fingers on his Clinch inhaler. “I MUST stop the Brew-whos from partying like a frat from Baylor!” For tomorrow, he knew…

… All the Brew-Who Josephine and Wyatt Earps would wake bright and early. They’d take their first slurps! And then! Oh, the burps! Oh, the Burps! Burps! Burps! Burps! That’s the one thing he hated! The BURPS! BURPS! BURPS! BURPS!

Then the Brew-Whos, hot and old, would sit down and drink. And they’d drink! And they’d drink! And they’d DRINK! DRINK! And DRANK! They would drink their Who-porters, and rare Who-Pales dry hopped with Tettnang. Which is something the Clinch couldn’t stand more than his own stank!

And THEN they’d do something that made his Psoriasis crawl! Every Brew-Who down in Brew-ville, the tall and the small, would stand close together, with their libidos alerting. They’d stand hand-in-hand. And the Brew-Whos would start flirting! They’d flirt! And they’d flirt! AND they’d FLIRT! FLIRT! FLIRT! FLIRT! And the more the Clinch thought of this Who-Beermas-Flirt, the more the Clinch thought, “This day I must advert! Why, for fifty-three years I’ve held down my boner! I MUST stop this so I’m not the only loner! But HOW could I do this without hearing more groaners?”

Then he got a scheme! An awful scheme! THE CLINCH GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL SCHEME!

“I know just what I’ll do!” The Clinch smiled through his face craters. And he made a denim shirt and rubber waders. And he cackled, and hacked, “What a great Clinchy joke! With this shirt and these boots, I look just like Jim Koch!”

“All I need is a keg…” The Clinch looked around. But, since this was a dry county, there were none to be found. Did that halt the old Clinch…? No! The Clinch’s throat stopped on a glottal, “If I can’t find a keg, I’ll use this five-gallon Aquafina bottle!” So he pushed over his old friend Water Dispensary and wrote on it “Sam Adams” so it wouldn’t look so chintzy.

THEN he loaded some bags in an old delivery truck. On the outside walls of the cabin was written in graffiti, “Old F-ck.”

Then the Clinch said, “Start up!” And the truck went blub-glubs toward the breweries where the Brew-Whos lay a-snooze in their pubs.

All their beer signs were dark. Quiet snow filled the space. All the Brew-Whos were passed out with penises drawn on their face when he came to the first microbrewery in the place. “This is stop number one,” the old Clinchy Koch gasped and he climbed to the roof with a wedgie stuck in his ass.

Then he slid down the ventilation pipe. A rather tight pinch. But, if Jim Koch could do it, then so could the Clinch. He got stuck only once, for a moment or more. The he stuck his head out of the mash tun door. Across at the bar, the Brew-Who tap handles were all in a row. “These taps,” he grinned, “are the first things to go!” Then he wheezed and waddled, with a smile fit for a model, around the whole bar, he took every bottle! Porters! And IPAs! Pilsners! Weizens! Ambers! Blondes! Stouts! And Marzens! And he stuffed them in sacks. Then the Clinch, without a gripe, stuffed all the sacks, one by one, up the mash tun pipe!

Then he meandered to the walk-in fridge. He took the Brew-Whos’ munchies! He took the pot skickers! He took the cheese crunchies! He cleaned out that fridge as quick as Carl Lewis’s legs. Why, that Clinch even took their last jar of pickled eggs!

Then he stuffed all the munchies up the pipe without tasks. “And NOW!” grinned the Clinch, “I will stuff up the casks!”

And the Clinch grabbed the cask, and he started to push when he heard a small toot which came from a toosh. He turned fast, and saw an awakening Brew-Who! Little Cindy-Brew-Who, who was not more than twenty-two. The Clinch had been caught by this girl wearing one clog who’d got out of bed for a Hair of the Dog. She stared at the Clinch, and said, “Jim Koch?! Why? Why the hell are you taking our Beermas casks? Why?”

But, you know, that old Clinch was so evil and sick, he thought up a lie, like a conniving prick! “Why, my sweet little honey,” the creepy Jim Koch lied, “This cask is deformed and can only be tapped on the wrong side. So I’m taking it home to Boston, my cherub. I’ll fix it up there. Then I’ll bring it back to the brewpub.”

And his lied fooled the dame. Then he patted her back and he got her a beer and she went off to her sack. And when Cindy-Brew-Who went to bed with her glass, HE went to the mash tun and pushed the cask up with his ass!

Then the last thing he took was the spelt for their crackers! Then up the vent pipe he went, the old whacker. On their bar, he left nothing but coat hooks and some lacquer.

And the one drop of beer that he left in the pub was a cap full that was even too small for a skinny bub.

Then he did the same thing to the other Brew-Who’s pubs, leaving drops much too small for other Brew-Who bubs.

It was a quarter past dawn… All the Brew-Whos passed out in a muck, all the Brew-Whos, still snoozing when he packed up his truck, packed it up with their beer! The munchies! The handles! The glasses! And the kegs! The pretzels! The casks!

Thirty miles away! His truck’s transmission torched out; he dropped his load at his dry county’s incinerator to be scorched out! “Pish-Posh to the Brew-Whos!” he was Clinch-el-ly thinking. “They’re finding out now that no one at Beermas will be drinking! They’re just getting up! I know just what they’ll think! Their mouths will open to throw up in their sinks then the Brew-Whos in Brew-ville will cry ‘THIS STINKS!'”

“That’s a sound,” smiled the Clinch, “That I simply must phone!” So he paused and the Clinch turned up his Beltone. And he did hear a noise rising down the street. It started in quiet. Then it started to repeat.

But the noise wasn’t sad! Why, this noise sounded flirty! It can’t be so! But it was flirty! With no shirty! He stared down at Brew-ville! The Clinch popped a button! Then he shivered! What he saw aroused this curmudgeon!

Every Brew-Who down in Brew-ville, the tall and the small, was flirting! Without beer at all! He HADN’T stopped Beermas from coming! It ARRIVED! Somehow or other, it was derived!

And the Clinch, with his uptight clinched butt dimply in his trousers, stood pondering and squandering: “How could they still be arousers? It came without porters! It came without casks! It came without IPAs, ales, or flasks!” And he breathed air from his nebulizer for three hours until his mouth was tight. Then the Clinch thought of an idea that he hadn’t thought just right! Maybe Beermas,” he thought, “doesn’t come from a pint, maybe Beermas… perhaps… means something out of sight?”

And what the hell happened then…? Well… in Brew-ville they say that the Clinch’s small liver grew three sizes that day! And the second his liver didn’t feel quite so pale, he pushed his truck back down the hill and pounded an ale. He brought back the beer! And the handles for the taps! And he…

… HE HIMSELF…! The Clinch firked the first cask!

 

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